Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts: A Comparative Approach 3658278587, 9783658278588

Table of contents :
Table of Contents
Authors
1 Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts: an Introduction
Bibliography
2 Year Names as Source for Military Campaigns in the Third Millennium BC
I Introduction
II Information about military campaigns
Appendix: Year names referring to military campaigns
I. Pre-Sargonic Period
II. Pre-Sargonic/Early Sargonic Period
III. Sargonic Period
IV. Ur III
Bibliography
3 Much Ado about Nothing? Battle Descriptions in Ugaritic Texts
Battle descriptions in myths
Battle descriptions in legends
Battle descriptions that remained behind the scene
Battle descriptions in the correspondence
General’s Letter
Abbreviations
Bibliography
4 Victor without Victory? The Lack of Battle Descriptions in the Achaeamenid Empire
Bibliography
5 Battle Descriptions in the Hebrew Bible: An Overview with Special Attention to the Book of Joshua
1 Introduction
2 Some Exemplary Texts on Battles and Sieges
2.1 Two Wars, One without and One with Divine Intervention
2.2 Poetic and Prose Texts Referring to the Same Battle
2.3 A Battle Between Two Foreign Armies
2.4 Blockades and Sieges
2.5 Two Examples of Sieges
3 Battle Descriptions in the Book of Joshua
3.1 Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho — Did He? (Josh 6)
3.2 How to Conquer a Heap of Ruins (Josh 7 – 8)
3.3 The Campaigns Against the Southern and the Northern Coalitions (Josh 10 – 11)
4 Conclusion
Bibliography
6 Plataea, 479 BC
1 Introduction
2 Some Remarks on Plataea in the Commemorative Culture
3 The Mirror of Herodotus
4 Conclusion
Bibliography
7 „Eine Schlacht wie keine andere“ – alles nur Literatur, oder was? Agesilaos II., Xenophon und der „Sieg“ Spartas in der Schlacht bei Koroneia (14. August, 394 v. Chr.), der vielleicht eher doch eine Niederlage war!
Paradigmatische Historiographie: die Hellenika, der Agesilaos, der spartanische König Agesilaos II. und Xenophon von Athen
„Eine Schlacht wie keine andere“? Koroneia, 394 v. Chr.
„Historiographie“ und „Enkomion“ im Vergleich: Xenophons Arbeit am historischen Geschehen – alles nur Literatur!
Basisbibliographie zum Beitrag und verwendete Kurztitel
8 Parody as a Sign of Generic Consciousness: Battle Descriptions in the Pseudo-Homeric Batrachomyomachia
Appendix: The structure of the Battle Scene of the Batrachomyomachia in recensions a and l (vv. 202 – 267)
Bibliography
9 The Battle of Gaugamela. A Case Study and Some General Methodological Considerations
I Preface
I 1) A short introduction to the problematic nature of the sources
I 2) Troop numbers
I 3) Dispositions of the armies
I 4) The position of the Great King
II The main movements during the battle
II 1) A structured survey of Arrian’s battle account
II 2) The different accounts of the decisive charge
II 3) Differing accounts of a raid on the Macedonian camp and of Parmenion’s appeals for assistance
III Strategies and tendencies of research in dealing with the heterogeneous source situation
III 1) The accounts of attacks on the Macedonian camp and Parmenion’s appeals for help
III 2) The pursuit of the king and the assessment of Alexander’s generalship. A short survey on modern estimates.
Bibliography
10 Die „Thermopylenschlacht 2.0“ am Persischen Tor (330 v. Chr.)
1
2
3
Bibliographie
11 Battle Descriptions in Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita
I Introduction
II The Siege of Veii
III The Battle of Sentinum
IV The battles of Lake Trasimene (217) and of Cannae (216)
Bibliography
12 Conversus ad pacem … (Flor. 2.34.65 = 4.12.65): Battle Descriptions in Florus Reconsidered
A Sound Battle-description: The Beginning of the Second Punic War and the Struggle against Immoral Infiltration
Towards Luxury, towards Decline: Florus on Battles in the Late Roman Republic
The Decisive Battlefield: Spain
Conclusion: No Battles Anymore? Florus and the Imperium Romanum
Bibliography
13 The Impact of Violence as Heroization Technique in Basini’s Hesperis, Naldi’s Volaterrais and Filelfo’s Sphortias
Bibliography
14 A Battle of Emperors? Contemporary Poetic and Prose Descriptions of Austerlitz (1805)
1 A battle to remember—a battle remembered
2 Battle accounts of Austerlitz
2.1 Official French prose accounts
2.2 Opposing opinions: Langéron and Stutterheim
2.3 Carmina for the Emperor: poetic battle accounts
3 Conclusion: A Battle of Emperors—or Nations?
Bibliography
Appendix
15 The Impossibility of Deliberate Action in Tolstoy’s Descriptions of Battle in War and Peace
Literature
16 Historical Distance and Literary Re-Presentation. Ancient Battles in German Classical Studies
1 Introduction
2 Who tells the story?
3 How to tell the story?
a) Factuality and un-representability
b) Sobriety and affectivity
c) Distance and closeness
d) Historicization and representation
4 What is the Story?
a) Order and confusion
b) Decision and delay
c) Sacrifice and resurrection
5 Conclusions
References

Citation preview

Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History

Johanna Luggin Sebastian Fink Editors

Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts A comparative approach

Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History Series Editors Alberto Bernabé Pajares, Madrid, Spain Sebastian Fink, Helsinki, Finland Ann C. Gunter, Evanston, USA Dan T. Potts, New York, USA Robert Rollinger, Innsbruck, Austria Kai Ruffing, Kassel, Germany

Mit der Krise des Nationalstaates am Ende des 20. Jahrhunderts und der Erfahrung einer zusehends vernetzten und globalisierten Welt gewinnt auch eine neue Perspektive in den Geschichtswissenschaften an Bedeutung. Dieser neue Blick auf die Vergangenheit macht den Weg frei für eine innovative und interdisziplinäre Annäherung an das Phänomen einer vernetzten Weltgeschichte, in der Europa nicht mehr das Zentrum der Welt darstellt, von dem aus „Historie“ vermessen wird. Dieser universale Blick auf die Geschichte soll durch die neue Reihe befördert werden. Die Reihe umfasst alle Weltregionen und alle Epochen der Menschheitsgeschichte. Sie will vergleichende und auf dem neuesten Stand der Forschung gewonnene Einblicke in das Laboratorium der Weltgeschichte gewähren und befördern. Die Reihe versteht sich als eine peer-reviewed series, die sowohl für Monographien wie für Sammelbände offen ist. With the crisis of national states at the end of the 20th century and the experience of a highly interconnected, globalized world, a new perspective in historical studies has emerged, which critically analyzes those concepts and methodologies formed under the influence of national consciousness. This intellectual framework fosters an innovative, strongly interdisciplinary approach to world history, seeking to transcend a regional focus in the writing of history. This series figures within these developments, which it endeavors to promote through the publication of new research. The new series aims to encourage a universal view of historical phenomena, broadly defined both geographically and chronologically. Its scope embraces all world regions and all periods of human history. The peer-reviewed series will publish both monographs and edited volumes.

More information about this series at http://www.springer.com/series/15609

Johanna Luggin · Sebastian Fink Editors

Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts A comparative approach

Editors Johanna Luggin Ludwig Boltzmann Institute for Neo-Latin Studies Innsbruck, Austria

Sebastian Fink Ceo Changes in Sacred Texts and Traditions Universität Helsinki Helsinki, Finland

ISSN 2524-3799  (electronic) ISSN 2524-3780 Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History ISBN 978-3-658-27859-5  (eBook) ISBN 978-3-658-27858-8 https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5 © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are reserved by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer VS imprint is published by the registered company Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH part of Springer Nature. The registered company address is: Abraham-Lincoln-Str. 46, 65189 Wiesbaden, Germany

Table of Contents

Authors

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Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts: an Introduction Johanna Luggin and Sebastian Fink

VII

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Year Names as Source for Military Campaigns in the Third Millennium BC . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Marcos Such-Gutiérrez

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Much Ado about Nothing ? Battle Descriptions in Ugaritic Texts Pavel Čech

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31

Victor without Victory ? The Lack of Battle Descriptions in the Achaeamenid Empire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hilmar Klinkott

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Battle Descriptions in the Hebrew Bible: An Overview with Special Attention to the Book of Joshua Wolfgang Oswald

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61

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Plataea, 479 BC Kai Ruffing

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Table of Contents

„Eine Schlacht wie keine andere“ – alles nur Literatur, oder was ? Agesilaos II., Xenophon und der „Sieg“ Spartas in der Schlacht bei Koroneia (14. August, 394 v. Chr.), der vielleicht eher doch eine Niederlage war ! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Oliver Stoll

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Parody as a Sign of Generic Consciousness: Battle Descriptions in the Pseudo-Homeric Batrachomyomachia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Martin M. Bauer

143

The Battle of Gaugamela. A Case Study and Some General Methodological Considerations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Reinhold Bichler

157

Die „Thermopylenschlacht 2.0“ am Persischen Tor (330 v. Chr.) Christian Mileta

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191

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211

Conversus ad pacem … (Flor. 2.34.65 = 4.12.65): Battle Descriptions in Florus Reconsidered . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sven Günther

237

The Impact of Violence as Heroization Technique in Basini’s Hesperis, Naldi’s Volaterrais and Filelfo’s Sphortias . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dennis Pulina

247

A Battle of Emperors ? Contemporary Poetic and Prose Descriptions of Austerlitz (1805) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Johanna Luggin

269

The Impossibility of Deliberate Action in Tolstoy’s Descriptions of Battle in War and Peace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sonja Koroliov

305

Historical Distance and Literary Re-Presentation. Ancient Battles in German Classical Studies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Magdalena Gronau and Martin Gronau

317

Battle Descriptions in Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita Simon Lentzsch

Authors

Martin M. Bauer is postdoctoral researcher at the University of Innsbruck (Austria), where he is also in charge of the subject-related parts of the teacher training programme. His broad research interests include Ancient Greek poetry, Greek epigraphy, Medieval Latin literature, and the reception of classical antiquity, in which areas he has published several articles so far. For his PhD thesis, he has prepared a new edition of the Epistole ad Ecclesiam triumphantem by Ricoldus de Monte Crucis (forthcoming). Reinhold Bichler, born 1947, is retired Professor of Ancient History at the University of Innsbruck, Austria. The main subjects of his research activities are the history of political ideas, esp. ancient utopias, Greek historiography and ethnography, esp. Herodotus and Ctesias, and the reception of ancient history, esp. Alexander and the concept of Hellenism. His many publications include Herodots Welt. Der Aufbau der Historie am Bild der fremden Länder und Völker, ihrer Zivilisation und ihrer Geschichte (Berlin, 2000), (with Robert Rollinger) Herodot (Hildesheim, 2000), and Historiographie – Ethnographie – Utopie. Gesammelte Schriften (4 volumes: Wiesbaden, 2007 – 16). Pavel Čech is a senior lecturer at the Institute of Comparative Linguistics, Charles University in Prague, Czech Republic. His work addresses the ancient Near Eastern Semitic languages and literatures. His primary research interests include the philology of these languages; religions of the ancient Near East; and multifarious interactions of Levantine cultures with each other as well as with its neighbours, with the special case of the formation of the Old Testament. Sebastian Fink is a postdoctoral researcher at the Finish Academy center of excellence Changes in Sacred Texts and Traditions (University of Helsinki). He has published on several aspects of Mesopotamian literature and intellectual history. His VII

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current research focuses on two fields, namely battle descriptions and lamentation literature, which both contribute to our understanding of the Mesopotamian conception of war. Sven Günther is Full Professor of Ancient History at and vice-director of the Institute for the History of Ancient Civilizations (IHAC), Northeast Normal University, Changchun (China). His research focuses on the political, social, legal and economic frames of ancient sources. Particularly, he analyzes the communication and anchoring strategies of authors and authorities, and the modes of perception by (targeted) audiences, both ancient and modern. Magdalena Gronau is currently Erwin Schrödinger-Fellow of the Austrian FWF at Erfurt University and Internationales Kolleg für Kulturtechnikforschung und Medienphilosophie (Weimar). As a trained natural scientist and literary and cultural scholar, her work addresses the complex relations between literature, science and knowledge. Her main research fields include the history of literature and knowledge with focus on the nineteenth and twentieth century, criticism of science, cultural criticism, the theory and history of non-fictional genres and the relationship between literature and journalism. Martin Gronau is a PhD-student at the University of Innsbruck and currently fellow in residence at the Kolleg Friedrich Nietzsche in Weimar. His primary research interests include cultural anthropology and political theory of ancient Greece, reception of antiquity and history of the humanities. Sonja Koroliov has worked as a classicist and ancient philosopher, as a lecturer in Russian literature and as a researcher on European Enlightenment. She is currently the Erica Cremer scholar for Russian literature and culture at the University of Innsbruck and writing a book on laziness, doing nothing and failure of action in Russian literature of the 18th and 19th centuries. She is interested in the relationship between action, intention and emotion, rationality, ancient and modern ethics, and analytic philosophy. She also has an interest in the Balkans, mobility and identity, and the relationship between literature and music. Simon Lentzsch is currently a lecturer at the Ruhr-Universität Bochum, Germany. His primary research interests include the history of the Roman Republic; Roman historiography; ancient memory culture; and the reception of Greek and Roman history and literature in modern popular culture. Johanna Luggin is a post-doctoral researcher at the Ludwig Boltzmann Institute for Neo-Latin Studies in Innsbruck. Her interest in battle descriptions stems from her master’s thesis, in which she has analysed the different ancient descriptions of the

Authors

IX

battle of Pharsalos between Julius Caesar and Pompey. Since then, she has devoted her research mostly to Neo-Latin literature, trying to determine the role of Neo-Latin in the history of mentalities. She has published i. a. the first modern edition of Thomas Hobbes’s Latin poem De mirabilibus Pecci about the seven wonders of the Peak District (Olms 2016). Currently, Johanna is involved in the ERC-funded project “Nova Scientia: Early Modern Science and Latin”, which aims to reveal the importance of the Latin language and literature for the natural sciences. Christian Mileta is a retired Professor of Ancient History at the Martin-Luther-Universität Halle-Wittenberg, who previously also researched and taught at the Berlin Academy of Sciences, the Freie Universität Berlin, and the Universität Innsbruck. His main research interests include the social and economic history of Antiquity with special regard to the Hellenistic period and the Roman Republic; State formation and state structure; Slavery and bondage in the Ancient World. Wolfgang Oswald is Associate Professor of Old Testament at the Faculty of Protestant Theology at the Eberhard-Karls Universität Tübingen. His primary research interests include the conceptions of governance in antiquity; the theory of state in ancient Israel; and the role of the Old Testament in modern European political thought. He is currently working on a commentary on the book of Exodus. Dennis Pulina is a doctoral student in Latin literature and member of the Collaborative Research Centre 948 “Heroes — Heroizations — Heroisms” at the University of Freiburg. His research currently focusses on early modern Latin epic poetry. Kai Ruffing studied History and Latin Philology at the Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität Münster, where he received his PhD in Ancient History in 1997. After positions in Heidelberg and Marburg, where the qualification of a professor was conferred on him in 2005, he became professor for Ancient History at the Kassel University in 2013. His main research interests are the economic and social history of the Ancient World, the contacts between the Mediterranean World and the Ancient Near East, the history of the Roman Empire, classical receptions and last, but not least, ancient historiography. Oliver Stoll studied Classical Archaeology, Ancient History and Prehistory at the Universities of Mainz and Freiburg. In 1992 he graduated in Classical Archaeology (Univ. Mainz). In 2001 followed the postdoctoral lecture qualification in Ancient History (Univ. of Mainz). After several academic positions as research assistant and research fellow at the Universities of Stuttgart-Hohenheim, Mainz and Bamberg, he became Fellow (Scholarship) of the Römisch-Germanisches Zentralmuseum in Mainz (RGZM). Since 2007: Chair for Ancient History at the University of Passau. Research Interests: Military History of Antiquity, Economic and Social His-

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tory, History of Religions in Imperial Rome; Ancient Slavery and Provincial Archaeology. Marcos Such-Gutiérrez is Professor of Ancient Languages of the Near East at Universidad Autónoma de Madrid (Spain). His main research interests are the edition and study of Mesopotamian texts of the third millennium BC. He is especially concerned both with the diachronic changes in religion and society throughout the third millennium BC.

Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts: an Introduction Johanna Luggin and Sebastian Fink

The only difference between reality and fiction is that fiction needs to be credible. Marc Twain

From May 15th–17th, 2017 an international and interdisciplinary group of scholars met in the heart of Innsbruck’s old town to discuss battle descriptions as literary texts. The idea originated in 2015 during another conference, where we first discussed our common interest in the topic and soon understood that this curiosity, and especially the notion of battle descriptions as literary texts—more on that below—was fostered by our common teacher Reinhold Bichler.1 After discussing several possibilities of organizing such a conference, we decided that an interdisciplinary symposium covering several continents and millennia would be the most promising format. The aim was to approach texts describing acts of war from different geographical regions and different historical epochs in order to gain a comparative perspective on these texts, to avoid detailed specialist discussions, to encourage the participants to paint in broad strokes, and to make the peculiarities of their sources more accessible to those who work with a completely different set of material. For this conference, we conceived of battle descriptions, in a broad sense, as parts of literary constructions informing us about military conflicts. We also included in our investigation the prehistory and the results of a conflict, seeing that in many texts these take up much more space than the actual combat on the battlefield, and that they are all the more important for the role of the battle description within the work and beyond. 1

Both of the editors have discussed the topic in several lectures, as well as in some publications: Fink 2016, 2016a, 2016b and Luggin 2010, 2011.

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_1

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Battle descriptions are usually seen as the raw material for the classical historian of military history, with the main aim of understanding what really happened on the battlefield. However, John Keegan, in his now-famous book The Face of Battle drew attention to the fact, that the most famous battle descriptions are clearly works of art, which use highly elaborate language, numerous metaphors and other literary techniques that are intended to catch the attention of the reader.2 As influential as the work of John Keegan is, most military historians did not take up this line of research, but lately more and more ancient historians have started to analyse battle descriptions for purposes other than the reconstruction of historic battles.3 The existence of military history in basically every military academy around the world proves that in these institutions learning from history is seen as a must. This volume will not provide the reader with precepts as to how a good military commander should behave on the battlefield. It rather investigates the work of the—to use a somewhat anachronistic term—propaganda machinery around battles. It was clear to us from the beginning that we would not manage to include battle descriptions from every interesting culture, epoch, or war—for instance battle descriptions from China or India, or modern reports from the period after the Napoleonic wars. Owing to the contributors’ willingness and efforts to approach the topic from this angle, we can still offer a broad view on battle descriptions from a period covering more than 4,000 years. The schedule for the conference was based on a rough chronological order of the various subjects. We started with one session on the Ancient Near East, beginning with sources from the third millennium and went on to the second and first millennia. Five papers treated Ancient Near Eastern sources (including the Hebrew Bible), and this first session already revealed huge differences in the ways battles were described—battles which, we might guess, were fought with the same cruelty everywhere, seeing that all battles can be reduced to the basic fact that people meet and kill each other. Nevertheless, the styles and character of the various texts describing these events show a great deal of variety. In the 3rd millennium a common way to “describe”—or rather to commemorate—battles was to name a year after one special event, for example the destruction of a city. In other instances, we can find more detailed descriptions of battles, in which the gods usually play a major role. The texts and visual sources from the Neo-Assyrian Empire surely are a highlight regarding the explicitness in their description of violence and their taste for cruel details. In stark contrast, the sources of the Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid Empire rather avoid explicit descriptions of violence. Laying aside the rather unlikely assumption that these differences reflect a real difference in the ways of warfare, such obvious differences clearly demonstrate that the way a battle is described regularly yields more information about the society in which the text emerged than about the battle itself. 2 3

Keegan 1976, p. 35 – 45. Günther 2014.

Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts: an Introduction

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The second session was devoted to the classical world. The great battles of the ancient Greeks against the Persians still occupy the phantasy of the modern westerner, and thanks to films and video games nearly everyone is familiar with the battle of the Thermopylae or the battle of Gaugamela, both of which were discussed in Reinhold Bichler’s keynote. This session continued on the second day and two papers were devoted to battle descriptions from the Roman Empire. The third session was devoted to medieval and early modern texts. The lectures treated topics as varied as the Mongol Invasion in 1241, the conquest of the Aztec Empire, the reception of Sallust’s battle description, and literary techniques in Latin epic. Battle descriptions in poems and explicit literary texts, such as Tolstoy’s War and Peace, were treated in the fourth session. Topics ranged from poetic descriptions of the Battle of Austerlitz and the siege of Vienna, via battle descriptions written by German historians and authors, to parodistic battle descriptions from antiquity. The different contributions made clear that battle descriptions have their cultural specifics and their culturally distinct prototypes. Questions about the decisive elements of a battle might have been answered in various ways by generals, “propagandists”, ancient scribes, and historians. While the views of the military professionals on these events might not have changed much over time, the ways of understanding and describing military events differed heavily in the texts discussed in the conference. While today’s military historians often try to analyze historical battle descriptions through the eyes of military professionals, an important prerequisite for this task—understanding the views of the ancient authors—is usually overlooked. Marian Füssel and Michael Sikora called this the “Kulturgeschichte der Schlacht”4 and we tried to approach this cultural history of battles via a “literary history of battle descriptions.” If our intention is to reconstruct “what really happened”, then we completely depend on the assumption that the author of a given text wanted to give us an appropriate account, especially in those cases where we can only rely on one independent source for a battle. Faced with the argument that a certain text is a piece of literature because it does not seem credible, we can only answer with the initial quote by Marc Twain, which clearly hints at a main problem of traditional source-criticism. Namely, that fiction is usually more credible than the texts we have to work with, because the author of fiction is not confined by reality when he wants to create a credible story. While it seems very likely that we must give up our wish to reconstruct the order of events of the most famous battles of the ancient world, we can nevertheless approach battle descriptions in another, perhaps even more fruitful way. Battle descriptions inform us about a certain culture’s understanding of a battle. In cultures often confronted with war, the way to deal with battles won—and, maybe even more importantly, with battles lost—forms an integral part of a culture’s ability to cope with these

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Füssel/Sikora 2014.

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complex events. Therefore, an understanding of the particular “culture of war” is of utmost importance. The presence or the omission of certain elements of a battle can provide some pointers towards such an understanding. What does it mean, for example, when many Mesopotamian Royal Inscriptions mention only the crimes of the evil enemy and the will of the gods to punish him, and largely omit the military events themselves ? It seems that, at least to the ancient audience of the text, the result of the battle was already obvious when the decision was made by the gods to punish the evil enemy with the help of a king. Again, we end up with the insight that decisive factors of a battle are different from one culture to another. Enquiring into the audience of battle descriptions is very important, but also tricky, and we had to become aware that we—as readers or listeners—tend to approach a battle description with our own expectations, which, given our cultural and educational background, still seems to be highly influenced by authors from classical antiquity, who have managed to create a kind of “archetype” for any battle description. If these expectations are fulfilled, we tend to consider a text as a “real” battle description. If not, we think of it as something else. The complex cultural context of the reports requires a differentiated view, a distinction between emic and etic perspective in order to understand what the elements of a “real battle description” were at a given time and place, and what were regarded the decisive and interesting facts that should be mentioned in such a text. The character of a battle description is, of course, very much influenced by the form, function and intention of the work in which it is found. We have to consider the author, his/her intention and his/her relation to the respective battle or war: Is it a contemporary battle report, maybe even by an author relying on autopsy ? Is it an account written much later, or is it part of a work of fiction ? Does the description aim or pretend to relate a historical event or is it an imagined battle ? Does the report aim to be objective and impersonal, dramatic and moving, or parodistic ? Such questions were addressed and discussed frequently before and during the conference and proved fruitful to the comparison of battle descriptions from different epochs, cultures, and literary genres. Unfortunately, not every speaker was able to contribute a written version of his/ her paper to these proceedings. This is the reason why this volume has some gaps and a focus on the Ancient Near East, the Classical World, as well as Early Modern Europe. Nevertheless, also in its present state the volume will provide the reader with a broad, comparative picture of battle descriptions from different millennia, and different regions of the world. Marcos Such-Guttiérrez’ article gives a detailed investigation of “Year Names as Source for Military Campaigns in the Third Millennium BC”. At first sight it might seem surprising that year names, i. e. short formulaic names for dating purposes, can be used as evidence for military campaigns, wherefore the concept of year name is discussed and all the year names yielding information for military campaigns are assembled and discussed.

Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts: an Introduction

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Pavel Čech discusses the evidence from the city of Ugarit, a famous archaeological site at the Mediterranean coast of today’s Syria. Ugarit never was the center of a militarily successful empire. In the late Bronze Age it found itself situated between three major powers and had to navigate between them. Therefore, this article provides us with an analysis of battle descriptions from a minor power and the author skillfully guides the reader to a literary understanding of Ugaritic texts, which does not have much in common with reality. Hilmar Klinkott took up the task of discussing the largely missing battle descriptions of the Achaemenid empire, since “one of the distinctive aspects of Achaemenid iconography and inscriptions is the avoidance of battles and sieges.” While many other empires proudly describe their victories, the Achaemenids had their own, distinct way of dealing with battles. As Klinkott demonstrates in his paper, the Achaemenid way to deal with battles and victories is a key to understanding the ideology of this empire, which was based on the ideology of creating and maintaining a just order of diverse entities. Wolfgang Oswald’s contribution deals with battle descriptions in the Hebrew Bible. While the Hebrew Bible contains numerous references to war and fighting, most of them are rather short and lack technical details. The author focuses on examples from the Book of Joshua, which, as he states, “is always the first on the agenda”, “when it comes to the issue of war and fighting in the Hebrew Bible.” After having discussed numerous examples, he concludes that there are almost no battle descriptions in the Hebrew Bible, because the intention of these texts was not to describe military techniques and royal bravery, but to praise the power of Yahweh. In his contribution about the battle of Plataea, the decisive encounter between the Greek and Persian forces in the war of 480/479 BC, which did not become a “battle to remember”, a lieu de mémoire, to the same extent that Marathon, the Thermopylae and Salamis did, Kai Ruffing re-considers the often criticised account of Herodotus and compares it with other 5th century reports of the battle. He lays out Herodotus’ intricate construction of the battle and his intention to reflect developments of his own time, commenting or judging past events and thus instructing the reader about his own present and future. Oliver Stoll’s focus is also on one particular military encounter, the battle of Koroneia in the Corinthian War between Sparta and a coalition of Boiotians, Corinthians and Athenians. In his contribution, he analyses the reflection, or construction, of this event in two literary works, of two different genres but written by the same author, Xenophon, who was furthermore closely related to the winning general. Comparing these two accounts with each other, and also with other reports of the battle, Stoll aims to answer the question as to whether, despite the differences in these accounts, it is still possible to gain a consistent picture of the battle. Martin M. Bauer discusses the Pseudo-Homeric epic Batrachomyomachia, the “Battle of Frogs and Mice”. The parodistic text has all the important features of a typical battle description. It explains the cause of the conflict as well as its details. Bauer

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uses the modern distinction of Bernard Fenik between a “chain-reaction” fight and the “uninterrupted, easy slayings” in the Iliad to demonstrate that the—most probably Hellenistic—author of the Batrachomyomachia showed a clear awareness of this pattern in the Iliad, and used it to amuse his readers. Some other features of the text, like the frequent re-appearance of already killed combatants, also show that the poem is embedded in a scholarly discussion of the Iliad, where similar inconsistencies occur and were discussed by Hellenistic scholars. Reinhold Bichler takes the battle of Gaugamela, or “battle of Arbela”, as an example of one of the most famous and influential battle accounts in Western European commemorative culture to elaborate concrete and more general methodological problems surrounding literary battle descriptions. The significance of this battle might suggest a communis opinio about the sequence of the most crucial events, resulting in similar views on the description and visualisation of the conflict. Bichler deconstructs this view by a close and critical reading of the different ancient sources reporting the battle, showing that a contemporary report is not always the most trustworthy and that an author’s intention can supposedly alter events, or at least their narrative. Christian Mileta’s contribution also focuses on one of the famous episodes of the Graeco-Persian war, namely the battle of Thermopylae in 480 BC and its use as a literary model for the battle at the Persian Gate in 330 BC. For this purpose, the author first discusses the battle of the Thermopylae and adds to Herodotus’s narrative some basic facts about the mountainous landscape in which the battle took place. Then he turns to the battle at the Persian Gates and convincingly demonstrates how this battle was designed as a battle of Thermopylae 2.0. That an author’s biographical background can have a substantial impact on the perception of the battle descriptions embedded in his work, can be demonstrated by the example of the Roman Imperial historiographer Livy and his work Ab urbe condita. Even though Livy is our earliest, sometimes even our only, surviving evidence for many military conflicts of the Roman Republic, the Augustan historiographer has been criticised by scholars for his “inaccurate” battle descriptions until the last decades, mostly on the basis of his lack of direct military experience. In contrast with this view, Simon Lentzsch offers a more nuanced view on his battle accounts, highlighting the importance of literary tools such as careful arrangement, vividness of the narrative, the use of topical elements, or the explicit discussion of sources. Sven Günther, in his contribution on descriptions of combat in the work of Florus, reconsiders the author’s presentation of battles as a major point of reference in his construction of Roman Republican history. Comparing narratives of the Second Punic War with military encounters of the Civil War, Günther shows a development in Florus’ battle descriptions, which is analogous to the moral decline of the Roman people delineated in his work, from the Punic Wars to the end of the Republic and the rise of Octavian/Augustus. In his reading of another literary genre, Early Modern epic poetry in Latin, Dennis Pulina reviews a crucial aspect in the construction of protagonists of battle

Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts: an Introduction

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descriptions: the importance of violence in the deeds of heroes and anti-heroes of war. Pulina offers numerous examples of traditional as well as innovative uses of violence as heroization technique from the epic poems of Basinio Basini and Naldo Naldi, showing that violence was used as a key element of heroization through and within descriptions of combat in Early Modern Latin poetry. Johanna Luggin’s contribution focuses on one individual military conflict, on a battle to remember, and a battle remembered, in Western cultural memory: Napoleon’s decisive victory at Austerlitz in 1805. A comparison between the most influential and authoritative French prose accounts and a contemporary Latin poem praising the French emperor reveals unexpectedly close connections between these varied texts as well as compelling dissimilarities, reflecting the importance of propaganda, contemporary historical and social developments, as well as the development of literary genres in Early Modern Europe. With Tolstoy’s War and Peace, Sonja Koroliov explicitly discusses an early modern novel on war with pacifist tendencies, which is full of combat and deaths, but devoid of any deliberate action. Focusing on individual experiences, on the protagonists’ emotions when facing death, injury, or imprisonment, on their struggles with notions of nationalism, pride, or glory, and less noble motives of action, the author, Koroliov argues, grasps a more genuine nature of the causes and principles of military struggles than other, supposedly more realistic genres. The article by Magdalena and Martin Gronau provides us with a discussion of the literary presentation of ancient battles in German Classics. The contributors point out that many authors were fascinated by ancient battles and that military history and literature are closely connected—even from a scholarly viewpoint. In this way, the article reminds us that the modern historian too produces literature and narratives about ancient battles, sometimes by re-telling ancient sources, but sometimes also by correcting or rationalizing them. Focusing on narratology, the authors discuss who tells these stories, how these stories are told and what they are all about. We hope that the articles assembled in this volume prove to be useful for scholars of literature, for military as well as for general historians. Battle descriptions are a fascinating source for our understanding of cultures and their approaches to a situation, where masses of people are led into a borderline experience between life and death. While we have to acknowledge that our reconstruction of actual ancient battles too often remains provisory, due to the literary nature of our sources, we can use these texts, especially in a comparative perspective, to understand cultural and ideological specifics. The enterprise of organizing this event, and of transforming the talks into a book, benefited from the help of many people. Robert Rollinger encouraged us to organize a conference on the topic, and the Ludwig Boltzmann Institute for Neo-Latin Studies as well as the IFVE, represented by Florian Schaffenrath and Max Otte, provided us with generous funding. We received additional support from the Forschungsschwerpunkt “Kulturelle Begegnungen – Kulturelle Konflikte” and the Land Vorarlberg. We first want

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to thank Anna Spanos und Nikolaus Hölzl who supported us before and during the conference, as well as Timothy King for proofreading the manuscript. Our thanks also go to all authors and speakers who followed our invitation to come to Innsbruck and publish their articles in this volume. Finally, we wish to express our gratitude towards the anonymous referees, whose comments and remarks are highly appreciated by the editors of this volume.

Bibliography Fink, S. 2016. Die Darstellung von Kriegsfolgen im Mesopotamien des 3. Jahrtausends. In Niederlagen und Kriegsfolgen – Vae Victis oder Vae Victoribus ? Vom Alten Orient bis ins Europäische Mittelalter. Historische und Kulturhistorische Beiträge eines Passauer Workshops, 4. – 6. Oktober 2015, L. Meier and O. Stoll eds, 11 – 28. Berlin: Frank & Timme. Fink, S. 2016a. Battle and War in the Royal Self-Representation of the Ur III Period. In Kings, Gods and People. Establishing Monarchies in the Ancient World, T. R. Kämmerer, M. Kõiv and V. Sazonov eds, 109 – 134. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Fink, S. 2016b. Battle-Descriptions in Mesopotamian Sources i: Presargonic and Sargonic Period. In The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Rome, K. Ulanowski ed., 51 – 64. Leiden et al.: Brill. Füssel, M. and Sikora, M. (eds) 2014. Kulturgeschichte der Schlacht. Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh. Keegan, J. 1976. The Face of Battle, New York et al.: Viking Press. Günther, S. 2014. Kulturgeschichtliche Dimensionen antiker Schlachten – eine Bestandsaufnahme. In Kulturgeschichte der Schlacht, M. Füssel and M. Sikora eds, 27 – 52. Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh. Luggin, J. 2010. Antike Schlachtenschilderungen – Die Darstellung von Pharsalos in der lateinischen und griechischen Literatur. Innsbruck: unpublished thesis. Luggin, J. 2011. Antike Schlachtenschilderungen – Die Darstellung von Pharsalos in der lateinischen und griechischen Literatur. In Akten des 13. Österreichischen Althistorikerinnen und Althistorikertages, P. Mauritsch ed., 165 – 184. Graz: Unipress.

Year Names as Source for Military Campaigns in the Third Millennium BC * Marcos Such-Gutiérrez

Studies on military campaigns1 in the 3rd Millennium BC have focused on royal inscriptions, neglecting other sources such as year names.2 This paper aims to show the potential of year names in such studies. This work comprises two parts: an introduction in which the concept “year name” is discussed and a second part presenting the

*

1

2

The abbreviations utilized in this article can be found on the website http://cdli.ox.ac.uk/wiki/abbre viations_for_assyriology. Further abbreviations are the following: ARCANE = Walther Sallaberger and Ingo Schrakamp Eds. 2015. History & Philology, Associated Regional Chronologies for the Ancient Near East and the Eastern Mediterranean III. Turnhout: Brepols Publishers; Fs Westenholz = Gojko Barjamovic, Jacob L. Dahl, Ulla S. Koch, Walter Sommerfeld and Joan G. Westenholz Eds. 2011. Akkade is King. A Collection of Papers by Friends and Colleagues Presented to Aage Westenholz on the Occasion of his 70th Birthday 15th of May 2009, PIHANS CXVIII. Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor Het Nabije Oosten; Princeton 2 = Sigrist, Marcel. 2005. Tablets from the Princeton Theological Seminary: UR III Period. Part 2, Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund 18. Philadelphia: The University Museum; SCTRAH = Molina Manuel, Milone Maria E. and Ekaterina Markina. 2014. Sargonic Cuneiform Tablets in the Real Academia de la Historia. The Carl L. Lippmann Collection, Catálogo del Gabinete de Antigüedades I.1.6. Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia; TCNY = Sauren, Herbert. 1978. Les tablettes cunéiformes de l’époque d’Ur des collections de la New York Public Library, Publications de L’Institut Orientaliste de Louvain 19. Louvain: Institut Orientaliste de l’Université Catholique de Louvain. Other abbreviations are the following: AS = Amar-Suen; IS = Ibbi-Suen; Sarg = Sargon; Š = Šulgi; ŠS = Šū-Suen. This research has been possible thanks to the financial support granted by the Spanisch Ministerio de Economía, Industria y Competitividad through the project FFI2014-56419-P. In the present paper the term “military campaign” is preferred to “battle”, included in the topic of the present workshop: “Battle descriptions as Literary Texts: a Comparative Approach”. The reason is that the year names mention only a specific phase of the war, usually the defeat or destruction of the enemy (see II 4). Therefore, it is better to use the much wider term “military campaign” that includes all the steps of a war rather than “battle”, which according to the Oxford Dictionary (https// en.oxforddictionaries.com) is only “a sustained fight between large organized armed forces”. See e. g. Fink 2016a, pp. 51 ff., where only royal inscriptions are considered for battle descriptions in the Presargonic, Sargonic and Gutian periods, and Fink 2016b, pp. 111 ff., where the author deals with year names, royal inscriptions and literary texts for reconstructing battle descriptions in the Ur III period.

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_2

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information that year names yield on military campaigns, which is assembled in the Appendix to the article.

I

Introduction

Documented mainly in administrative texts, “year name” may be defined as a sentence or a group of sentences, normally placed at the end of the tablet, introduced by the word mu, “year” (in Sumerian texts), and in 1 MU (in Akkadian documents) (see Appendix), with the purpose of placing chronologically the content of the tablet. Year names are one of the two year-dating methods used in Mesopotamia in the Third Millennium BC. The other method consists of counting the years of a ruler.3 It has been assumed on the basis of the corpus of the Ur III period, and especially on the “king’s coronation”, an event that took place in the last year of his predecessor and was commemorated in the next year, i. e. the new king’s first regnal year, that the name of each year commemorated an event of the preceding year.4 Concerning year names involving military campaigns, some scholars held doubts over this system on the basis of day dates that refer to the same military campaigns.5 However, there is factual evidence that the military campaigns referred to in the year names occurred in the preceding year: 1. Excepting certain year names (Š 20, Š 21, Š 24, Š 26, IS 9, IS 14, IS 23), the use of which in the first month, as far as I know, has not been documented, all the year names of the Ur III period referring to military campaigns are documented from the first month, so that the mentioned military campaigns would have occurred in the preceding year.6 2. Military campaigns against an enemy continued after his destruction. Examples include the following: a) Š 34 commemorated the destruction of Anšan for the first time, which must have taken place in Š 337 and this deed was remembered with a mu-ús-sa year in Š 35 (see

3 4 5 6 7

For the two modes of year dates see lately Sallaberger and Schrakamp 2015, pp. 33 ff. See e. g. Sallaberger 1999, p. 231 2.5.1, Hallo 2008, pp. 101 ff., Dahl 2010, p. 87 and Sallaberger and Schrakamp 2015, p. 41 3.1.8. See the enumeration of scholars in Hallo 2008, pp. 101 – 102. Sigrist 2010, pp. 227 – 228. expresses a similar opinion referring to the year names Š 31 and Š 34. u4 An-sa-anki Šul-gi mu-ḫul, “day (on) that Šulgi destroyed Anšan”, in NRVN 1 7 r. 10 – 11 (Š 33?/-) — Nippur — probably refers to the year Š 33, if mu, “year”, is not meant with u4, since the year commemorating the destruction of Anšan (Š 34) is documented from the first month on, see e. g. Sigrist 2010, p. 228, so that the day on which it occurred could only have taken place in Š 33.

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Appendix IV 38 – 39). However, texts from Umma dating to the sixth month mention that in Š 35 Anšan was destroyed for a second time.8 b) Š 46 commemorated the destruction of Kimaš and Ḫurti (see Appendix IV 43), that must have ocurred for the first time in the preceding year. The war against Kimaš and Ḫurti appears to have continued in Š 46, since day dates in texts from Drehem mention the destruction of Kimaš,9 the second destruction of Ḫurti10 and the capture of the ensi of Kimaš.11 c) Military campaigns against Šašrum were officially twice commemorated, i. e. in the year names Š 42 and AS 6 (see Appendix IV 40, 47). Therefore, texts from Umma dated in AS 6, and from the first month onwards, may mean that the campaign recorded in AS 6 was the second time that Šašrum was destroyed.12 However, there were further instances of the destruction of Šašrum, i. e. in AS 213 and AS 4.14 According to some scholars, the destruction in AS 4 is the one commemorated in the year name of AS 6.15

8

9 10

11 12

13

14 15

mu An-ša-anki a-rá-2(GE23.GE23)-kam ba-ḫul, “year: Anšan was destroyed (for) a second time”, YOS 4 286 r. 9 – 11 (Š 35/vi -) and Aleppo 287 r. 2 – 3 (Š 35/vi -) — a-rá-2(GE23.GE23)-kam after ba-ḫul —. For the case of Aleppo 287 r. 2 – 3 cp. e. g. the placement of a-rá-2-kam after ba-ḫul in the texts from Umma YOS 4 84 r. 7 – 8 (Š 48/v -) and SANTAG 6 168 r. 3 – 4 (AS 6/xii -). Questionable is mu-ús-sa a-rá-2-kam An-ša-anki ba-ḫul in BPOA 2 2148 r. 5 (Š 35?/x -) — Umma —, which should refer in strictu sensu to the year Š 36. However, this otherwise undocumented form for Š 36 raises the question whether it refers to the second destruction of Anšan that took place in Š 35. u4 Ki-maški (ba-ḫul), “day (on) that Kimaš (was destroyed)”: YOS 4 74: 4 – 5 (Š 46/ii -) and TRU 144: 2 (Š 45/iv’’ 13) — note TRU 144: 4-r. 14 = MVN 2 99: 2-r. 2 (Š 46/iv 27) —. u4 Ḫu-ur5-ti ki (a-rá-2-kam-aš) ba-ḫul(-a), “day (on) that Ḫurti was destroyed (for a second time)”: AUCT 1 683: 4 (Š 46/iii -), SAT 2 517 r. 18 (Š 46/iv 23), Ontario 1 44: 5 (Š 46/iv 24) — mu, “year”, instead of u4 according to the transliteration — and NCBT 1596 ([Š 46]/v -) — unpublished text, Hallo 2008, p. 102 note 32 —. OIP 115 428 r. 15 (Š 46/v 3). e. g. MVN 5 44 r. 4 (AS 6/i -), BIN 5 36 r. 8 – 10 (AS 6/iv -), SACT 1 109 r. 5 – 6 (AS 6/vii -) and BPOA 7 1733 r. 8 (AS 6/xii2 -). Note the destruction of Šašrum for a third time in the text from Umma JCS 46 p. 20 4 r. 6 – 7 (AS 6?/viii -). Could this be a mistake for the second destruction or does it refer to a new destruction of Šašrum ? The question remains open. AnOr 1 83: 4 (AS 2/i -) and UTI 4 2315: 4 – 5 (AS 2!/i -). The latter text uses mu Ša-aš-ru-um ki ba-ḫul, “year: Šašrum was destroyed”, because the scribe may have thought, it being the first month of the year AS 2, that the new year would have commemorated the important destruction of Šašrum, regarding which the good news had been received; however, it commemorated the destruction of Urbilum, as did AnOr 1 83 r. 9 – 10. Nisaba 8 58 r. 25 – 26 (AS 4/vii -), TCL 2 5545: 4 (AS 4/viii 29) and TrDr 2 r. 6 (AS 4/viii -). Sallaberger 1999, p. 164 1.2.3.1, Hallo 2008, p. 103 and Sallaberger and Schrakamp 2015, p. 41 3.1.8.

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Information about military campaigns

Year names in the Third Millennium BC are attested for the first time in the Pre-Sargonic period, i. e. in the reign of En-šakuš-ana, king of Uruk,16 the last to reign in the year IS 24,17 so that year names are documented over a time span of nearly 400 years. Military campaigns are scarcely mentioned in year names. In fact, in this 400-year period some 210 year names are documented, only 55 of which contain clear references to military campaigns (see Appendix).18 It is worth noting that the first and the last attested year names refer to military campaigns. The 55 documented year names allow us to establish the following: 1. Year names containing references to military campaigns are documented principally in the Sargonic period (Naram-Suen and Šar-kali-šarrī) and the Ur III period (from the 20th year of Šulgi onwards); they are lacking in Lagaš II dynasty and in the reign of Ur-Namma19, the founder of the Ur III Dynasty. In other words, references to military campaigns are attested in the periods of major territorial expansion. Apart from the Sargonic period, where most of the year names of Naram-Suen and Šar-kališarrī are in Akkadian (in total 12), year names are in Sumerian. The word “battle”, written (KASKAL./+)ŠUDUN, is only documented in year names within the Sargonic Period and especially in Akkadian year names (see Appendix III 14 – 15, 18 – 23, 25 – 28). Other differences between Sumerian and Akkadian year names are given below: 16 Sallaberger and Schrakamp 2015, p. 38 3.1.6, pp. 41 – 42. 17 Frayne 1997, p. 366 I (24), cp. Sallaberger 1999, p. 173 1.2.5.2. 18 It is not always easy to determine whether a year name refers to a military campaign. Therefore, the following year names have not been included in the Appendix: Nippur, ECTJ 151 r. 10 – ˹12˺ (Sarg/i -), OSP 1 145 r. ˹2’˺ – [4’] (Sarg/xii [?]): mu Sar-um-GI Si-mur-um ki-šè ˹ì˺-gin-na-˹a˺, “year when Sargon went to Simurrum”. It is not clear whether this trip was on the accasion of a battle, as e. g. Frayne 1993, p. 8 (iv) assumes, or for diplomatic reasons; Adab, CUSAS 11 187 r. I 1 – 3 (Mes-kigala/iii -), énsi A-zabum-ta ba-ex(DU6xDUxKASKAL)-am6, “it is (the year when) the governor (of Adab) came down from Azabum”. The verb e11, “to descend; to rise”, is written with the signs DU6.DU. The fact that the scribe has added the sign KASKAL, “journey, military expedition”, raises the question whether the governor, on this occasion, returned from a military campaign or this is a written form of e11 similar to KÚŠU, which in the Presargonic and Early Sargonic period is written in Adab KÚŠUxKASKAL, see Such-Gutiérrez 2015, p. 442 3.6. Other year names that have been interpreted as referring to military campaigns, despite some controversy, are the year names of the Ur III period IS 22 and IS 24, see e. g. Frayne 1997, p. 365 (22), p. 366 (24) and Fink 2016b, p. 115, p. 117. Furthermore, the fragmentary part of a sargonic year name ITT 1 1089 r. ˹1’˺ – ˹3’˺ ([]/[?]) — Lagaš —, has not been included in the Appendix, because it is not possible to ascertain if it is a new year name referring to a military campaign or a variant of one of those mentioned in the Appendix. In the same sense, [] ˹en-a-ru˺, “[] when/ that he struck”, in the sargonic text HSS 10 37+38 r. III []-1’ (-?/-), the interpretation of which as year name is uncertain, cp. Sallaberger and Schrakamp 2015, p. 49 3.2.2, is not included either. Neither is the year name NFT p. 184 AO 4303 left edge — photo on CPLI P215778 — included because both the reconstruction of [An-ša-an(ki)] and the ascription to Gudea are problematic. 19 Note that the unique year name of Ur-Namma referring to a military campaign that is mentioned in Fink 2016b, p. 112 is actually not documented, see http://cdli.ox.ac.uk/wiki/doku.php?id=year_ names_ur-namma k “unattested”.

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a) Formally, the grammatical construction of Sumerian and Akkadian year names is obviously different even though the translation is the same: “(In) the year when …”. The Sumerian year names begin with mu, “year”, and the verbal forms have the nominalizing suffix -a indicating dependence on the word “year”. The locative suffix -a very rarely appears in finite clauses after the nominalizing suffix -a. The latter only occurs — with the exception of the years IS 14 and IS 23 (see Appendix IV 53, 55) — in the Presargonic and Sargonic periods (see Appendix I 3; III 15, 27 – 28). Furthermore, the nominalizing suffix -a always appears during the Presargonic and Sargonic periods (see Appendix I – III), whereas it is systematically omitted during the Ur III period (see Appendix IV). On the other hand, Akkadian year names begin with in 1 MU, “in the year”, and the verb always shows the dependence of MU, “year”, in the subjunctive characterized by the marker -u in the forms without ending. b) Concerning the content, Sumerian and Akkadian year names express the defeat of the enemy in different ways (see II 4). Akkadian year names underline the defeat, while Sumerian year names are unique in that they systematically mention the destruction of the enemy (see II 4). Only in the Sumerian year names of the Ur III period is a description of the victory documented (see II 3 d). With the exception of one year name (see Appendix II 5), it is always the king who fights a war. 2. Year names are to be considered summary royal inscriptions and, therefore, a means of political propaganda. This fact is especially evident in two Old-Babylonian copies of Ibbi-Suen’s royal inscriptions that are a verbatim repetition of the year name for IS 14.20 The sole difference lies in Ibbi-Suen’s titles: the year name mentions only “king of Ur” (see Appendix IV 53), whereas the two royal inscriptions qualify the king as dingir-kalam-ma-na, “god of his land”, (nir-gál me níg-nam-ma si-sá-sá-e-da galzu-bi, “noble one (who) knows to put in order the mes of everything”), lugal-kal-ga, “strong king”, lugal-Uri5ki-ma, “king of Ur”, and lugal-AN-ub-DA-límmu-ba-(k), “king of the four quarters (of the world)”.21 Furthermore, this consideration of year names as summary royal inscriptions is also supported by the king’s titles22 and the use of the same expressions (see II 3 d; 4). 3. Year names basically mention the result of military campaigns, i. e. the defeat or destruction of a foreign territory or city. Events rarely mentioned are the conscription of soldiers, marching to battle, the siege, the manner in which victory was won or the capture of the ruler, which makes Ibbi-Suen’s year names all the more exceptional: 20 See Frayne 1997, pp. 370 ff. Ibbi-Sîn 2 – 3, cp. Michalowski 2008, p. 115. 21 RIME 3/2 pp. 370 f. Ibbi-Sîn 2 7 – 10 and RIME 3/2 pp. 371 ff. Ibbi-Sîn 3 5 – 10. 22 See e. g. the fullest list of titles of the year name AS 6 (see Appendix IV 47), reconstructed on the basis of Amar-Suen’s royal inscriptions, cp. Zettler and Sallaberger 2011, p. 55 commentary to rev.

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a) The conscription of soldiers is only documented in the year Š 20 (see Appendix IV 29).23 b) The march to battle is only documented, with the exception of the year IS 9 and IS 23 (see Appendix IV 52, 55), in the year names of the kings Narām-Suen and NarāmSuen/Šar-kali-šarrī (see Appendix III 12, 15, 19, 25). c) A siege is only documented in two year names of the Pre-Sargonic and Pre-Sargonic/Early Sargonic period (see Appendix I 2; II 5). d) The form in which the victory took place is only documented in the Ur III period, i. e. in the last four years of Šulgi’s reign and in one year of Ibbi-Suen: the victory may have been won either in a single campaign (Š 45) or in a single day (Š 46 – 48, IS 14) (see Appendix IV 42 – 45, 53). The mention of the number of campaigns and the time span is documented from the Old Akkadian period in royal inscriptions.24 This once more highlights the connection between royal inscriptions and year names. e) The last phase in a military campaign was the capture of the ruler after his defeat. Apart from the year IS 14 (see Appendix IV 53), this is only documented in four year names of the Pre-Sargonic and Sargonic periods (see Appendix I 3; III 18, 20, 24). The Sumerian year names use the verb (LÚxKÁR) … dab5 “to seize (prisoner)”, whereas those in Akkadian use the verb kamûm, “to bind” (see Appendix I 3; III 18, 20, 24; IV 53).25 This difference is documented in the royal inscriptions as well.26 f) As we have seen, the year names of Ibbi-Suen, mentioning the march to battle or the capture of a ruler, are uncommon in the corpus of the Ur III period.27 Other ex-

23 For a possible connection of the conscription of lancers with the destruction of Dēr commemorated in the following year (Š 21) see Frayne 1997, p. 101 (20a). For the interpretation of this year name as the creation of a standing army and not as mobilization of citizens for a military campaign see Steinkeller 1987, p. 20. 24 See Sargon victor in 34 battles, RIME 2 pp. 27 ff. Sargon 11 4, RIME 2 pp. 29 ff. Sargon 12 ˹4˺; NarāmSuen’s epithet “victor in nine battles in one year” in Frayne 1993, p. 111 9, cp. Westenholz 1999, p. 51 2.5.4; RIME 2 pp. 226 ff. Erridu-pizir 3 X 15’-XI 7: [] in 1 UD u-su-rí-id ù Mu-ma-am kur na-ra-ba-at Ur-bi-lum ki SAG.GIŠ.RA, “(Erridu-pizir) brought [] in a single day and struck dead Mumum, the pass of Urbilum”, and the victory in a single day in the Old-Babylonian copies of two of Ibbi-Suen’s royal inscriptions, which are verbatim repetions of the year name IS 14, in note 20. 25 The basic meaning of dab5 is “to take, seize”, see e. g. AHw III pp. 1066 ff. ṣabātu(m), “packen, greifen, nehmen” and CAD Ṣ pp. 5 ff. ṣabātu “1. to seize, overcome (…)”. However, note that lexical lists equate too dab5 with kamûm, see AHw I pp. 433 – 434. kamû(m) III “binden” and CAD K pp. 128 ff. kamû A “1. to capture or defeat an enemy”. 26 See e. g. dab5, “to seize”, in RIME 1 pp. 89 ff. Ur-Nanše 6b r. II [3], 5, III 1, [4], 7, IV 4, 8, 11, V 3; LÚxKÁR…dab5 “to seize prisoner”, in RIME 3/2 pp. 301 ff. Šū-Sîn 3 III 32 and kamûm, “to bind”, in RIME 2 pp. 57 – 58. Rīmuš 8 ˹18˺, RIME 2 pp. 111 – 112. Narām-Sîn 9 15. 27 Cp. Fink 2016b, p. 116 note 28.

Year Names as Source for Military Campaigns

15

ceptions are his last two preserved year names, IS 17 and IS 23, where for the first time the king does not appear in the ergative case (see Appendix IV 54 – 55). In IS 17 the Amorites submitted to Ibbi-Suen, whereas the “heavy monkeys” came to Ibbi-Suen according to the year name IS 23. This year name uniquely attests an indirect reference to the defeat of the king writing the year name. This defeat by the “heavy monkeys” is likely to be connected with the Elamite invasion which put an end to Ibbi-Suen’s reign, although some scholars have identified this enemy with Išbi-Erra.28 4. As stated in the foregoing paragraph, year names usually mention the penultimate phase of a military campaign, i. e. the defeat or the destruction of the enemy. In fact, 12 out of 55 year names mention the defeat (see Appendix I 1; III 13 – 14, 18 – 23, 26; IV 42, 53)29 and 30 mention the destruction of a city or territory (see Appendix II 4; III 6 – 11, 16 – 17; IV 30 – 41, 43 – 51). Apart from three year names, the defeat of the enemy is found in Akkadian year names, whereas the destruction of the city or territory is always found in Sumerian year names. The unique Akkadian year name that mentions destruction following defeat refers not to a city or territory, but to the city walls (see Appendix III 13).30 Defeat was expressed in different forms: a) Sumerian year names: GÍN.KÁR…sì, literally “to smite (with) the axe”, in the Presargonic period (see Appendix I 1) and šu-búr-ra…ra, literally “(with) the open hand to strike”, and GAM, “to subdue”, in the Ur III period (see Appendix IV 42, 53). b) Akkadian year names of the Old Akkadian period: apart from two texts that have the sumerogram SAG.GIŠ.RA, “to strike dead”, and its Akkadian equivalent ne’ārum (see Appendix III 13, 20bis, 26)31, the usual form is KASKAL.ŠUDUN…ša’ārum, “(in) battle to be victorious” (see Appendix III 14, 18 – 23, 26).

28 For the identity of the enemy (Elamites or Išbi-Erra) that defeated Ibbi-Suen in the year name IS 23, see lately Fink 2016b, p. 117 32. Note that úguugu4-bi-dugud, “heavy monkeys”, has been, excepting Dunham 1985, p. 242 III 10, always interpreted as singular object of the ḫamṭu-stem /er/ of the verb “to go”, and therefore sometimes connected with Išbi-Erra, but it could be the subject, cp. e. g. Nisaba 9 249: 2, 4 (ŠS 4/vii -) — Umma —: šà-gal-gu4-udu-niga (…) Zàbalamki-šè e-ra, “fodder (for) barley-fed big (and) small cattle, which went to Zabalam”. For /er/ as plural ḫamṭu-stem of the verb “to go” see e. g. Steinkeller 1979, p. 55, pp. 61 – 62. and Edzard 2003, pp. 78 – 79. 29 A further attestation of defeat in a year name could be in HSS 10 37+38 r. III []-1’ (-?/-), if this should be interpreted as a year name (see note 18). 30 The destruction of the walls of a city appears for the first time in the Old Akkadian royal inscriptions, see e. g. RIME 2 pp. 27 ff. Sargon 11 6 – 7, RIME 2 pp. 51 ff. Rīmuš 6 53 – 54, RIME 2 pp. 103 ff. Narām-Sîn 6 IV 34’ – 35’, and appears later in the Ur III period, RIME 3/2 pg. 301 ff. Šū-Sîn 3 IV 13 – 14. 31 A further attestation of ne’ārum, “to strike dead”, could be found in HSS 10 37+38 r. III 1’ (-?/-), should this be interpreted as a year name (see note 18).

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Marcos Such-Gutiérrez

It is noteworthy that these expressions for defeating are principaly documented in royal inscriptions from the same periods: GÍN.KÁR…sì in the Presargonic period,32 SAG.GIŠ.RA/ne’ārum and KASKAL.ŠUDUN … ša’ārum in the Sargonic period33 and šu-búr-ra…ra and GAM in the Ur III period.34 The most common Sumerian year name refers to the annihilation of the enemy; in fact all the year names of Sargon, Rīmuš and almost all the Ur III period (excepting Š 45 and nearly all the year names of Ibbi-Suen) mention the destruction of a city or territory. The verb used in all these cases is ḫul, “to destroy”. It is also in the Ur III period that the number of times that a city or territory has been destroyed is documented for the first time. The most remarkable case is the destruction of Simurrum at least ten times according to the year names between Š 25 and Š 45 (see Appendix IV 32, 42),35 i. e. in a time span of 21 years. On the basis of such cases, some scholars have posited that ḫul does not mean “to destroy”, but “to plunder, to raid, to conquer”.36 However, three elements support the translation of ḫul as “to destroy”: a) The equation of ḫul with Akkadian šulputum, “to ruin”, according to the lexical lists.37 b) The replacement of ḫul by zi-ir, “to break; to destroy”, in the Od Alkkadian report of the destruction of Lagaš by Sargon.38 The verb ḫul alternates with zi-ir in refer-

32 See e. g. GÍN.ŠÈ…sì, “to defeat”, in RIME 1 pp. 89 ff. Ur-Nanše 6b r. II ˹2˺, III 11 and RIME 1 pp. 145 ff. E-anatum 5 III 14, 20, 24, IV 7, 9, 11, VI 20, VII ˹2˺. After the Presargonic period it is documented in Old Babylonian copies of royal inscriptions RIME 2 pp. 27 ff. Sargon 11 ˹5˺ — [TÙN.KÁ]R bí-sì — and RIME 3/2 pp. 301 ff. Šū-Sîn 3 III 11 — TÙN.KÁR bí-in-sì-sì —. For GÍN.ŠÈ/GÁNA…sì = ša’ārum see Kienast-Volk 1995, p. 223. 33 See e. g. (KASKAL.)ŠUDUN…ša’ārum, “(in) battle to be victorious”, and SAG.GIŠ.RA, “to strike dead”, in RIME 2 pp. 13 ff. Sargon 2 ˹12˺, 14, ˹21˺, ˹38˺, 40, 43, [48], 58, 63 – 64, 67 and ne’ārum, “to strike dead”, in RIME 2 pp. 132 ff. Narām-Sîn 26 II 7. 34 TAG.ŠU/TAGxŠU…ra, “(with) the open hand to strike”, RIME 3/2 pp. 295 ff. Šū-Sîn 1 IV 25 and GAM, “to subdue”, in RIME 3/2 pp. 370 – 371. Ibbi-Sîn 2 15, RIME 3/2 pp. 371 ff. Ibbi-Sîn 3 15. A chariot appears as the ergative of GAM in Gudea, RIME 3/1 pp. 88 ff. Cylinder B XIII 18. For TAGxŠU as a variant of šu-búr see Michalowski 2013, p. 38. 35 Cp. Owen 2000, p. 820. 36 See e. g. Owen 2000, p. 820 note 28 and Fink 2016b, pp. 115 – 116. Furthermore, see Frayne 2008, p. 147 IV 17, p. 151 IV 17, V 2, p. 155 V 6, 8, p. 279 VII 12, p. 430 9, p. 431 4 — but to destroy in p. 147 IV 13, p. 430 15 —. 37 See AHw I pp. 535 ff. lapātu(m) “eingreifen in (Akk.), anfassen; schreiben” Š ruinieren, brandschatzen and CAD L pp. 82 ff. lapātu “1. to touch lightly (…), 5. šulputu to make touch, to overthrow, defeat, to destroy (…)”. From “destroy” derives the meaning of ḫul “to kill” in Old Akkadian administrative texts, see e. g. Wilcke 2007, p. 177 note 22. 38 níg-mul-an-na, Lagaški ḫul-a, “news that Lagaš (has been) destroyed”, MVN 10 124 r. 10 – 11 (-/-) — unknown provenance — and ˹níg-mul˺-a, Lagaš([NU11.BUR].LA.ḪU)ki [z]i-ra-t[a], “(a messenger brought) the news, after that Lagaš (has been) ‘broken’ (> destroyed)”, SCTRAH 21: 9-r. 2 (-/ii -) — Adab —.

Year Names as Source for Military Campaigns

17

ences to skins, even though the meaning seems to be different.39 Furthermore, ḫul is replaced by til “to finish”, in two texts concerning the year name Š 35.40 c) Finally, as I have endeavoured to show, year names were short royal inscriptions conveying political propaganda but, then as now, political propaganda is not expected to express true facts.

39 See e. g. 540 lá-1 kuš-udu al-ḫul-a, “539 adult sheep skins that are destroyed”, Nisaba 6 4 r. II 5 (AS 9/-) — Umma — and 390 kuš-udu al-zi-ra, “390 sheep skins that are broken (> shattered?)”, ITT 3 6418 r. 1 (AS 8/-) — Lagaš —. This difference is based on texts in which both terms appear, e. g. 230 lá-1 kuš-udu, 278 kuš-sila4, 25 šu4-dul4(KWU 185) udu, kuš al-ḫul-a, 215 ad7-sila4 al-zi-ra, “229 adult sheep skins, 278 young sheep skins (and) 25 yokes (covered? with?) adult sheep (skins), skins that are destroyed, 215 carcasses of young sheep that are broken (> shattered?)”, ITT 5 6949: 1 – 5 ([?]/[?]) — Lagaš —. Destroyed skins seem to be old ones that were moth-eaten, for instance, as the text from Umma UTI 3 1855: 1-r. 10 (AS 5/-) shows, where 24 túguš-bar-sumun zú-uḫ, “old moth-eaten uš-bartextiles”, 25 dirty? (níg-dára) textiles and 8 dirty? (níg-dára) linen cloths were summarized as túg-nígdára al-ḫul-a, “dirty? (and) destroyed cloths”. 40 mu-ús-sa An-ša-anki ba-ti, “the year after: Anšan was finished”, UTI 4 2435: 6 (Š 35/-) — Umma —, and mu-ús-sa An-ša-anki ba-ḫul ba-til, “year after: Anšan was destroyed (and) finished”, Princeton 2 260 r. 12 (Š 35/x -) — Lagaš —.

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Appendix: Year names referring to military campaigns

I. Pre-Sargonic Period A

En-šakuš-ana Year-name

Texts

1

mu En-š[à-kúš-an-na] Ag-[g]a?-dè˹ ki ˺ GÍN.KÁR bí-˹sì-ga˺ “Year when En-šakuš-ana defeated Akkad”

Nippur: ECTJ 81 r. 7 – 9

2

mu En-sà-kúš-an Kiški-da ab-da-tuša!(MIN) “Year when En-šakuš-ana besieged Kiš”

Nippur: ECTJ 158 r. 10 – 12

mu lú-Unugki Kiški-da ˹ì˺-da-tuš-a!(MIN) “Year when the man of Uruk besieged Kiš”

Nippur: OSP 1 101 r. III 4 – 6

3

Nippur: ECTJ 222 r. 3 – 5 [mu] E[n-šà]-˹kúš˺-an-na-ke4! sanga-Uru-˹sag˺rig7 ì-dab5-ba-a “In the year when En-šakuš-ana seized the sangaadministrator (of) Urusagrig” mu Íl sanga-Uru-sag-rig7 al-[dab5]-a “Year when Il, sanga-administrator (of) Urusagrig, was seized”

Nippur: ECTJ 110 r. 7 – 9

II. Pre-Sargonic/Early Sargonic Period A

Unknown king Year-name

Texts

4

mu Aš-ná al-ḫul-a “Year when Ašnak was destroyed”

Nippur: ECTJ 100 r. 6 – 7

5

énsi-Nibru˹ ki ˺ Uru-sag-rig7ki-da ì-da-tuš-a “(Year) when the ensi of Nippur besieged Urusagrig”

Nippur: ECTJ 211: II 1’ – 3’

Year Names as Source for Military Campaigns

19

III. Sargonic Period A

Sargon Year-name

Texts

6

mu Gír-suki ḫul-a-am6 énsi A-ga-dèki ì-gin-a-am6 Adab: CUSAS 11 234: “It is the year when Girsu (was) destroyed (and) II 4 – r. I 1 in (which) the governor (of Adab) went to Akkad”

7

mu Ma-ríki () ḫul-a “Year when Mari (was) destroyed”

Nippur: ECTJ 80 r. II ˹6˺ – III ˹1˺, OSP 1 102 r. IV 6 – 7

8

m[u Sar-um]-GI-né ˹ NIM ˺ki mu-ḫul-a “Year when Sargon destroyed Elam”

Nippur: ECTJ 85 r. IV 1 – 3

9

mu Sar-um-GI-né ˹URUxA˺ ki mu-ḫul-a “Year when Sargon destroyed URUxA”

Nippur: ECTJ 181 r. 10 – 11

mu URUxA ḫul-a “Year when URUxA (was) destroyed”

Nippur: ECTJ 86 r. 8 – 9

10

mu Umma(GIŠ.KÚŠUxKASKAL)ki ḫul-a-am6 “It is the year when Umma (was) destroyed”

Adab: TCBI 1 47: II 6 – r. I 1

B

Rīmuš ?

11

mu Adabki ḫul-a!(MIN) “Year when Adab (was) destroyed”

C

Narām-Suen

12

in 1(DIŠ) MU Na-ra-am-˹dSuen˺ a-na KASKAL˹ ki ˺ Si-mu-ur4-rí-imki i-li-ku “In the year when Narām-Suen went on the expedition (to) Simurrum”

Diyala region: JCS 28 pp. 229 ff. NBC 10920 r. II 8 – 1241

13

in 1(DIŠ) MU Na-ra-am-dSuen Ar-ma-namki SAG.˹GIŠ.RA˺ BÀD. [BÀD?] u-na-[qì-ir] “In the year when Narām-Suen struck dead Armanum, he destroyed its walls”

Mesag archive: Fs Westenholz p. 268 RBC 2664 r. 4 – 9

Nippur: OSP 1 76 r. 3 – 4

41 For the problematic reconstruction of the determinative AN before the king’s name see Sallaberger and Schrakamp 2015, p. 45 (A).

20

14

Marcos Such-Gutiérrez

in 1(GE23) MU Na-ra-am-dSuen KASKAL+ŠUDUN42 A-ra-meki in Sa-tu-a-niki ù ŠUDUN43 Tal-mu-uški in Si-dur-ri-wa SA.TU Lu-lu-bi-imki iš11-a-ru “In the year when Narām-Suen was victorious (in) the battle (of) Arame in Satuani and (in) the battle of Talmuš in Siduriwa, the mountain of Lulubum”

Adab: CUSAS 20 98: 5 – r. 3

Nippur: PBS 9/1 15 15 [mu] Na-ra-am-dSuen [a-ab-b]a-[i]gi-nim-šè ì-gin-na-a KASKAL.ŠUDUN(REC 169) ba-gar r. VI 1 – 444 “In the year when Narām-Suen went to the Upper sea, a battle took place” 16

mu Na-ra-am-dSuen Ma-ri-ba-da-anki mu-ḫul-a “Year when Narām-Suen destroyed Maribadan”

17 [m]u Na-ra-am-dSuen [Š]a-ab-bu-nu-umki muḫul-˹a˺ “Year when Narām-Suen destroyed Šabbunum” 18

in 1(DIŠ) M[U] dNa-ra-am-dSuen(E[N.Z] U) (KASKAL.)ŠUDUN(REC 169.2)45 Simu-ur4(-ri-[imki]) in Ki-ra-šè-ni-wek[i] iš11-a-ru ù Ba-ba ÉNSI Si-mu-ur4(-ri-˹imki ˺) [M] ES?.U.DUG(.DIŠ) ÉNSI A-ra-meki ik-mi-ME/ù “In the year when Narām-Suen was victorious (in) the battle of Simurrum, in Kirašeniwe, and bound Baba, the ensi of Simurrum (and) MES?.U.DUG(.DIŠ), the ensi of Arame”

Nippur: ARCANE p. 45 Nippur: ECTJ 37 r. 2’ – 4’

Tutub: IMGULA 3/1 Tutub 50 r. 5 – 12, IMGULA 3/1 Tutub 65: ˹1˺ – 10

42 The sign is like REC 448bis in Sommerfeld 1999, p. 128, the two KASKAL signs being at the beginning of the sign instead of inside. 43 For the form of the sign ŠUDUN see note 42. 44 See Sallaberger and Schrakamp 2015, p. 44 3.2.2 (A). 45 Cp. Sommerfeld 1999, p. 126 2 (b). Note that Sallaberger and Schrakamp 2015, p. 45 (B) assume that the sign is REC 448bis.

Year Names as Source for Military Campaigns

19 [i]n 1 MU dNa-ra-am-dSuen na-gáb IDIGNAi7 ù BURANUNi7 ik-su-dú ù ˹ KASKAL˺. ŠUDUN(IMGULA 3/1 p. 128 Tutub 22) Šè-NAMin-da-aki èš/ ˹iš11˺-a-ru “In the year when Narām-Suen reached the sources of Tigris and Euphrates and was victorious (in) the battle of ŠeNAMinda”

21

Tutub: IMGULA 3/1 Tutub 22 ˹8˺ – r. 15, IMGULA 3/1 Tutub 46 r. IV ˹1˺ – ˹8˺

20 in 1(DIŠ) M[U] dNa-ra-a[m-dEN].ZU KASKAL. Mugdan: ASJ 4 p. 42 8 r. III 7’ – IV 4 ŠUDUN(REC 169) ŠUBUR˹ ki ˺ in A-zu-ḫi-nimki i-ša-ru Tá-ḫi-ša-ti-li ik-mi-ù “In the year when Narām-Suen was victorious (in) the battle of Subir at Azuḫinnum (and) bound Taḫišatili” [in 1 MU (d)Na-ra]-am-[d]Suen([EN].ZU) Fs Westenholz pp. 261 f. ˹ŠUBUR˺ ki SAG.GIŠ.RA RBC 2631 r. IV 15 – 17 — “In the year when Narām-Suen struck dead Subir” Mesag archive — and probably RIAA 79 r. ˹7˺ – ˹8˺ — unknown provenance — 21 [in 1 MU dNa-ra-am-dEN.Z]U [KASKAL.ŠUDUN Nippur: OSP 2 16 r. IV 1 – 8 x(.x)]-atki [x(.x).GA]L-atki [iš11]-a-ru [ù su4?-ma?] in [KUR La?-a]b?-na-an [giš]EREN ib-˹tù˺-qám “In the year when Narām-Suen was victorious (in) the battle of [] in? [] and he personally? felled cedars in the land of Lebanon?” D

Šar-kali-šarrī

22 in 1(DIŠ) MU Sar-ga-lí-LUGAL-rí KASKAL.˹ŠUDUN(REC 169)˺ NIMki ù Za-ḫa-raki in pu-ti Akšak˹ ki ˺ ù SAG.LI iš-ku-[nu] iš11-a-r[u] “In the year when Šar-kali-šarrī was victorious (in) the battle of Elam and Zahara, in front of Akšak, and placed .?.” ˹in˺ 1(DIŠ) MU Sar-ga-lí-LUGAL-˹rí ˺ KASKAL.˹ŠUDUN(REC 169?)˺ NIM[ki] ù Za-ḫara˹ ki ˺ iš11-a-r[u] “In the year when Šar-kali-šarrī was victorious (in) the battle of Elam and Zahara”

Lagaš: ITT 1 1097 II’ ˹1’˺ – [7’], RTC 130 r. II’ ˹2’˺ – ˹8’˺

Lagaš: ITT 1 1115 r. 2’ – 6’

22

Marcos Such-Gutiérrez

23 in 1 MU Sar-ga-lí-LUGAL-˹rí ˺ KASKAL. ŠUDUN(REC 169) MAR.TU iš11-a-ru “In the year when Šar-kali-šarrī was victorious (in) the battle of the Amorites” in 1(DIŠ) MU Sar-ga-lí-LUGAL-rí MAR.TU-am (in Ba-sa-arkur) “In the year (when) Šar-kali-šarrī (fought) the Amorites (in Basar)” 24 in 1(DIŠ) MU Sar-ga-lí-LUGAL-rí uš-šì É An-nuni-tum ù É Ìl-a-ba4 in KÁ.DINGIRki iš-ku-nu ù 1(REC 487) SAR-la-ag LUGAL Ku-ti-imki ik-mi-ù “In the year when Šar-kali-šarrī laid the foundations of Anunītum’s temple and Il-aba’s temple in Babylon and bound Sarlag, king of Gutium” E

Tell Agrab: MAD 1 268 r. 6 – 946

Lagaš: RTC 85 r. ˹1˺ – 3, RTC 124 r. II’ ˹2’˺ – 5’

Adab: MAD 2 p. 204 no. 4c; Lagaš: RTC 118 r. ˹2’˺ – 10’, RA 4 pl. v no. 13

Narām-Suen/Šar-kali-šarrī

25 [i]n MU ˹ŠUDUN˺47 LUGAL in ’À3-marMugdan: MAD 5 76 r. 5 – 7 nu-um i-li-kà-am “In the year of the battle, (when) the king came to Amarnum” 26 [in 1 MU ] ti-[ B]í-bí-[ ] en-a-ru ù KASKAL. ŠUDUN(REC 169)48 sa-tu-a-tim [in] Ḫa-ši-maarkur iš11-a-ru “In the year when [] struck dead Bibi-[] and was victorious (in) the battle of the mountains in Ḫašimar”

Lagaš: ITT 5 9265 r. 1’ – 8’

27 mu KASKAL.ŠUDUN(REC 169.2)-Gu-ti-um(ki) ba-gar-ra(-a) “(In) the year when the battle (of) Gutium took place”

Lagaš: ITT 1 1048 r. 2’ – ˹3’˺, ITT 1 1052, ITT 1 1053 r. ˹7˺, RTC 88 I’ 1’ – 2’

46 See Sallaberger and Schrakamp 2015, p. 46. 47 The sign is probably REC 448bis in Sommerfeld 1999, p. 128, cp. Sallaberger and Schrakamp 2015, p. 48. 48 The sign is like REC 169 but it has two horizontal wedges at the beginning.

Year Names as Source for Military Campaigns

28 mu KASKAL.ŠUDUN(REC 169)-Unugki(-a) NAG-suki(-a)? ba-gar-ra-a “In the year when the battles of Unug and NAGsu took place”

23

Lagaš: CT 50 49 r. 2, ITT 1 1196: ˹4’˺ – [6’]49, RTC 99 r. 5 – ˹7˺, RTC 136 r. III’ 10’ – [12’], RTC 176 III ˹1˺ – ˹3˺, BM 8629950

IV. Ur III51 A

Šulgi Year

Name

Texts

29 Š 20

mu dumu-Uri5ki-ma lú-giš-gíd-šè KA baab-kéš “Year: the citizen(s) of Ur were conscripted as lancers”

Nippur: BE 1/2 125: 16’ — tablet with list of year names —

30 Š 21

*mu BÀD.ANki ba-ḫul “Year: Dēr was destroyed”

Nippur: NATN 119 r. 1 – 2, NATN 351 r. ˹6’˺ — “Reichskalender” —52

31 Š 24

mu GÁN-ḫarki ba-ḫul “Year: GANḫar was destroyed”

e. g. NATN 385 r. 13 — Nippur —

32 Š 25

mu Si-mu-ru-umki ba-ḫul(-a) “Year (when) Simurrum was destroyed”

e. g. HSS 4 98 r. 2 — Lagaš —, AAICAB 1/1 Ashm. 1924-656 r. ˹3˺ — Umma —

33 Š 26

mu Si-mu-ru-umki a-rá-2-kam(-ma-aš) ba-ḫul “Year: Simurrum was destroyed (for) a second time”

UET 3 295 8 — Ur —, MVN 6 116 r. 6 — Lagaš —

49 This text has in 1(GE23) M[U] at the beginning. 50 Unpublished text, Sallaberger and Schrakamp 2015, p. 48. 51 The most common forms of the year names are mentioned in the chart, excepting cases in which the king is mentioned; in these cases, only the year name form mentioning the king is adopted. An exception is the fragmentary year name in ZA 101 p. 42 6 NT 233 r. II ˹2’˺ – ˹5’˺ (Š 24?/[]), whose ascription to Š 24 is uncertain. Moreover, mu-ús-sa-years are not included, excepting those cases in which a mu-ús-sa-year is the only one documented for a given year. 52 It is deduced from the year name Š 22: mu-ús-sa BÀD.ANki ba-ḫul, “the year after: Dēr was destroyed”.

24

Marcos Such-Gutiérrez

34 Š 27

mu Ḫa-ar-šiki ba-ḫul “Year: Ḫarši was destroyed”

e. g. Ontario 2 224 r. 7 — Umma —

35 Š 31

(mu) dŠul-gi nita-kal-ga lugal-Uri5ki-ma lugal-AN-ub-DA-límmu-ba-ke4 GÁN. ḫarki () a-rá-2(DIŠ.DIŠ)-kam-aš mu-ḫul “(Year): Šulgi, strong man, king of Ur, king of the four quarters (of the world), destroyed GÁNḫar for a second time”

Lagaš: ASJ 17 pp. 229 f. r. IV 5 – ˹9˺, PPAC 5 606 r. 16 – 2153

36 Š 32

mu dŠul-gi nita-kal-ga lugal-Uri5ki-ma Lagaš: BPOA 2 1877 lugal-AN-ub-DA-límmu-ba Si-mu-ur4-ru- r. VI 14 – 20 umki a-rá-3-kam-aš ba-ḫul “Year: Šulgi, strong man, king of Ur, king of the four quarters (of the world), destroyed Simurrum for a third time”

37 Š 33

mu GÁN-ḫarki a-rá-3(DIŠ.DIŠ.DIŠ)kam(-aš) ba-ḫul “Year: GANḫar was destroyed (for) a third time”

e. g. Orient 16 p. 84 125 r. IV 71 — Lagaš —, BPOA 1 231 r. 8 — Lagaš —

38 Š 34

mu An-ša-anki ba-ḫul(-a) “Year (when) Anšan was destroyed”

e. g. Nisaba 23 135 r. 2 — Umma —, Nik 2 264 r. 3 — Umma —

39 Š 35

mu dŠul-gi lugal-Uri5!ki-ma lugal-AN-ubNippur: BBVO 11 pp. 292 ff. ki DA-límmu-ba-ke4 An-ša-an mu-ḫul-a mu 6 NT 606+joins r. VI 2’ – 7’ íb-ú[s-a] “Year when Šulgi, king of Ur, king of the four quarters (of the world), destroyed Anšan. The year after”

40 Š 42

mu dŠul-gi dingir-kalam-ma-ke4 Ša(3)-aš/ šú-ru-um(ki) mu-ḫul “Year: Šulgi, god of the land, destroyed Šaš(u)rum”

Umma: BIN 3 487 r. 1 – 3, YOS 4 92 r. 2 – 4, Aleppo 497 r. 2, BPOA 6 959 edge54

53 This text has lugal-AN-ub-límmu-ba-ka, “king of the four quarters (of the world)”. 54 This text omitted the king’s name and has lugal-e, “king”, instead of dingir-kalam-ma-ke4, “god of the land”.

Year Names as Source for Military Campaigns

25

41 Š 44

mu Si-mu-ru-umki (ù) Lu-lu-bu(-um)ki a-rá-10 lá-1(GE23)-kam(-aš) ba-ḫul(-a) “Year (when) Simurrum (and) Lulubum were destroyed (for) a ninth time”

e. g. TCNY 202 r. 1 — Umma —, RTC 305: I 7, r. I 9, II ˹15˺ — Lagaš —, BIN 5 14 r. 1 – 2 — Umma —

42 Š 45

mu dŠul-gi nita-kal-ga lugal-Uri5ki-ma lugal-AN-ub-DA-límmu-ba-ke4 Urbí-lumki Si-mu-ru-umki Lu-lu-bu ki ù GÁN-ḫarki-ra AŠ-ešx(GE23.GE23.GE23)-šè SAGxDU-bi šu-búr-ra im-mi-ra “Year: Šulgi, strong man, king of Ur, king of the four quarters (of the world), the heads (of) Urbilum, Simurrum, Lulubu and GANḫar in a single campaign did smash”

Lagaš: CT 5 17 – 18 12231 = MVN 17 2 rev. V 14 – 22, CDLJ 2015:3 § 2.22 r. XI’ ˹9˺55

43 Š 46

Lagaš: HLC 1 Pl. 34 – 35 80 mu dŠul-gi nita-kal-ga lugal-Uri5ki-ma lugal-AN-ub-DA-límmu-ba-ke4 ˹Ki˺-maški r. XII 7 – 14 Ḫu-ur5-ti ˹ù˺ ma-da-bi!(TA) u4-˹AŠ! ˺-a muḫul “Year: Šulgi, strong man, king of Ur, king of the four quarters (of the world), destroyed Kimaš, Ḫurti and their lands in a single day”

44 Š 47

Lagaš: Orient 16 p. 93 136 mu dŠul-gi nita-kal-ga lugal-Uri5ki-ma r. VIII [] – 63, RIAA 84 = lugal-AN-ub-DA-límmu-ba-ke4 Ki-maški ki Ḫu-ur5-ti ù ma-da-bi u4-DIŠ-a mu-ḫul-a Amherst 52 XVI 6’ – 14’ mu-ús-sa-a-bi “Year when Šulgi, strong man, king of Ur, king of the four quarters (of the world), destroyed Kimaš, Ḫurti and their lands in a single day. The year after”

45 Š 48

mu dŠul-gi (lugal-)e Ḫa-ar-ši ki Ḫu-˹ur5˺-ti ki/ Ḫul-ti ki Ki-maški (ù ma-da-bi) u4-AŠ-a muḫul “Year: Šulgi, (the king), destroyed Ḫarši, Ḫurti, Kimaš (and their lands) in a single day”

MVN 8 15

r. 4 – 7! — Drehem —56, NRVN 1 296 envelope r. ˹3’˺ – 5’ — Lagaš —

55 Most of the texts has only lugal-e, “king”, as titles of the king, e. g. OIP 115 178 r. 9-˹12˺ (Š 45/ix 22) — Drehem —. 56 For the year-name see the photo in CDLI P115406.

26

B

Marcos Such-Gutiérrez

Amar-Suen

46 AS 2

mu dAmar-dSuen lugal-e Ur-bí-lumki muḫul(-a) “Year (when) Amar-Suen, the king, destroyed Urbilum”

47 AS 6

[mu dAmar-dSuen Nibruki-a dEn-líl-le mu- Nippur: ZA 101 p. 55 6 NT pà-d]a-a sa[g-ús-é]-˹d˺En-líl-k[a lug]al938 r. [] – 5 kal-ga lugal-[Uri5]˹ ki ˺-m[a lug]al-AN-ubda-límmu-b[a-ke4] [Ša-aš]-ruki mu-ḫul-˹a˺ “Year when Amar-Suen, the one called by name by the god Enlil in Nippur, supporter of the temple of the god Enlil, strong king, king of Ur, king of the four quarters (of the world), destroyed Šašrum”

48 AS 7

[mu] dAmar-dSuen [lugal]-Uri5ki-ma-[ke4 Unknown provenance — ki ki Bí-t]um-ra-[bí]-um [Ià-ab-ru] [(ma-da)57 “Reichskalender” —: PDT 2 ma-da(ki)-bi ù Ḫu-úḫ-nu-ri ki mu-ḫul] 911 r. VI 8 – 9 “Year: Amar-Suen, king of Ur, destroyed Bītum-rabīum, Iabru, (all) their lands and Ḫuḫnuri”

C

e. g. MVN 15 339 r. 7 — Drehem —, SACT 2 141 r. 7 – 8 — Umma —

Šū-Suen

49 ŠS 3

mu dŠu-dSuen lugal-Uri5ki-ma-ke4 Si-manúmki mu-ḫul “Year: Šū-Suen, king of Ur, destroyed Simanum”

e. g. PPAC 4 75 r. 22 — Drehem —

50 ŠS 7

mu dŠu-dSuen lugal-kal-ga lugal-Uri5ki-ma lugal-AN-ub-DA-4(REC 487)-ba-ke4 mada-Za-ab-ša-li ki mu-ḫ[ul] “Year: Šū-Suen, strong king, king of Ur, king of the four quarters (of the world), destroyed the land of Zabšali”

Nippur: BBVO 11 p. 294 6 NT 618 = ZA 101 pp. 47 f. 6 NT 618 r. 15 – 19

57 The reconstruction, based probably on Schneider 1936, p. 28 q), cp. Frayne 1997: 239 (7), is very questionable because abbreviated forms of the year-name has only ma-da(ki)-bi, “their lands”, e. g. OrSP 47/49 133 r. 11 – 15 (AS 7/iii -), SAT 2 1054 r. 8 (AS 7/iii -) and TrDr 88 r. 6 (AS 7/iv -) — all three texts from Drehem —.

Year Names as Source for Military Campaigns

D

27

Ibbi-Suen

51 IS 3

mu dI-bí-dSuen lugal-Uri5ki-ma-ke4 Si-muru-umki mu-ḫul “Year: Ibbi-Suen, king (of Ur), destroyed Simurrum”

e. g. UET 3 1664 r. 12 – 14 — Ur—

52 IS 9

mu dI-bí-dSuen lugal-Uri5ki-ma-ke4 Ḫuúh-nu-riki KA.BAD ma-da-An-ša-anki-šè [á]-dugud ba-ši-in-gin [x.]x-gin7 á-mah [x. x.]x bí-[x] “Year: Ibbi-Suen, king of Ur, went (with) heavy forces to Ḫuhnuri, the ’open mouth’ (of) the land (of) Anšan []”

Ur: UET 3 1383 r. 5 – 11 and probably UET 3 1386 r. ˹8˺ – []

53 IS 14 mu dI-bí-dSuen lugal-Uri5ki-ma-ke4 Šušinki A-dam-ŠULki ma-da-A-wa-anki-ka ud-gin7 ŠID bí-in-gi4 u4-AŠ-a mu-un-GAM ù en-bi LÚ-a mi-ni-in-dab5-ba-a “In the year when Ibbi-Suen, king of Ur, roared like a storm (against) Šušin (and) AdamŠUL, in the land of Awan, subdued (them) in a single day and seized their rulers prisoner”

Ur: UET 3 1421 r. 5 – ˹12˺, UET 3 45 r. II 4 – 10, UET 3 892 r. 1 – 9, UET 9 1156 r. II’ ˹1’˺ – ˹8’˺

54 IS 17 mu dI-bí-dSuen lugal-Uri5ki-ma-ra MAR.TU á-IM.GIŠGAL ul-ta uruki nu-zu gú im-mana-àm/an-gá-ar “Year: the Amorites, the southern arm, who from ancient times have known no cities, submitted to Ibbi-Suen, king of Ur”

Ur: UET 3 700 9, UET 3 1470 r. 5, UET 3 1463 r. 4, UET 9 906 r. II’ ˹3’˺ – 5, UET 9 575 r. ˹3˺ – ˹7˺, UET 9 571 r. ˹7’˺ – ˹10’˺, UET 3 698 r. 2 – 6, UET 3 862 4, UET 9 573 r. ˹2˺ – ˹6˺, UET 3 699 r. 2 – 6, UET 3 701 r. 3, UET 9 574 r. ˹1˺ – ˹5˺, UET 9 40 r. ˹7’˺ – ˹10’˺, UET 3 859 r. 2’, UET 3 1464 r. [] – 1’

28

55 IS 23 mu dI-bí-dSuen lugal-Uri5ki-ma-ra úguugu4bi-dugud kur-bi mu-na-e-ra-a “In the year when the heavy monkeys (from) their mountain came to Ibbi-Suen, king of Ur”

Marcos Such-Gutiérrez

Ur: UET 9 410 r. ˹9’˺, UET 3 712 r. 3 – 6, UET 3 711 r. 3 – 658

Bibliography Dahl, Jacob L. 2010. Naming Ur III Years. In Why Should Someone Who Knows Something Conceal It ? Cuneiform Studies in Honor of David I. Owen on His 70th Birthday, Alexandra Kleinerman and Jack M. Sasson eds, 85 – 93. Bethesda: CDL Press. Dunham, Sally 1985. The Monkey in the Middle. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und vorderasiatische Archäologie 75: 234 – 264. Edzard, Dietz O. 2003. Sumerian Grammar, Handbook of Oriental Studies. Section 1, Near and Middle East Vol. 71. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Fink, Sebastian 2016a. Battle-Descriptions in Mesopotamian Sources I: Presargonic and Sargonic Period. In The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Rome, Krzysztof Ulanowski ed., 51 – 64. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Fink, Sebastian 2016b. Battle and War in the Royal Self-Representation of the Ur III Period. In Kings, Gods and People. Establishing Monarchies in the Ancient World, Thomas R. Kämmerer, Mait Koiv and Vladimir Sazonov eds, Acta Antiqua Mediterranea et Orientalia Vol. 4, 109 – 134. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Frayne, Douglas. 1993. Sargonic and Gutian Periods (2334 – 2113 BC), The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Early Periods Vol. 2. Toronto, Buffalo and London: University of Toronto Press. Frayne, Douglas. 1997. Ur III Period (2012 – 2004 BC), The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Early Periods Vol. 3/2. Toronto, Buffalo and London: University of Toronto Press. Frayne, Douglas. 2008. Presargonic Period (2700 – 2350 BC), The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Early Periods Vol. 1. Toronto, Buffalo and London: University of Toronto Press. Hallo, William W. 2008. Day dates in texts from Drehem. In The Growth of an Early State in Mesopotamia: Studies in Ur III Administration. Proceedings of the First and Second Ur III Workshops at the 49th and 51st Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, London July 10, 2003 and Chicago July 19, 2005, Steven J. Garfinkle and J. Cale Johnson eds, Biblioteca del Próximo Oriente Antiguo 5, 99 – 118. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Kienast, Burkhart and Volk, Konrad 1995. Die sumerischen und akkadischen Briefe des III. Jahrtausends aus der Zeit vor der III. Dynastie von Ur, Freiburger Altorientalische Studien Vol. 19. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. 58 This year is also documented, but abbreviated without dI-bí-dSuen lugal-Uri5ki-ma-ra, “to Ibbi-Suen, king of Ur”, in UET 3 863 r. 8 – ˹9˺ (IS 23/-).

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29

Michalowski, Piotr 2008. Observations on “Elamites” and “Elam” in Ur III Times. In On the Third Dynasty of Ur. Studies in Honor of Marcel Sigrist, Piotr Michalowski ed., Journal of Cuneiform Studies. Supplemental Series Vol. 1, 109 – 123. Boston: American Schools of Oriental Research. Michalowsi, Piotr 2013. News of a Mari Defeat from the Time of King Šulgi Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires 2: 36 – 41. Owen, David I. 2000. The Royal Gift Seal of Ṣilluš-Dagan, Governor of Simurrum. In Studi sul Vicino Oriente antico dedicati alla memoria di Luigi Cagni, Simonetta Graziani ed., Dipartimento di Studi Asiatici, Series Minor LXI, 815 – 846. Napoli: Istituto Universitario Orientale. Sallaberger, Walther 1999. Teil 2. Ur III-Zeit. In Mesopotamien. Akkade-Zeit und Ur III-Zeit, Pascal Attinger and Markus Wäfler eds, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 160/3, 119 – 390. Freiburg and Göttingen: Universitätsverlag and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Sallaberger, Walther and Schrakamp, Ingo 2015. Part I: Philological Data for a Historical Chronology of Mesopotamia in the 3rd Millennium. In History & Philology, Walther Sallaberger and Ingo Schrakamp eds, Associated Regional Chronologies for the Ancient Near East and the Eastern Mediterranean Vol. III, 1 – 136. Turnhout: Brepols Publishers n. v. Schneider, Nikolaus. 1936. Die Zeitbestimmungen der Wirtschaftsurkunden von Ur III, Analecta Orientalia 13. Roma: Pontificio Istituto Biblico. Sigrist, Marcel 2010. Les noms d’année du règne du roi Šulgi. In Why Should Someone Who Knows Something Conceal It ? Cuneiform Studies in Honor of David I. Owen on His 70th Birthday, Alexandra Kleinerman and Jack M. Sasson eds, 219 – 238. Bethesda: CDL Press. Sommerfeld, Walter. 1999. Die Texte der Akkade-Zeit. 1. Das Dijala-Gebiet: Tutub, IMGULA Vol. 3/1. Münster: Rhema-Verlag. Steinkeller, Piotr 1979. Notes on Sumerian Plural Verbs Orientalia Nova Series 48: 54 – 67. Steinkeller, Piotr 1987. The Administrative and Economic Organization of the Ur III State: The core and the Periphery. In The Organization of Power Aspects of Bureaucracy in the Ancient Near East, McGuire Gibson and Robert D. Biggs eds, Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization Vol. 46, 19 – 41. Chicago and Illinois: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Such-Gutiérrez, Marcos 2015. Der Übergang von der frühdynastischen Zeit in die altakkadische Periode anhand der Adab-Texte. In It’s a Long Way to a Historiography of the Early Dynastic Period(s), Reinhard Dittmann and Gebhard J. Selz eds, Altertumskunde des Vorderen Orients. Archäologische Studien zur Kultur und Geschichte des Alten Orients Vol. 15, 433 – 451. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Westenholz, Aage Sallaberger, 1999. Teil 1. The Old Akkadian Period. History and Culture. In Mesopotamien. Akkade-Zeit und Ur III-Zeit, Pascal Attinger and Markus Wäfler eds, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 160/3, 15 – 117. Freiburg and Göttingen: Universitätsverlag and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Wilcke, Claus. 2007. Early Ancient Near Eastern Law. A History of Its Beginnings. The Early Dynastic and Sargonic Periods. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Zettler, Richard L. and Sallaberger, Walther 2011. Inana’s Festival at Nippur under the Third Dynasty of Ur Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 101: 1 – 71.

Much Ado about Nothing ? Battle Descriptions in Ugaritic Texts

Pavel Čech

This is the only article concerning the time span of the whole 2nd millennium BC and, therefore, a very short introduction into the heyday of this city port on the Mediterranean coast is in order. Afterwards, searching for the epigraphic sources with battle descriptions we will arrive at the rather disappointing result that there is nothing of this kind in Ugarit, at least in the narrow sense of the word, i. e. no description of a real battle.1 There are descriptions of battles that never happened, descriptions of battles to happen in the future and descriptions of battles without description; and to all these categories we will pay appropriate attention.2 But the description of any real battle is hardly ever present. This situation is even more tantalizing when we read the definition of one of the Ugaritic archives as containing “the most important corpus pertaining to the very end of the Late Bronze Age”,3 i. e. of the period of constant war par excellence. On the other hand, the Late Bronze Age represents, so to say, the first global age in our history.4 From the East Mediterranean region to India, everybody used the lingua franca — Akkadian — in international affairs and experimented with cuneiform or other scripts for the internal use.5 While Ugarit was a distant periphery of the Medi1

2 3 4 5

Why this is the case is difficult to ascertain. It doesn’t seem to be just a chance, after some 80 seasons of digging and thousands of epigraphic artefacts found so far. What should be seen behind this apparent disinterest ? A kind of transference ? Our gods are fighting, we can live in peace ? Or had they never been close enough, being just auxiliary troops without any clear idea of what was going on ? It has been brought to my attention during the discussion that similar lack of bloody romances can be observed in other cultures as well (e. g., Persia). Maybe distinct configuration (in the sense of Ruth Benedict) is at play. English translations of Ugaritic texts, if not indicated otherwise, follows Pardee 2003a and 2003b. Singer 2006, p. 173. And its sudden collapse, brought about, i. a., by ethnic displacements and global warming, provokes some prophets of doom to far-reaching comparisons with the present age. The reasons for the introduction and distinct use of Ugaritic script have been laid down by Zemánek 2006, among others.

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_3

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Pavel Čech

terranean as well as the Mesopotamian civilization, it was, at the same time, the commercial centre of the world system at large. About 4500 epigraphic artefacts in an astonishing number of places,6 languages and scripts have been found, primarily in Akkadian and Ugaritic.7 Their thematic division can, for our purpose, be charted as follows: 1) informations about a real battle in the past — Akkadian and Ugaritic; in the future — Akkadian; 2) descriptions of a mythological battle — Ugaritic. Apart from a few scattered reports of the earlier periods,8 Ugarit is coming on the stage of history only in the Late Bronze Age, being literary active and economically flourishing roughly between the Amarna age and the end of the Bronze age, more or less 150 years (1350 – 1200 BC). Previously an Egyptian vassal, it spent these years under Hittite hegemony9 with waning Hurritic influence. Its dynasty bore the old famous Amorite names known from Babylon, Aleppo, Alalach and other royal dynasties like Hammurapi, Niqmepa and Niqmaddu. To their Hittite overlords, they were indirectly responsible through the kings of Karchemiš, situated on the Euphrates river (today Jerablus on the Turkish-Syrian border). Their city state had about 2000 square meters between the Mediterranean Sea, the holy Jebel Aqra mountain in the north, the Ansariya mountain chain and the problematic and aggressive kingdom of Amurru in the south. Ugarit was a very important and rich sea port, a genuin thalassocracy, where battle was not a very prominent topic. Instead of going to bloody conflicts, it preferred other means of conflict solution. It paid 5000 silver shekels yearly for Amurru’s military protection, Amurru’s own territorial ambitions included (RS 19.68 = PRU 4, 284). In the vassal treaty concluded between Ugarit and the Hittite overlord (RS 17.340 = PRU 4, 48), the standard obligation to provide auxiliary troops in the case of an armed conflict is missing. This is still respected in the later, particular stipulation of Ini-Tešub, king of Karchemiš, addressed to an unknown king of Ugarit (RS 17.59 = PRU 4, 150). The manumission regarding the war against Assyria remains intact. On the other hand, Ugarit has to pay 40 (maybe even 50) minas of gold. No doubt, “Ugarit was involved in five kinds of armed conflict: defensive wars, border conflicts, internal conflicts, participation in international military alliances and, particularly in those military conflicts that brought about the destruction of the capital”.10 Nevertheless, describing the Ugaritic army, some experts use, without hesitation, the adjective “débil”.11 And while their actual as well as potential overlords (Hittites and Assyrians) tried to outdo each other in describing their military successes (exceptionally even failures), Ugaritic sources remained silent. In every military or even broader historical treatise, focusing on political, economical or social history 6 7 8 9

Pedersen 1998, pp. 68 – 80; van Soldt 2000. For their overview, see Čech 2018. Singer 1999; Freu, 2006, with bibliographies. Usually, the “First Syrian War” of the Hittite king Suppiluliuma is singled out as the vantage point. For a critical re-evaluation of the evidence cf. Devecchi 2013. 10 Vidal 2005, p. 658. 11 As a fact Liverani 1979, p. 1311; as an opinion of many Vita 1995, f. 11.

Much Ado about Nothing ?

33

of the city (state), other aspects of war come to the fore. E. g. the six continuations of “Ugarit at war” by Jordi Vidal are devoted to the recruitment, mercenaries, prisoners of war, military equestrianism, single combat (though nonexistent in the non-literary sources), fortifications, weapons in sanctuaries, and to the identification of military standard in iconography.12 Civilians and animals in war have recently been added to this corpus.13 The legislative and economic aspects,14 or even the Ugaritic iconography and lexicography15 are also in the foreground of other works, wholly or partially devoted to warfare in Ugarit. Unanimously, the sudden end of Ugarit, symbolized through the letter warning against the approaching ships of the Sea Peoples,16 is pointed out. It should be noted, however, that the evidence of the Sea Peoples destroying Ugarit is usually grossly overstated, be it in antiquity or in 20th century scholarship. After the rediscovery of the city, scholars have repeatedly put emphasis on the valuable finding of tables destined for burning and found in situ, still in the furnace.17 The hasty end of the city, according to the field legend, prevented their storage ! It would be a fine context of the final battle, indeed. Unfortunately, later on it became obvious that it wasn’t part of common epigraphic praxis but a matter of chance, whereby the tablets collapsed into the furnace from the archive on the second floor. Similarly, the end of Ugarit has been dated based on the rather mysterious tablet KTU 1.78, which bears perhaps a very concise result of a mantic inquiry and has been found in a street, near the entrance to the kings palace. The astronomical phenomenon has been identified as a sun-eclipse, the place of finding explained as reflecting the never-finished route of the diviner to the king and, subsequently, the end of the city dated to the most suitable eclipse of 1192 BC.18 But we are searching in vain in the contemporary archives, be it Emarite, Hittite, Assyrian, or others for the statement “Ugarit is destroyed”. Contrarywise, we find such a statement (“Ugarit has been eaten by fire: half of it was eaten by fire and the other half is missing”) in one of the Amarna letters,19 written one hundred and fifty years earlier in a time when archaeological evidence of such a catastrophe is ambivalent at best. Be that as it may, taking the minimalistic view, the relation of the Sea Peoples to the destruction of Ugarit is one of correlation, not necessarily a causality.

12 13 14 15 16

Vidal 2005 (updated in Vidal 2016); 2006; 2010; 2011; 2013; 2014a. Vidal 2014b and 2014c. Singer 1999; Freu 2006. Vita 2015. RS 20.18 = Ug 5, 22. The Grand Stewart Ešuwara informs the king of Ugarit that 20 ships are approaching his coast and wishes him good luck. 17 Very convincingly Astour 1965, p. 254. 18 Dietrich and Loretz 2002. 19 EA 151, pp. 55 – 57.

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Pavel Čech

Battle descriptions in myths20 The second case making us regret the silence of military records pertains to the sources written in the Ugaritic language and script. Since its discovery and deciphering in the early 30s,21 the Ugaritic literature is again and again regarded as the pinnacle of ancient poetry. The mythological godly heroes usually excel in single combats. Here is the description of the final fight between the main hero, the patron god of Ugarit Baclu against Mot, the god of death. It ends in a draw, because death cannot be defeated once and for all. The hectic encounter is described in short stichos with repetitions that evoke single strokes (or, perhaps, boxing rounds ?). Needless to say, the translation fails to transmit the regular rhythm and the impact of the original. KTU 1.6 VI 16 – 22 ytcn . k gmrm They size up each other like complete (warriors), c c c mt . z . b l . z Motu is strong, Baclu is strong; jngḥn k rumm They butt each other like wild bulls, mt . cz . bcl . cz Motu is strong, Baclu is strong; ynṯkn . k bṯnm They bite each other like snakes, c c c mt . z . b l . z Motu is strong, Baclu is strong; ymṣḫn k lsmm They trample each other like running (animals), mt . ql . bcl . ql Motu falls, Baclu falls.

It is, so to say, in the second round that the positive side gains the advantage. It is necessarily so, because the greatness of a victory is as great as the enemy. And the greatness of the enemy is demonstrated by his initial victory. First, Baclu is dehonested by Yammu, then he wins. First he is captured in the realm of death, afterwards he regains his position. Encounters with both opponents follow the same pattern or, if you wish, “reflect thematic symmetry”.22 In front of all the fighting heroes stands the passionate goddess Anat. In our second example, she is fighting more opponents at once, which enables us to surmise allusions to events of a real battle (if the human realm is, indeed, more real than the divine one). This sample shows some of the distinctive traits of Ugaritic poetry. First of all, parallelismus membrorum, where a common lexem (or phrase) of the A-stichos is paralleled by a less common one in the following stichoi (B- and, rarely, C-, D-…). Besides, alliteration provides the individual parts of the composition (usually hemistichs) with a special colouring. Contrary to the previous example, the oc-

20 “Pour nous faire une idee plus complete, et surtout plus vive, d’Ugarit en guerre, nous devons nous adresser a ses poetes, ce qui n’est pas sans risques, comme on sait” (Nougayrol 1963, p. 118). 21 Day 2002. 22 Smith 1994, p. 15.

Much Ado about Nothing ?

35

currence of long triplets (ABC) beside the usual duplets (AB) makes the narrative hymnic rather than striking. KTU 1.3 II 5 – 30 Thereupon Anatu’s begins to smite in the valley, to attack between the two cities. She smites the peoples on the seashore, wreaks destruction on the humans to the east. Under her are heads like balls, above her are hands like locusts, heaps of fighters’ hands are like grasshoppers. She attaches heads around her neck, ties hands at her waist. Up to her knees she wades in the blood of soldiers, to her neck in the gore of fighters. With (her) staff she drives out the captors, with her bowstring the opponents. Thereupon Anatu goes to her house, the goddess arrives at her palace. But she is not sated with smiting in the valley, with attacking between the two cities. She prepares chairs for the fighter(s), prepares tables for the armies, footstools for the warriors. Much she smites, then looks, attacks and then gazes, so does Anatu. Her liver swells with laughter, her heart is filled with joy, Anatu’s liver with success. As to her knees she wades in the blood of soldier(s), to her neck in the gore of fighters. Until she is satisfied, she smites in the house, attacks between the tables.

A B A B A B C A B A B A B A B A A B A B C A B A B C A B A A B

West & East = Merismus

3 times grapheme for “m” 5 times grapheme for “m”

4 times grapheme for “l” short monostich verbal form tmtḫṣ verbal form tḫtṣb

hdm, Egyptian loanword 3 times “t”, one “d” 4 times “t”, one “d”

3 times “m” 5 times “m” short monostich

Battle descriptions in legends Famous as they are, this and similar examples are, nevertheless, battle description in literary texts. Nearer to the human realm are the Ugaritic legends. Their plot is comparable to the Old Testament stories — Danel (KTU 1.17 – 1.19) being a kind of patri-

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arch, Kirta (KTU 1.14 – 1.16) already a real king, considering war part of his dynastic program. The main difference from the Old Testament stories ?23 Ugaritic legends are written in the same poetic language as the myths, while Biblical stories in the books of Samuel are (mostly) in prose. Therefore, they were (and, by some, still are) considered epic and history, while Ugaritic legends “just” myth and poetry24 that may reflect some historical events from the days long gone, at best. King Kirta needs a successor and the supreme god Ilu instructs him at some length how to get one: to organize a mighty army, to beleaguer the capital where a king with a nice daughter rules and … not to fight ! Just doing nothing for a week is enough to get the desirable bride. Kirta follows his instructions exactly and gets the bride, many sons and the important daughter Octavia. Or nearly exactly: from his own initiative, he vows to goddess Athirat, who brings him big trouble in the future. The myth and the epic share some affinities regarding their modern study and perception. First, their author, the legendary scribe and priest Ilimilku, has been dated down from the 14th to the second half of the 13th century. Secondly, it has been observed that even the legends follow the same “thematic symmetry”. And, finally, the work of Ilimilku is interpreted as an answer to a contemporary political request, perhaps justifying an unorthodox succession to the royal throne.25 It may be that the political status quo was transformed into the mythological struggle, the good god Baclu being the personification — or rather deification ? — of the kingdom of Ugarit and the bad god Motu being the deification of some neighbour entity, perhaps Amurru. Similarly, the battle against Yammu would illustrate the fighting against the Sea Peoples. The fact that the Sun is approaching and “from above” decides the result of the match echoes the function of the Hittite king, himself usually called “the sun”. But enough with the historization of a myth, time is ripe for the mythologization of a history !

Battle descriptions that remained behind the scene It is possible that battle descriptions constituted the oral background of two fairly different texts. One of them is the only Ugaritic text (beside the Cycle of Baclu, of course) classified as “myth” in the Context of Scripture.26 It is the narrative about the birth of the goodly gods (RS 2.002 = KTU 1.23). Their father being Ilu and their nurses being 23 According to some (Margalit 1989), Biblical writers were acquainted with these Ugaritic narratives. Their conviction is mainly based on the analysis of proper names that do appear in both corpuses like Daniel, Kinneret, Rapiu, Aštarot, Edrei and others. 24 To use the famous dichotomy of Frank Moore Cross 1997. 25 Concerning legends Korpel 1998; Čech 2011, pp. 251 – 252; concerning the myth most recently and elaborately Tugendhaft 2018. Higher command can be seen even behind the processing of the other myth, KTU 1.23 (Čech 2007). 26 Pardee 2003a, pp. 274 – 283. Cf. also the monograph of Smith 2006 with Čech 2007.

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goddesses Athirat and Rahmay (Anat ?), they are obviously predestined to great deeds, perhaps of the same kind as their second nurse ? The parallel with the childhood of the Sumerian king Eanatum from Lagaš, “one of the most prominent warrior-kings of the third millennium”,27 would be striking. Unfortunately, our text ends with their socialization. The other one is the list of Ugaritic rulers.28 “Ancient heroes” from the days of yore are an integral part of the funerary ritual of the penultimate Ugaritic king Niqmaddu (lines 2 – 7 of RS 34.126 = KTU 1.161). Ugaritic king lists are preserved in four nearly identical copies written in Akkadian29 and on the reverse of one fragmentary tablet, written in Ugaritic (RS 24.257 = KTU 1.113). The obverse contains a fragmentary text, perhaps “elegy, ritual (?)”.30 Unfortunately, its relationship with the king list remains dubious. There can be no doubt that the legendary deeds of ancient Ugaritic rulers were an integral though oral part of these texts.31 The plot is still there, in the charactonyms of these ancient heroes and their paradigmatic relations.32 Though still in its beginning, a few “laws of early rulers” can be postulated: heros eponymos of some ethnic/geographic entity are encircled by the names of related ethnics and/or toponyms,33 followed slightly later by the heros eponymos of the ruling dynasty. To facilitate the oral transmission of the narrative, the royal proper names are formed using paronomasia, synonyms and other means. In Ugarit, the most visible phenomenon is the ending -ānu.34 In the prehistory of Ugarit, the invited guests of the funerary ritual ruled in the days of yore. Their story could perhaps sound like this one: the descendants of the mighty, totemic Ditanu35 dispersed over the whole Near East. Certain Ulkn went to the west, being followed by the Trmn during the (in)famous water-story. In the fourth generation, the brothers Sdn and Rdn came down to the seashore to rule together. Their descendant became the “eternal” king of the dimorphous society of Hurrians and Semites — due to a bloody conflict ?36 Similarly vague is the guess that, later on, the first kings according to the king lists, Ugaranu and Amqunu (“Peasant” and “Farmer”), were peaceful founders of the empires of Ugarit and Mukiš, while

27 28 29 30 31 32 33

Fink 2016, p. 53. Cf. already Čech 2002. Rs 94.2518, 88.2012, 94.2528 and 94.2501 (Arnaud 1999). At least according to the genre assignment of KTU. Or, the other way round, only the paradigmatic part of the primordial narrative was put in writing. Garsiel 1991 devoted a whole monograph to the charactonyms of the Old Testament. Legendary kings of the yore are preferably presented as toponyms in sedentary cultures and gentilics in cultures with a nomadic past (true or legendary). 34 These substantives could be perceived as old due to their diptotic flexion. 35 Even Kirta is referenced as a descendant of Ditanu (KTU 1.15 par.). 36 The constitutive narrative seems to be, once again, the Legend of Kirta. His name is identical with the name of the legendary (?) founder of Mittanni and the meaning of his bride’s name can be undestood as “Hurrian”. Be it as it may, “its West Semitic and Hurrian inhabitants were completely integrated within the realm’s social structure” (Astour 1965, p. 253).

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the third king of the Ugaritic king list and founder of the ruling dynasty, a certain Rap’anu, was a man of war.37

Battle descriptions in the correspondence Turning to a more mundane genre of correspondence, a distinction between letters written in Ugaritic and in Akkadian is at hand. There are about 100 Ugaritic and tree times more Akkadian letters. The former are short and mostly internal (though we have Ugaritic letters written by the Hittite queen or king of Tyre, which is a matter for a separate treatise),38 the latter usually more elaborate and international. In the Ugaritic letters, hardly any battle description is present. Either the battle is approaching or the tragic consequences are reported. Here are a few passages from the selection chosen by the chief epigraphist of the French mission for the Context of Scripture:39 1) Preparing for an (counter)attack 6 (KTU 2.30): “Now, if the Hittite (forces) go up, I will send you a message; and if they do not go up, I will certainly send one. Don’t worry, be happy.”40 16 (KTU 2.98): “Now the Sun, the great king, my master, must know that Ari-Tešub has assembled asocials41 with him and he is going to devastate your servant’s country … guard the country !” 24 (KTU 2.33): “Now (as for) the king, my master, why has he assigned this responsibility to his servant: 2000 horses ? You have (thus) declared peril against me !” 2) Suffering under an (counter)attack 32 (KTU 2.61): “To ĠRDN, my master, say: BN ḪRNK has come, he has defeated the troops, he has pillaged the town, he has even burned our grain on the threshing-floors and destroyed the vineyards. Our town is destroyed and you must know it.”42 37 King Og, “the last of the Raphaites” of the Old Testament, was a monstrous fighter indeed. 38 It is debated if they were just translations of the lost originals, originals in their own right, or something in between. On the other hand, some of the Ugaritic letters bear no more than a short, informal sms “how are you ?” Were they a kind of dispatch note, the real message being forwarded orally ? 39 Pardee 2003b. 40 The final sentence is my own free translation of ap mhkm b lbk al tšt (cf. Pardee 2003b, p. 93, note 33: “Lit. ‘and, moreover, do not place anything in your heart’”). The heart is the favourite of any figurative speech, then and even today. 41 Pardee 2003b, p. 100 leaves untranslated: “cApirūma”. 42 The final imperative is doubled for emphasis: dc dc !

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28 (KTU 2.10): “Message of Iwrišarri: to Pilsiya say: everything be well with you ! Regarding Targhudassi and Kalbiya, I have heard that they suffered defeat.43 Now if such is (not) the case, send me a message. Pestilence is (at work) here, for death is very strong. If they have been overcome, put your reply and whatever (else) you may hear there in a letter to me.” 3) Own deployment 7 (KTU 2.82): “For six days I have been fighting continuously …44 Abdimilki is alive. If he should die, I will go on fighting on my own.” 20 (KTU 2.40): “As for your servant, in Lawasanda I am keeping an eye (on the situation) along with the king. Now the king has just left in haste to SYR, where he is sacrificing MLĠĠM.” 4) Discomfort with the quality of the crew 4 (KTU2.72): “Why do you send this mercenary and not the royal guard ? If … the royal guard go (elsewhere), inform me and you will disappoint me severely.”45 Even in their Akkadian counterpart,46 there is hardly anything about a real battle. Not unlike the Czech army, the Ugaritic one is never ready for a fight ! The Akkadian letters are, no doubt, much more elaborate then their Ugaritic counterpart. Preparing for their own (counter)attack as well as suffering under an (counter)attack and the deployment of their own forces — all three points are present in RS 20.238 (Ug 5, 24: 12 – 29): “Now, the enemy boats approached and set my towns on fire. They did no good in my land ! Didn’t my father know that all my infantry is in Hatti land and all my boats in Lukka land ?47 My land was left alone and 7 ships of enemies arrived …”.

The imposing conclusion that seven ships represent an insurmountable problem for the giant Ugaritic fleet48 (though being, at least partially, far from the domestic har-

43 Figura etymologica for an emphasis: “They were defeated by defeat” (ḫti nḫtu). 44 To see here the allusion to the Biblical account of the Creation in six continuous days would probably go too far. 45 Literary “you will break my heart”. 46 The quoted letters are conveniently translated by Lackenbacher 2002. 47 Halayqa 2010, p. 313, note 44 sides with this last Ugaritic king, who “went far to aid the Hittites”. However, from other letters we know that his words went much farther than his deeds. 48 Cf. Astour 1965, p. 265 and Vita 1995, pp. 157 – 177.

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bor) led some49 to believe that seven must be just a symbolic number. And the recommendation of the addressee, the king of Cyprus ?50 To stay behind the walls and not to allow an open fight (RSL 1 = Ug 5, 23: 22 – 28) ! Only cum grano salis can it be considered “military tactics.”51 Similar discomfort with the proverbial (?) quality of the Ugaritic troops (coming to point 4) was formulated by the high Hittite official in the letter RS 34.143 = RSO 7, 6. And, concerning chariotry, by the Ugaritic king himself.52

General’s Letter Finally, we have arrived at the actual battle that is envisioned in the so called General’s Letter (RS 20.33 = Ug 5, 20).53 From many points of view, this letter complies best with all the aforementioned demands. It is also the only document written in Akkadian and found in Ugarit that deserved a monograph length treatment.54 It was found in the 20th season in the so called House of Rapanu which is of some importance because of the late dating of this corpus. It was sent by a military commander Shumiyanu (or Shumitta-, according to others) after being half a year on a mission some 100 km south of Ugarit, in Amurru, where he was mapping the Egyptian activities in the region. On the obverse of the letter, he is shortly describing his positions, but mainly complains of the cold weather and desperately expresses the wish to terminate his stay. On the revers, after some 30 broken lines, we find the description of a night foray against his forces in a fortress near Ardat. They were able to deflect the enemy and even to take a prisoner and interrogate him about the Egyptian prospects. Afterwards, the General is considering his chances in a way that — due to many repetitions — seems, at first, as being dictated by fear. However, a closer reading suggests that he (or, more probably, the scribe) is utilizing the means known from Ugaritic poetry,55 which enjoys repetitions and slight variations a lot.56 What are, thus, the problems with this one ? Firstly, the opinions of the experts vary greatly regard49 Klengel 1992, p. 150. 50 The sender’s name isn’t clear, though he has been identified with the king of Cyprus already by the editor (Nougayrol in Ug 5, p. 85). Later on, the king of Karchemiš was favored due to the epistolographic and palaeographic arguments. Currently, the pendulum is back thanks to a petrographic analysis that proved the Cypriot provenance of the clay (Goren et al. 2003). 51 As Vidal 2005, p. 661 and already Nougayrol Ug 5, p. 85 do. 52 As quoted by the king of Karchemiš in the same letter. 53 Already termed “La lettre du Général” in the editio princeps (Ug 5, p. 69). Transcriptions and translations follow Izre’el and Singer, 1990 with minor changes. 54 Izre’el and Singer 1990. 55 Summarized by Margalit 1989, pp. 495 – 502; explained and compared with the Biblical poetry by Loretz and Kottsieper 1987. 56 The most famous example are the “Duties of the rightful son” that are repeated no less than four times at the beginning of the Legend of Aqhat (KTU 1.17 I – II). Just the person of the narrator artfully changes each time.

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ing the date: the Amarna age (about 1350 BC), after the Battle of Qadesh (ca. 1270), or the last years of the existence of Ugarit ?57 Then, it is not clear how to read the name of the sender, only Šumi- is certain. They also differ in the question of who the addressee of the letter was. The king of Ugarit, Karchemiš, Hatti, or another king of the region, perhaps of Amurru ? The orthography and grammar of the letter is quite similar to the Amurru letters of the Amarna archive and, therefore, it is perhaps not an Ugaritic letter at all. The letter could have been merely captured by Ugaritic forces and somehow could have found its refuge in the archive of Rapanu.58 Such an interpretation is inconclusive — an Amorite general wouldn’t have cried that he had been away from home for half a year already. Even the argument of the “Amorite” scribal habit isn’t decisive; a general of Ugarit, stationed for half a year in Amurru, would also have most probably engaged a native scribe to write his letters. Moreover, the scribal schools of Amurru and Ugarit are not very distinctive. Thirdly, the father of Rapanu was a certain Shumiyanu — hardly a coincidence. Anyway, let’s take a look at a few selected passages. a) the tricolon describing the unsatisfactory state of the troops fulfils all the criteria of high Ugaritic poetry (RS 20.33: 28): narkabātēya šebrūni

my chariots are broken

sīsēya mītūni

my horses are dead

u ṣābīya ḫaliq

and my troops are lost

b) despite the fragmentary beginning, it is probable that General is describing two subsequent encounters with the enemy, the first one outside and the second one in the fortress, which is a nice parallel to the fight of Anat. Similarly, to the passionate Anat, even the enemies are insatiable and attack “over and over again”. After a successful outcome, the General immediately requests reinforcement, be it with words full of fear or poetry (maybe both) (RS 20.33: rev. 3’–10’): “… at the sea shore … captured him … have been introduced to Ardat. My men were attacked over and over again in the middle of the night, and a battle was waged between them, and my men drove them out … it was within the fortress that they were fighting …”

57 Cf., i. a., the hesitations of Nougayrol Ug 5, pp. 76 – 79, very persuasively Dietrich 2001 (similarly Freu 2006) contra Izre’el and Singer 1990. 58 According to, e. g., the reasoning of Izre’el and Singer, 1990.

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c) prediction of the future battle (RS 20.33, rev. 15’–29’)

u liwa’’ir šarru ṣābi u narkabātē xxxxxxxxxxxxx assurri ḫamuttam šar māt misri ikaššad-mi u assurri

emūqam lā

nikaššad-mi

šar māt misri uṣṣâm

lā uṣṣâm u ṣābī piṭṭātē-ma šūt ša uṣṣâm u

kašād emūqam

So, may the king send troops and chariots ! xxxxxxxxxxxxx Heaven forbid that the king of Egypt should arrive quickly; then we shall not overpower (him) by force Heaven forbid that the king of Egypt should come forth ! Should he not come forth, and it is the pḏt-troops that come forth, then I shall overpower (them) by force.

u lišammid-mi šarru ṣābi u narkabātē

So may the king assign troops and chariots

kīmē nippuš ittīšu taḫāzam u nikaššad

in order that we (can) fight against them and overpower (them) by force.

emūqam

šumma inanna ṣābi piṭṭātē-ma šūt ša uṣṣâm u lā ladduk ittīšu u lu īdēšu bēlīya inūma ina šatti šattīma ittanaṣṣam inūma ina ūmišam-ma ana muḫḫīni ittanambal u lu niṣbat inanna šurrum-ma šimqam ittīšu kīmē imarrur ina šanīšu aṣīšu

If, now, it is the pḏt-troops that come and I do not fight with them, then be it known to my lord, that every year they will come out here, that every day he will keep sending against us. Hence, we must surely get in contact now xxxxx with them, as they start they sorties again.

While scholars concentrate on explaining the unusual lexemes and West-Semitic traits,59 they don’t pay much attention to the structuring of the report, not to say its underlying structure (if there is any). It begins with a lament over the weather, i. e., the situation of deficiency. Then it proceeds with a positive outcome of a local skirmish. Afterwards, using Propp’s dictum, the hero (General himself) is preparing for the final battle against the villain (king of Egypt), desperately in need of a helper (troops and chariots) sent by the dispatcher (king of Ugarit ?). Does the plot look familiar ? Let’s 59 Just to illustrate their despair: nobody understands the lexem šimqum. Izre’el explains the suffix -mi once as a signal of a direct speech, another time as an asseverative particle. While such a postulated homonymy cannot be ruled out, the congruent distribution of the morphem(s) argues against it.

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play once more with the literary texts from Ugarit. Baclu lacks a palace. His parhedra Anat wins a local skirmish (see above !), then mediates the building of the palace that brings about the fatal battle against the king of the Underworld personally. Baclu is about to lose this one, nevertheless the reinforcement by Anat brings a turnover. In the end, a draw is agreed upon — as already noted, the king of the Underworld (or Egypt, if you prefer) cannot be defeated once and for all. The penultimate part of the letter, offered here, begins with the usual request for additional troops, known very well from the Amarna letters. The second sentence is hard to read, understand and translate with any confidence. After such an outset, analysing the whole passage as a literary text doesn’t seem very promising indeed. Nevertheless, a closer reading reveals a sophisticated construction with a whole set of prosodic/poetic devices known from Ugaritic narratives. In the best tradition of Ugaritic poetry, the scribe diversifies the parallel verbal roots in otherwise identical sentences: liwa’’ir // lišammid, ikaššad // uṣṣâm; uses the same verbal root in different meanings: ikaššad “arrive” x nikaššad “overpower”; uses chiasmus in playing with the expression of the outcome: emūqam lā nikaššad // kašād emūqam // nikaššad emūqam. The king of Egypt is twice opposed to the General’s king, the gradation escalates from “every year” (ina šatti šattīma) to “every day” (ina ūmišam). In this very sentence, m appears five times, being the dominant sound of alliteration. Nevertheless, the two shortest sentences with the signal-initial asseverative lu leave no doubt that “my lord must know — we will surely fight”. On the battleground, Ugaritic forces never excelled. In the literary field, they easily defeated all their contemporary opponents and brought havoc into the Biblical world. Their strategies are described with enthusiasm even today.

Abbreviations BZAW Beiträge zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft CHANE Culture and History of the Ancient Near East EA J. A. Knudtzon, Die El-Amarna-Tafeln mit Einleitung und Erläuterungen.

Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung Manfried Dietrich, Oswald Loretz and Joaquín Sanmartín. Die keilalphabetischen Texte aus Ugarit, Ras Ibn Hani und anderen Orten. Dritte, erweiterte Auflage. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. 2013 LAPO Littératures anciennes du Proche-Orient PIHANS Publications de l’Institut historique-archéologique néerlandais de Stamboul PRU Le Palais Royal d’Ugarit 1 – 6 (1955 – 1970). Claude Frédéric-Armand Schaeffer et al. eds. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale; Klincksieck RS Ras Shamra. Field signature RSO Ras Shamra-Ougarit 1 – 25 (1981–). Leuven: Peeters KTU

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UBL Ug

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Ugaritic-Biblical Literature Ugaritica 1 – 7 (1939 – 1978). Claude Frédéric-Armand Schaeffer et al. eds. Paris: Geuthner

Bibliography Arnaud, Daniel. 1999. Prolégomènes à la rédaction d’un histoire d’Ougarit: les bordereaux de rois divinisés. Studi Micenei e Egeo-Anatolici 41: 153 – 173. Astour, Michael C. 1965. New Evidence on the Last Days of Ugarit. American Journal of Archaeology 69: 253 – 258. Cross, Frank Moore. 91997. Cananaite Myth and Hebrew Epic. Essays in the History of the Religion of Israel. Cambridge MA and London: Harvard University Press. Čech, Pavel. 2002. Die (Ir)relevanz der Königslisten für die Geschichtsforschung. Ugarit-Forschungen 34: 39 – 44. Čech, Pavel. 2007. Ups and Downs of Ugaritic Myth and Ritual Studies. Archiv Orientální 75: 239 – 246. Čech, Pavel. 2011. Ugaritské písemnictví. In Písemnictví starého Předního východu, Jana Mynářová, Jan Dušek, Pavel Čech and Dalibor Antalík eds, 239 – 269. Praha: OIKOYMENH. Čech, Pavel. 2018. Mehrsprachigkeit und Mehrschriftlichkeit in Ugarit. In Mehrsprachigkeit. Vom Alten Orient bis zum Esperanto (dubsar 2), Sebastian Fink, Martin Lang and Manfred Schretter eds, 151 – 170. Münster: Zaphon. Day, Peggy L. 2002. Dies diem docet: the Decipherment of Ugaritic. Studi epigrafici e linguistici 19: 37 – 57. Devecchi, Elena. 2013. Suppiluliuma’s Syrian Campaigns in Light of the Documents of Ugarit. In New Results and New Questions on the Reign of Suppiluliuma I (Eothen 19), Stefano de Martino and Jared L. Miller eds, 81 – 97. Firenze: LoGisma. Dietrich, Manfried. 2001. Der Brief des Kommandeurs Šumiyanu an den ugaritischen König Niqmepa’ (RS 20.33). Ein Bericht über Aktivitäten nach der Schlacht bei Qades 1275 v. Chr. Ugarit-Forschungen 33: 117 – 192. Dietrich, Manfried and Loretz, Oswald. 2002. Der Untergang von Ugarit am 21. Januar 1192 v. Chr. ? Der astronomisch-hepatoskopische Bericht KTU 1.78 (= RS 12.061). Ugarit-Forschungen 34: 53 – 74. Fink, Sebastian. 2016. Battle Descriptions in Mesopotamian Sources I: Presargonic and Sargonic Period. In The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece and Rome (CHANE 84), Krzysztof Ulanowski ed., 51 – 64. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Freu, Jacques. 2006. Histoire politique du royaume d’Ugarit (Kubaba 11), Paris: L’Harmattan. Garsiel, Moshe. 1991. Biblical Names: A Literary Study of Midrashic Derivations and Puns. Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University.

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Goren, Yuval, Bunimovitz, Shlomo, Finkelstein, Israel and Na’aman, Nadav. 2003. New Evidence from Petrographic Investigation of Alashian Tablets from El-Amarna and Ugarit. American Journal of Archaeology 107: 233 – 255. Halayqa, Issam K. H. 2010. The Demise of Ugarit in the Light of its Connections with Ḫatti. Ugarit-Forschungen 42: 297 – 332. Izre’el, Shlomo and Singer, Itamar. 1990. The General’s Letter from Ugarit. A Linguistic and Historical Reevaluation of RS 20.33 (Ugaritica V, No. 20). Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, Chaim Rosenberg School of Jewish Studies. Klengel, Horst. 1992. Syria 3000 – 300 B. C. A Handbook of Political History. Berlin: Akademie. Korpel, Marjo. 1998. Exegesis in the Work of Ilimilku of Ugarit. In Intertextuality in Ugarit and Israel. Papers Read at the Tenth Joint Meeting of the Society for Old Testament Study and Het Oudtestamentisch Werkgezelschap in Nederland en Belgie held at Oxford, 1997, Johannes C. de Moor ed., Leiden et al.: Brill. Lackenbacher, Sylvie. 2002. Textes akkadiens d’Ugarit (LAPO 20). Paris: Cerf. Liverani, Mario. 1979. Ras Shamra (Ugarit ou Ougarit). In Dictionnaire de la Bible. Supplément, Jacques Briend ed., 1295 – 1348. Paris: Letouzey et Ané. Loretz, Oswald and Kottsieper, Ingo. 1987. Colometry in Ugaritic and Biblical Poetry. Introduction, Illustrations and Topical Bibliography (UBL 5). Altenberge: CIS-Verlag. Margalit, Baruch. 1989. The Ugaritic Legend of AQHT. (BZAW 182) Berlin and New York: de Gruyter. Nougayrol, Jean. 1963. Guerre et paix et Ugarit. Iraq 25: 110 – 123. Pardee, Dennis. 2003a. Ugaritic Myths. In Context of Scripture, Volume 1. Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World, William W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger eds, 241 – 283. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Pardee, Dennis. 2003b. Ugaritic Letters. In Context of Scripture, Volume 3. Archival Documents from the Biblical World, William W. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger eds, 87 – 116. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Pedersén, Olof. 1998. Archives and Libraries in the Ancient Near East, 1500 – 300 B. C. Bethesda MD: CDL Press. Singer, Itamar. 1999. A Political History of Ugarit. In Handbook of Ugaritic Studies, W. G. E. Watson and Nick Wyatt eds, 604 – 733. Leiden: Brill. Reprinted in 2011. The Calm Before the Storm. Selected Writings of Itamar Singer on the Late Bronze Age in Anatolia and the Levant, 19 – 146. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Singer, Itamar. 2006. Ships Bound for Lukka: A New Interpretation of the Companion Letters RS 94.2530 and RS 94.2523. Altorientalische Forschungen 33: 242 – 262. Reprinted in 2011. The Calm Before the Storm. Selected Writings of Itamar Singer on the Late Bronze Age in Anatolia and the Levant, 173 – 196. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Smith, Mark S. 1994. Ugaritic Baal Cycle, Volume 1. Introduction with Text, Translation and Commentary of KTU 1.1 – 1.2. Leiden et al.: Brill. Tugendhaft, Aaron. 2018. Baal and the Politics of Poetry (The Ancient Word 1). London and New York: Routledge.

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van Soldt, Wilfred Hugo. 1991. Studies in the Akkadian of Ugarit. Dating and Grammar. Neukirchen and Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. van Soldt, Wilfred Hugo. 2000. Private Archives at Ugarit. In Interdependency of Institutions and Private Entrepreneurs (PIHANS 87), A. C. V. M. Bongenaar ed., 229 – 245. Istanbul: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul; Leiden: Nederlands Instituut vor het Nabije Oosten. Vidal, Jordi. 2005. Ugarit at War (1). The Size and Geographical Origin of the ḫrd-militia. Ugarit-Forschungen 37: 653 – 672. Vidal, Jordi. 2006. Ugarit at War (2). Military Equestrianism, Mercenaries, Fortifications and Single Combat. Ugarit-Forschungen 38: 699 – 716. Vidal, Jordi. 2010. Ugarit at War (3). Prisoners of War. Ugarit-Forschungen 42: 719 – 729. Vidal, Jordi. 2011. Ugarit at War (4). Weapons in Sanctuaries. Ugarit-Forschungen 43: 449 – 457. Vidal, Jordi. 2013. Ugarit at War (5). The ḫrd-militia in Aru and Mulukku? (RS 94.5015, KTU3 2.98). Ugarit-Forschungen 44: 355 – 359. Vidal, Jordi. 2014a. Ugarit at War (6). A Military Standard in Ugaritic Iconography (RS 4.129 = AO 15771). Ugarit-Forschungen 45: 297 – 304. Vidal, Jordi. 2014b. Violence against Non-Combatant Population in the Levant in the Late Bronze Age. In The other Face of the Battle. The Impact of War on Civilians in the Ancient Near East, Davide Nadali and Jordi Vidal eds, 65 – 78. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Vidal, Jordi. 2014c. Los perros de la guerra en Ugarit. In Animales y Guerra en el Mundo Antiquo, Oriol Olesti, Jordi Vidal and Borja Antela eds, 1 – 12. Zaragoza: Libros Pórtico. Vidal, Jordi. 2016. Military conscription in Ugarit. Revue internationale d’Histoire Militaire Ancienne 3: 123 – 133. Vita, Juan-Pablo. 2005. El Ejército de Ugarit. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones científicas. Zemánek, Petr. 1996. Language and State in the Ancient Near East — the Case of Ugarit. In L’État, le pouvoir, les prestations et leurs formes en Mésopotamie ancienne, Petr Charvát, Bertrand Lafont, Jana Mynářová and Lukáš Pecha eds, 129 – 136. Praha: Univerzita Karlova v Praze, Filozofická fakulta.

Victor without Victory ? The Lack of Battle Descriptions in the Achaeamenid Empire

Hilmar Klinkott

It is ironic to write an article about battle descriptions in the Achaemenid empire, since one of the distinctive aspects of Achaemenid iconography and inscriptions is the avoidance of battles and sieges. Where Neo-Assyrian or imperial Roman monuments proudly describe their victories, surviving Achaemenid texts and reliefs are much more restrained. Why this should be is a fascinating and difficult question, and this article can only provide a brief introduction. The inscribed monuments of the Achaemenids provide a natural starting point, since they were designed in dialogue with well-established ideas of kingship in Mesopotamia and the Zagros. Bruno Jacobs has emphasized that Achaemenid reliefs never illustrate acts of violence, brutal punishments, or defeats, even when the accompanying inscriptions address these topics.1 This paper will concentrate on battle descriptions as a narrative element of literary legitimization, but it should be emphasized that Achaemenid court art does not show battle scenes or scenes of the king in combat with human opponents. Moreover, amongst the dozens of Achaemenid royal inscriptions the famous Behistun text is the only one to describe specific topics. Battles, campaigns, and any kind of military interaction are absent from the others. This finding stands in a sharp contrast to the ideological motif of depicting the king as ‘a good fighter’ or as victorious.2 The propagandistic motif can be found mainly on seal and coin illustration.3 But when we consider the details, even these illustrations never show the king himself vanquishing an enemy in combat—as is familiar to us from, for example, a representative style of the Egyptian reliefs: The king or pharaoh in action slaying his enemies.4 The Persian coins and seals only show an

1 2 3 4

Jacobs 2009. See Briant 2002. Concerning the motif see Wiesehöfer 1993, p. 59; concerning warrior-illustrations on seals see Kaptan 2002. See for example Schulz 2004.

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_4

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armed king, rarely defeating an enemy person, animal or mythological creature, but always in a highly unspecific manor.5 Within the iconographic tradition of Achaemenid royal ideology, images of the king running with bow and spear symbolize his power and victory, rather than a specific historical event such as the conquest of a land or the defeat of a rival.6 The specific content of this idea is expressively formulated in two inscriptions of Darius I.. The motif of the spear-bearing or spear-throwing king is clearly explained in the Naqsh-I Rustam inscription DNa 30 – 47:7 “Proclaims Darius the king: Auramazdā, when he saw this earth in turmoil, after that he bestowed it upon me; me he made king. By the favour of Auramazdā I put it in its proper place. What I have said to them, that they did, as was my desire. But if you shall think: “How many (are) those countries which Darius the king held ?”, look at the sculptured figures which bear the throne platform. Then you shall perceive, then it shall become known to you: “The spear of the Persian man has gone forth far away”, then it shall become known to you: “The Persian man has repulsed the enemy far away from Persia”.” Here it becomes clear that ‘the spear-won land’ served as a term for the occupation of other countries, becoming a symbol of the Achaemenid expansion in general.8 Without being hypocritical, it is worth mentioning that even this does not make the battle or the victory in particular a subject of decision. On the contrary, the inscription of Darius’ ‘res gestae’ at Behistun pays close attention to this theme: Nearly the whole text describes the various defeats of several revolts, the overpowering of rebel armies, demonstrates the punishment of the rebellious leaders, as well as the victor Darius legalizing himself as ruling king. But at close inspection, we note that the essential act of vanquishing is lacking once again ! The crucial battle fight is never really mentioned, and the description of the fight in particular is missing. The staging of the victor on the battlefield is well known for example in Greek context by erecting the tropaion,9 or in Roman context by acclamation of the imperator. But for the Achaemenid context we do not hear of comparable acts.10 It is significant, that it is only Datames in his rebellion against the Great King, Artaxerxes II., who erected a tropaeum after his victory over Autophradates in Cappadocia, significantly a sign for the defeat of the Great King.11

5 6 7 8 9 10

See Kaptan 2002., For the royal ideology of the victorious king see Briant 2002, pp. 212 – 216. Translation Schmitt 2000, p. 30. Actually to this topic see Degen 2018. See van Wees 2004, pp. 136 – 138 concerning the first mention of the tropaion. So it comes to no surprise that the time and culture of the Achaemenid empire is completely missing in Spalinger and Armstrong 2013. 11 Nep. Datames 8, 3: quam ob causam postero die tropaeum posuit, … I have to thank Denise Brandt for the helpful hint on this notice. For symbolic of tropaia see Pritchett 1974, 246 – 275.

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However, in the Behistun inscription the punishment of the rebels, the re-incorporation of the revolting people into the royal power and thus the legitimization of Darius as Great king are consequences and results of the battle and the victory itself, mostly described in a few, short sentences:12 DB § 17 “Proclaims Darius the king: Afterwards I sent to Elam. That Āçina in fetters was led to me; I slew him.”

One of the most detailed battles in the Behistun inscription is the fight against the first Babylonian revolt:13 DB § 18: “Proclaims Darius the king: Afterwards I went to Babylonia against that Nīdintu-Bēl who called himself Nebuchadnezzzar. The army of Nīdintu-Bēl held (the bank of) the Tigris; there it took its stand, and because of the waters (the river) was passable (only) by boat. Afterwards I embarked (one part of) the army upon rafts of skin, another (part) I made camel-borne, and for another (part) I brought up horses. Auramazdā brought me aid; by the favour of Auramazdā we crossed the Tigris. There I defeated that army of Nīdintu-Bēl utterly; in the month Āçiyādiya twenty-six days had passed, then we fought the battle.” (§ 19) “Proclaims Darius, the king: Afterwards I went to Babylon. (But) then, when I had not yet reached Babylon — (there is) a place, Zāzāna by name, on the Euphrates — there that Nidintu-Bēl who called himself Nebuchadnezzar came with an army against me to fight a battle. Afterwards we fought the battle; Auramazdā brought me aid; by the favour of Auramazdā I defeated the army of Nidintu-Bēl utterly; another (part) was thrown into the water, (and) in the water it carried it away; in the month Anāmaka two days had passed, then we fought the battle. (§ 20) “Proclaims Darius, the king: Afterwards Nidintu-Bēl with a few horsemen fled (and) went to Babylon. After that I went to Babylon. By the favour of Auramazdā I both seized Babylon and captured that Nidintu-Bēl. Afterwards I slew that Nidintu-Bēl in Babylon.”

But even in this case, the description follows very static patterns: In § 18: 1.) Darius describes the departure against the enemy who is clearly identified by name; 2.) The place name where the hostile army has taken position is given;

12 Schmitt 1991, p. 54. 13 Schmitt 1991, pp. 54 – 56 with my highlighting in bold type.

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3.) There follows a detailed description of the crossing of the river Tigris, mainly to document the king’s technical and logistic competence; 4.) The first victory is mentioned; 5.) Exact information on the date of the victory is given.

In § 19: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Darius’ march to Babylon; The place name where the hostile army has taken position is given; There follows the statement that the battle takes place; The second victory is mentioned; Exact information on the date of the second victory is given.

Peculiarly, the battle itself is not described in any detail, neither the military proceedings nor the tactical procedure or the belligerent attainments along with the groundbreaking moment of victory. Instead, the comment on the victory seems to be a matter-of-fact technical statement—to call it a “description” seems almost an exaggeration. We can also find in other cases of the Behistun-inscription how the text reduces the topic of battle-fights to the absolute minimum, for example: “by the favour of Auramazdā my army defeated that rebellious army utterly.” 14 Only in the Babylonian and Aramaic version do we get some more details by extended lists enumerating the killed and imprisoned enemies.15 In similar undetailed fashion Xerxes stated in the XPh (28 – 35):16 “Proclaims Xerxes, the king: When I became king, there is among those countries which (are) inscribed above (one, which) was in turmoil. Afterwords Auramazdā brought me aid; by the favour of Auramazdā I defeated that country and put it in its proper place.” One possible, but not completely convincing reason for this minimalized or reduced rhetoric may be found in the fact, that it is not the king in person who is responsible for the military success, but his commanders, who, under Darius I., were important members of an influential Persian aristocracy.17 Another explanation could be the basic idea of Achaemenid kingship: According to this idea, the king was bestowed upon the earth by the god Ahuramazda.18 Defeating other people would therefore not be understood as overcoming outer or inner enemies and incorporating them into the empire as the king’s possessions. It rather

14 15 16 17 18

See DB § 18, 19, 25, 26, 27, 29, 30 (quotation), 31, 33, 36, 38, 41, 42, 45, 46. See Hyland, pp. 175 – 180, 183 – 185. Schmitt 2000, p. 93. For the aristocratic combattants of Darius see Wiesehöfer 1978, Gschnitzer 1977. See Schmitt 2000, p. 30: DNa § 4, (58: DPd § 1), 68: XPa § 2, 71: XPb § 1 f., 75: XPc § 1 f.78: XPd § 1 f., 83 f.: XPf § 1 f., 92: XPh § 1 f., 116: A3Pa § 1 f.; Ahn 1992, pp. 258 – 271.

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follows the idea of reconstructing a divine order (of the world) under the control of the king thus legitimized.19 In any case, the Great King seems to unify the empire by his overarching success. Thus a concrete battle, and a single victory, were relativized as part of the whole, sacred order. Of course, a successful fight was an important element of the universal victoriousness of the Great king, but it was insignificant or trivial with respect to its technical details, the people involved, and its situational singularity. Perhaps it is because of this overwhelming generality which explains the absence of any enemy and foregoes to illustrate the act of submission. Darius I. rather emphasizes:20 “This country Persia, which Auramazdā bestowed upon me, which (is) good, containing good horses (and) good men, by the favour of Auramazdā and of me, Darius, the king, does not fear anybody else.” Here, too, the fact of comparison is omitted and therefore waives the superlative. The stated fact is formulated as true in general. It is quite remarkable that the only other text which describes the Great King as successful on the battlefield is an inscription of Xerxes I (XPl), identified as a copy version of the earlier inscription of Darius I. (DNb) at Naqsh-I Rustam.21 Xerxes in quotation of Darius announces (XPl 31 – 50):22 “Of such a kind (are) my intelligence and (my) command; when you shall see or hear what has been done by me, both at court and in battle, that (is) my ability in addition to thinking and intelligence. Moreover this (is) my ability, that my body is strong (and that) as a battle-fighter I am a good battle-fighter. At once intelligence stands in its (proper) place, whether I see a rebel (before me) or not. Both by intelligence and by command at that time I regard myself as superior to panic, when I see a rebel (before me) just as when I do not see (one). I am fervent in counter-attack with both hands as well as with both feet; as a horseman I am a good horseman; as a bowman I am a good bowman, both on foot and on horseback; as a spearman I am a good spearman, both on foot and on horseback.”

But this text also ignores battle descriptions, but remains focused on a general picture of the Great King’s triumphant nature. Nevertheless, it is worth emphasizing, that the text implicitly refers to the Great King on the battlefield participating personally in the campaign. Xerxes’ copy of this inscription is the final reflex on this topic, stylistically related to Darius, written at a time when Achaemenid rule was consolidated even inside the empire. From Xerxes onwards, the privilege of the Achaemenid dynasty to rule 19 20 21 22

See Ahn 1992, pp. 255 – 258. Schmitt, 2000, p. 58. See Schmitt 2000, p. 99. Translation of Schmitt 2000, p. 104.

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the empire was in principle never questioned until the reign of Alexander the Great. In the same way, and as marked turning point, the expansion as aggressive enlargement of the empire’s territory stopped with Xerxes’s policy.23 In the royal representative inscriptions the idea of permanent augmentation was then reduced to a literary narrative of the so-called people’s list, differentiated more and more by its members. Thus we can state: After Darius and Xerxes battle and fight descriptions are completely absent from Persian history for more than 150 years, from Artaxerxes I. until Darius III., 465 through to 331 B. C. In consequence, descriptions of fighting, victory and conquest only played a part in a phase in which the dynamic expansion of the Achaemenid empire took place. But even in this time we do not really find them in Achaemenid texts. They are present in texts which draw on a Babylonian tradition, as in the Behistun inscription, especially in its Neo-Babylonian version, the Babylonian praise for Cyrus,24 or partially in the prominent Cyrus cylinder (§ 16.24):25 “His massive troops, whose number was immeasurable like the water of the river, marched with their arms at their side. Without battle and fighting he let him enter his city Babylon. (…) My numerous troops marched peacefully through Babylon. I did not allow any troublemaker to arise in the whole land of Sumer and Akkad.”

And even in the last one the punch line of the story is the capture of Babylon “without battle and fighting”.26 As regards the question, whether battle descriptions existed in the Achaemenid empire, we have to answer on the one hand: no, they did not exist as part of the old-Persian narrative in royal representation texts. On the other had we have to admit: yes, they did exist in Babylonia or Babylonizing versions, and of course in the Greek tradition. However, the extensive battle descriptions of Marathon, Thermopylae, Athens, Salamis, Plataeae or Mycale—Reinhold Bichler discusses these in detail27—are part of the Greek historiographical tradition. According to these actual findings the conclusion seems to be obvious, that battle descriptions in the Achaemenid empire were less of a top-down-phenomenon, rather than a bottom-up narrative. With other words: The Achaemenid kings never used the narrative of battle descriptions to illustrate their victories in official, representative inscriptions. On the other hand, in some parts of the empire and its neighbouring regions there existed local traditions of these descriptions. But what is the reason why

23 24 25 26 27

Briant 2002, p. 526, Waters 2013, p. 157. See Kuhrt 2007, no. 23, especially p. 76 f., col. II, l. 19 – col. III, l. 11. Kuhrt 2007, no 21, p. 71. See Kuhrt 2007, p. 71, no. 21, l. 17. See the paper of Reinhold Bichler in this volume.

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the Achaemenid kings never used any detailed illustrations of conquest and the moment of victory for their official self-representation ? Evidently, the only Achaemenid inscriptions dealing to a greater or lesser degree with this topic are referring only to inner struggles.28 Of course, the Cyrus cylinder is an exception because it is describing the fall and conquest of Nabonid’s late-Babylonian empire. On the other hand, this very text is not characteristic for old-Persian representation inscriptions, but it is in style, language and form typically Babylonian.29 Therefore it has to be seen and understood rather as part of a local tradition, although it was certainly written at the king’s command.30 Regarding the conquest of Egypt by Cambyses, the defeat of India, Scythia and Macedonia by Darius as well as Xerxes’s campaign against Greece comparable texts are unfortunately lacking, and this is the reason why Pierre Briant doubts every historical dimension of the Achaemenid royal inscriptions.31 However, this can not be an accident, but has to be seen as a characteristic element either of Persian policy in general or of royal behaviour towards subordinate peoples. If this observation is correct, the policy marks a clear break with the older Babylonian and Assyrian tradition as well as with Greek literature, such as Aeschylus’ poetry, as well as historiography and representative inscriptions. Last but not least this is demonstrated by the fantastic heroic epos of Carian origin, recently discovered by Christian Marek at Uzunyuva/Milas, and dated to, probably, late classical or early Hellenistic times.32 Furthermore, this principle of official royal representation seems to be fundamental because it is not only restricted to old-Persian inscriptions. Even in local contexts we can observe the same hiatus/break in the official royal representation: Although the Persian kings were denominated in Egypt as “Pharaoh”, there is no illustration showing them in the traditional representative act of ‘slaying the enemies’ or on a chariot in the battle-fight.33 In the same way, in Achaemenid period there does not exist either an illustration or a text in Babylonia describing the king in the old traditional manner of defeating his enemies in battle action—neither in the Babylonian versions of the royal (trilingual) inscriptions nor in any other Neo-Babylonian text. During the time of Achaemenid rule, the only known battle-descriptions in text and picture are of Greek origin or, as seal impressions, are found on a level not belonging to of-

28 For the complete lacking of military events outside the Persian empire in old-Persian royal inscriptions see Briant 2002, pp. 541 – 542, compare also Jacobs 2009, pp. 121 – 153. 29 See Kuhrt 2007, p. 72; Kuhrt 1990, p. 180; Briant 2002, pp. 43 – 44. 30 For the Cyrus cylinder as reflection of royal propaganda with self-representation of the king see Briant 2002, pp. 43 – 44. Compare less carefully concerning the authorship Waters 2014, p. 45: “Cyrus’ own version of the Babylonian conquest”. 31 Briant 1993; Briant 2002, pp. 175 – 177, 541 – 542. 32 See in detail Marek and Zingg forthcoming. 33 For an overview see Wasmuth 2017. The only exception is the royal seal of Darius I (BM 89132), probably from Thebes, which is designed completely un-Egyptian, but in a Babylonian style: see Wasmuth 2017, p. 215 – 216. Concerning to Persian sources in Egypt Vittmann 2011; Vittmann 2009.

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ficial royal representation. For these reasons the famous Mosaic of Naples showing Darius III at close quarters with Alexander at Issus is untypical for Achaemenid representation and art in every aspect of visual conceptualization.34 The reason for such a principle decision in royal Achaemenid policy is hard to explain. The fact that the Great king himself did not participate in the fighting action—as is the case with Xerxes on his campaign in Greece—can not be a sufficient explanation. Nevertheless, the description of a successful battle, its tactical maneuvers as well as the victorious defeat of the enemy still might be elements of official representation. Perhaps some understanding can be gained by looking at the effects of such a policy: It is certainly evident—and even visible in the history of the Babylonian and Assyrian empires—that the official demonstration of defeat and victory as permanent elements of royal authority and legitimization always enforced tendencies of inner particularism. Extensive battle descriptions, illustrating the killing of enemies, the deportation of inhabitants and the plundering of cities in royal self-representation is not only perpetuating the superiority of the king, but also a permanent reminder of the inferiority of subordinate peoples. This specific motif of the battle description may then be a political instrument for creating identity and alterity. The political, cultural and legal otherness of each single people and each former state, now incorporated into the empire, always reactivated the awareness of subordination to the ruling power. Obviously this follows a completely different ideological concept than the one followed by the Achaemenid empire. Gregor Ahn pointed out, that the aspiration to world supremacy also implicates the idea of a multiethnic empire which is characterized in its political unity by the diversity of its cultural multiplicity.35 Thus the renouncement of battle—and victory-descriptions in Achaemenid official royal representation are perhaps motivated rather by the idea of political conciliation than cultural imperialism. Perhaps this is the reason why the above-mentioned Xerxes-inscription from Persepolis not only passes over the final act of defeating the rebellious people but also firmly avoids to mention it by name, when it says (XPh 28 – 35):36 “When I became king, there is among those countries which (are) inscribed above (one, which) was in turmoil. Afterwards Auramazdā brought me aid; by the favour of Auramazdā I defeated that country and put it in its proper place.” Apart from that, vengeance for a defeat suffered never played a role in the Persian empire, not even for rebellions. Even in the royal versions, the military counterstrike was an act of punishment with the goal of putting the country “in its place” and of guaranteeing the divine order of the world.37 Therefore, the motif of destruction as vengeance for former assaults is definitely not an element of the official Achaemenid ideology. It is rather 34 35 36 37

For the mosaic see Briant 2002, pp. 228 – 230. Ahn 1992, pp. 255 – 271. Schmitt 2000, p. 93. See Ahn 1992, pp. 89 – 90, 267; Schmitt 1977.

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a stylistic element of Herodotus’ so-called literary “Motivketten”, as Reinhold Bichler clearly pointed out. And for the same reason the Alexander mosaic and the battle scenes on the so-called Alexander sarcophagus of Sidon are typically non-Persian. This ideological concept of a diversity of peoples, remaining visible in their specific distinction, but together forming the empire in its entirety is also seen in the Persian iconographic program. Representative examples are the Apadana reliefs of Persepolis with the delegations of peoples, as well as the so-called throne-bearer reliefs at the graves of Naqsh-i Rustam, or, last but not least, the lists of peoples at the beginning of many Achaemenid inscriptions.38 Therefore the reliefs and inscriptions do not focus on the defeat and the victory itself, but take them for granted to show the Great king acting in his legacy and authority. Therefore, the main aspect of the inscriptions emphasizes the fact that the king is ruling because of the will of Auramazdā. The ideological concept of the Achaemenid kings explicitly turns against battle descriptions and emphasizes the respect for the single entities, which together form the imperial unit, as Darius clearly states in the so-called fortification-inscription from Susa (DSe, § 4):39 “Much had been done wrong, that I put right; the lands were in turmoil, one smiting the other. That which I have done all that I did by the favour of Auramazdā — that the one no longer smites the other, each one is in his place. My law — that they fear, so that the stronger does not smite nor harm the weak.” Instead, the motif of the king who is victorious in battle is presented by reliefs and seals in an abstract manner: the king fighting mythical creatures. The Achaemenid seals, and the Dascyleion bullae in particular contain, for example, the following motifs:40 • The king fighting a standing creature with his dagger: DS 3 (= seal of Xerxes; Kaptan 2002, pp. 5 – 50, 157 – 164: figs 9 – 46); DS 16 – 18 (Kaptan 2002, pp. 64 – 66, 177 – 178.: figs 91 – 97), DS 24 – 25 (Kaptan 2002, p. 69 – 70, 181 – 182: figs 108 – 111). • The king tackling the head of two creatures:41 DS 10 – 13.2 (Kaptan 2002, pp. 59 – 62, 171 – 174: figs 71 – 82); DS 15 (Kaptan, 2002, pp. 62 – 64, 176: figs 85 – 90); DS 26 – 41 (Kaptan 2002, pp. 70 – 76, 182: figs 112 – 188: fig. 143); DS 135 (Kaptan 2002, pp. 133, 227: figs 368 – 369). • The king fighting with a bow against two creatures: DS 14 (Kaptan 2002, pp. 62, 175: figs 83 – 85). Nevertheless it is important to state: The lack of official representation texts or inscriptions featuring battle fights does not amount to a general principle of omiting such scenes in the Achaemenid empire, or in Persian literature. The reliefs at the royal 38 39 40 41

See the same idea in architectural representation: Klinkott 2002. Translation of Kuhrt 2007, p. 491. For seal impressions see Wu 2014; concerning the Daskyleion seals see Kaptan 2002. See to this creatures in detail: Garrison and Root 2001.

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palaces and tombs as well as the royal representative inscriptions are certainly only one, very specific aspect of the discourse. In this context one should consider the fact that hunting, gardening or fighting scenes are also missing, even though the ‘good hunter’, the ‘good gardener’ or the ‘good fighter’ were central ideas of royal ideology.42 Even local Persian traditions could cultivate the battle motif as did Greek literature did in the Greek context or as Mausolos, the satrap and dynast of Caria, did via the Persomachia reliefs at the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus.43 Unfortunately too many genera of texts were lost because of the ephemeral nature of their media. But at least the seal impressions showing Persians generally or the king in particular fighting the enemy are illustrative examples for such battle situations. The Daskyleion Bullae provide a rich picture of fighting scenes, altogether illustrating the Persian view on battles. The seal impressions show (without the hunting scenes): • • • • • • • •

Riding Persians in the fight: DS 85 (Kaptan 2002, pp. 105 – 106, 207: figs 257 – 260); DS 91 (Kaptan 2002, pp. 111, 209: figs 272 – 273). Persians shooting with the bow: DS 22 (Kaptan 2002, pp. 68, 180: figs 104 – 105). Persians shooting with the bow on horse-back: DS 71 (Kaptan 2002, pp. 97, 200: figs 221 – 222), DS 72 – 80 (Kaptan 2002, pp. 97 – 103, 201: figs 223 – 204, 244). Persians shooting with bows, and camels: DS 69 (Kaptan 2002, pp. 96, 200: figs 217 – 218); DS 70 (Kaptan 2002, pp. 97, 200: figs 219 – 220). Fighting from the chariot: DS 85 (Kaptan 2002, 105 – 106, 206: figs 253 – 256) The king in combat, shooting a bow: DS 63.1+2 (Kaptan 2002, pp. 87, 197: figs 192 – 194).44 Compare therefore also a seal from the Oxus treasury showing a robed Persian spearman fighting against enemies with a dagger and a bow. An Egyptianizing seal, maybe of Artaxerxes (?), also shows Persian men (the king ?) defeating two enemies.45

Or with other words: they are examples for the visualization of literary fight descriptions. Nevertheless, Xi Wu states concerning the illustrations on Achaemenid seals:46 “One can categorize the warfare scenes into two different representational modes (…): an iconic one that shows the aftermath of a battle and a narrative one that represents

42 Therefor see Wu 2014, pp. 262 – 267; Briant 2002, p. 209. For the Great King as ‘good gardener’ see Briant 2002, pp. 232 – 234; Briant 2017. See also to the king as ‘royal hero’ on the seals of the Persepolis Fortification archive: Garrison and Root 2001. 43 See Hülden 2001, pp. 89, 93 – 92. For other examples (i. e. the Tartalı sarcophagus etc.) see Wu 2014, pp. 216 – 217. 44 Allen 2005, p. 45: picture 2.9 (BM London, ANE 124015). 45 Allen 2005, p. xxx picture 2.10: from the Yale Babylonian Collection (Newell Collection, OIP 22, no. 453). 46 Wu 2014, p. 220.

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ongoing actions.” Thereby Xi Wu makes clear that also on seals the battle itself usually is not illustrated. Furthermore, it is important to distinguish accurately between particular fighting scenes and the illustration of a battle. The Attic ceramics from Daskyleion illustrate that even fighting scenes between Greeks and Persians were popular motifs on luxury table ware—even in households of the Persian empire.47 Last but not least, these findings demonstrate that the Persians were interested in battle descriptions. However, they treated them in their own way in an un-official and non-royal context. Nevertheless, it remains questionable if it is allowed to conclude from these single fighting scenes that a broader and complex narrative on battle descriptions existed in a literary sense. It was argued on the basis of the detailed enemy lists, as known from the Babylonian and Aramaic Bisitun versions, that military descriptions of battles might have existed. Therefore, John O. Hyland recently supposed, that “generals and allies may have submitted written records of their victories”.48 Perhaps, these reports could be seen as a non-royal template which may explain the local and personalized, literary and iconographic spotlights on the battle topic in the Achaemenid empire.

Bibliography Ahn, G. 1992. Religiöse Herrscherlegitimation im achämenidischen Iran (Acta Iranica 31). Leiden: Peeters. Allen, L. 2005. The Persian Empire. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Briant, P. 1993. L’histoire politique de l’Empire achéménide: problèmes et méthods. Revue des Études Anciennes 95/3 – 4: 399 – 423. Briant, P. 2002. From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire, Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Briant, P. 2017. On the King as Gardener: observations on the history of a set of documents. In Kings, Countries, Peoples. Selected Studies on the Achaemenid Empire (Oriens et Occidens 26), P. Briant ed., 271 – 285. Stuttgart: Steiner. Degen, J. 2018. Alexander III., Dareios I. und das speererworbene Land (Diod. 17, 17, 2). JANEH 5: 1 – 43. Garrison, M. B. and Root, M. C. 2001. Seals on the Persepolis Fortification Tablets, Volume I: Images of Heroic Encounter (OIP 117), Chicago: The Oriental Institute. Gschnitzer, F. 1977. Die sieben Perser und das Königtum des Dareios. Heidelberg: Winter. Hülden, O. 2001. Überlegungen zur Bedeutung der Amazonomachie am Maussolleion von Halikarnassus. In Anatolien im Lichte kultureller Wechselwirkungen, H. Klinkott ed., 83 – 105. Tübingen: Attempto.

47 See Tuna-Nörling 1999. Compare also Muth 2008. 48 Hyland 2014, p. 181 (compare also ibid., p. 180).

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Hyland, J. O. 2014. The Casuality Figures in Darius’ Bisitun Inscription, JANEH 1: 173 – 200. Jacobs, B. 2009. Grausame Hinrichtungen — friedliche Bilder. Zum Verhältnis der politischen Realität zu den Darstellungsszenarien der achämenidischen Kunst. In Extreme Formen von Gewalt in Bild und Text des Altertums, M. Zimmermann ed., 121 – 153. München: Utz. Kaptan, D. 2002. The Daskyleion Bullae. Seal Images from the Western Achaemenid Empire I (Achaemenid History XII). Leiden: The Netherlands Institue for the Near East. Klinkott, H. 2002. Die Funktion des Apadana am Beispiel der Gründungsurkunde von Susa. In Grenzüberschreitungen. Formen des Kontakts zwischen Orient und Okzident im Altertum (Oriens et Occidens 3), M. Schuol et al. eds, 235 – 257. Stuttgart: Steiner. Kuhrt, A. 1990. Achaemenid Babylonia. Sources and Problems. In Centre and Periphery (Achaemenid History IV), H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg and A. Kuhrt eds, 180. Leiden: The Netherlands Institue for the Near East. Kuhrt, A. 2007. The Persian Empire. London: Routledge. Marek, C. and Zingg, E. forthcoming. Die Inschriften von Uzunyuva (Milas) (Asia Minor Studien), Bonn: Dr. Rudolf Habelt. Muth, S. 2008. Gewalt im Bild. Das Phänomen der medialen Gewalt im Athen des 6. und 5. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. Berlin: De Gruyter. Pritchett, W. K. 1974. The Greek State at War. Part II. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Schmitt, R. 1977. Königtum im Alten Iran. Saeculum 28: 384 – 395. Schmitt, R. 1991. The Bisitun Inscription of Darius the Great. Old-Persian Text (CII 1,1,1). London: School of Oriental and African Studies. Schmitt, R. 2000. The Old Persian Inscriptions of Naqsh-I Rustam and Persepolis (CII vol. I. Texts II). London: School of Oriental and African Studies. Schulz, R. 2004. Das Abbild vom Kampf und Sieg. In Pharao siegt immer – Krieg und Frieden im Alten Ägypten, S. Petschel and M. v. Falck eds, 68 – 71. Hamburg: Kettler. Spalinger, A. and Armstrong, J. 2013. Rituals of Triumph in the Mediterranean World. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Tuna-Nörling, Y. 1999. Daskyleion I: Die attische Keramik, Izmir: Ege Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi Yayinlari. Vittmann, G. 2009. Rupture and Continuity. On Priests and Officials in Egypt during the Persian Period. In Organisation des pouvoirs et contacts culturels dans les pays de l’empire achéménide, P. Briant and M. Chauveau eds, 89 – 121. Paris: De Boccard. Vittmann, G. 2011. Ägypten unter persischer Herrschaft, In Herodot und das Persische Weltreich. Akten des 3. Internationalen Kolloquiums zum Thema “Vorderasien im Spannungsfeld klassischer und altorientalischer Überlieferungen” Innsbruck, 24. – 28. November 2008 (CleO 3), R. Rollinger et al. eds, 373 – 429. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Wasmuth, M. 2017. Ägypto-persische Herrscher- und Herrschaftsrepräsentation in der Achämenidenzeit (Oriens et Occidens 27), Stuttgart: Steiner.

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Waters, M. 2014. Ancient Persia. A Concise History of the Achaemenid Empire 550 – 330 BCE. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. van Wees, H. 2004. Greek Warfare. Myths and Realities, London: Bloomsbury. Wiesehöfer, J. 1978. Die Aufstände Gaumātas und die Anfänge Dareios’ I. Bonn: Habelt. Wiesehöfer, J. 1993. Das antike Persien. Zürich: Artemis & Winkler. Wu, X. 2014. ‘O young man … make known of what kind you are’. Warfare, History, and Elite Ideology of the Achaemenid Persian Empire. Iranica Antiqua 49: 209 – 299.

Battle Descriptions in the Hebrew Bible: An Overview with Special Attention to the Book of Joshua Wolfgang Oswald

1

Introduction

The Hebrew Bible is a collection of books, which are themselves compositions made up of shorter works and Fortschreibungen. With the exception of the book of Ruth and the Song of Songs each biblical book contains references of some kind to war, or battle, or fighting. And as diverse as the biblical literature is, so diverse are these references. They differ in style (i. e. prose, poetry, law), in length, in richness of detail, and their assessment varies from utter damnation to unreserved affirmation.1 The Hebrew root lḥm means “to fight” or “to wage war” as a verb and “war” or “battle” (milḥāmâ) as a noun. Derivates of this root appear about 450 times in the Hebrew Bible,2 and these are only the most significant lexemes. As for the distribution, the Bible begins very peaceful, since in the book of Genesis there are only few references to war. On the other hand, the books from Joshua to Kings (the so-called historical books in Christian tradition) show the highest frequency of references to wars and battles. The vast majority of these references are very succinct, they merely mention a battle summarily. Extended battle descriptions are almost non-existent. Several texts give an account on the preparations for war or on the casus belli, and several other texts describe the aftermath of a war, in particular if there was a change of rulership or a shift of borders. But almost never do biblical texts provide a detailed description of the military events. It makes no sense to browse through this mass of texts which do not contribute much to our subject. Rather, I commence by introducing a small number of interesting examples before I proceed to the book of Joshua.

1 2

For an overview and theological assessment of biblical texts on war and peace, see Oeming 2017. This information and more statistical data is given in Obermayer 2011, sect. 2.

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_5

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2

Some Exemplary Texts on Battles and Sieges

2.1

Two Wars, One without and One with Divine Intervention

We begin with two accounts that shed some light on the question of divine intervention. The first example is 2Kgs 14:8 – 14, the war between king Jehoash of Israel, i. e. the northern kingdom with the capital Samaria, and Amaziah, king of Judah, the southern kingdom with the capital Jerusalem. The war must have taken place around 790 BCE.3 2Kgs 14:8 Then Amaziah sent messengers to King Jehoash son of Jehoahaz, son of Jehu, of Israel, saying, “Come, let us look one another in the face.” 9 King Jehoash of Israel sent word to King Amaziah of Judah, “A thornbush on Lebanon sent to a cedar on Lebanon, saying, ‘Give your daughter to my son for a wife’; but a wild animal of Lebanon passed by and trampled down the thornbush. 10 You have indeed defeated Edom, and your heart has lifted you up. Be content with your glory, and stay at home. For why should you provoke trouble so that you fall, you and Judah with you ?” 11aα But Amaziah would not listen. 14:11aβγb So King Jehoash of Israel went up. He and King Amaziah of Judah faced one another in battle at Beth-Shemesh, which belongs to Judah. 12 Judah was defeated by Israel; everyone fled home. 14:13 King Jehoash of Israel captured King Amaziah of Judah son of Jehoash, son of Ahaziah, at Beth-Shemesh. He came to Jerusalem, and broke down the wall of Jerusalem from the Ephraim Gate to the Corner Gate, a distance of four hundred cubits. 14 He seized all the gold and silver, and all the vessels that were found in the house of Yahweh and in the treasuries of the king’s house, as well as hostages. Then he returned to Samaria.4

First we learn about the haughtiness of king Amaziah, finally we are informed about the slighting of the walls of Jerusalem and the prey that king Jehoash took away. In between there is only a very short reference to the battle as such, no details are given. In terms of brevity, this story is typical for biblical references to battles. But at the same time it is also nontypical since Yahweh, the God of Israel, does not intervene in the events. But even if we look at texts in which Yahweh acts for the benefit of his people, the picture does not change. 1Sam 7 may serve as an example for this type of text. 1Sam 7:7 When the Philistines heard that the people of Israel had gathered at Mizpah, the lords of the Philistines went up against Israel. And when the people of Israel heard of it 3 4

See Frevel 2015, p. 226. The translations of biblical texts are based on the New Revised Standard Version with occasional slight alterations by the author.

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they were afraid of the Philistines. 8 The people of Israel said to Samuel, “Do not cease to cry out to Yahweh our God for us, and pray that he may save us from the hand of the Philistines.” 9 So Samuel took a sucking lamb and offered it as a whole burnt offering to Yahweh. Samuel cried out to Yahweh for Israel, and Yahweh answered him. 7:10 As Samuel was offering up the burnt offering, the Philistines drew near to attack Israel. But Yahweh thundered with a mighty voice that day against the Philistines and threw them into confusion. And they were routed before Israel. 11 And the men of Israel went out of Mizpah and pursued the Philistines, and struck them down as far as beyond BethCar. 7:12 Then Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Jeshanah, and named it Ebenezer; for he said, “Thus far Yahweh has helped us.” 13 So the Philistines were subdued and did not again enter the territory of Israel. The hand of Yahweh was against the Philistines all the days of Samuel. 14 The towns that the Philistines had taken from Israel were restored to Israel, from Ekron to Gath. And Israel recovered their territory from the hand of the Philistines. There was peace also between Israel and the Amorites.

In the first part of the chapter we learn about the causes for the war, then the story focuses on the actions of Samuel and on the intervention of Yahweh on the side of Israel. It was Yahweh, the God of Israel, who “threw the Philistines into confusion” (v. 10). What do we learn about the battle ? According to the text the Philistines (1) drew near, (2) came in confusion, (3) were defeated, (4) fled, (5) were pursued by the Israelites, and (6) beaten again. What picture of the battle do we get from this account ? All we can say is that the text imagines an open field battle. We do not even know if there were horses or chariots on the scene, which weapons were used, and so on. The non-mention of horses and chariots may at best allow the conclusion that the author of the text assumed that no horses or chariots were on the scene. The two literary examples differ not only in theological respect. They also differ with respect to source dependence and historicity. The story of king Jehoash and king Amaziah in 2Kgs 14:8 – 14 has an appendix: 2Kgs 14:15 Now the rest of the acts that Jehoash did, his might, and how he fought with King Amaziah of Judah, are they not written in the Book of the Annals of the Kings of Israel ?

The author of the book of Kings mentions the royal annals. This is a standard formula which appears at the end of each section dedicated to one of the kings of Israel and of Judah. Here, the text refers to the royal annals of the northern kingdom of Israel. But it is unlikely that the story as narrated above, including the dialogue between the two kings and the fable, was part of the royal annals. It is more likely that the royal scribes

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in Samaria did not only maintain the annals but also a collection of more elaborated stories about the royal rulers (the story of the Jehu revolution 1Kgs 8:28 – 10:14* may have also been part of that collection). The author of the book of Kings seems to have had access to both sources, the stories and the annals.5 On the other hand, there was no source whatsoever available for the battle of Samuel in 1Sam 7, and that for two reasons. (1) The story is set in pre-monarchial times when royal annals — and even less sophisticated literature — did not yet exist. (2) The subject of the Yahweh-war narratives is by definition non-historical. But despite this difference both texts have something important in common: They are no battle descriptions. The text from the book of Kings was written to explain the political relations between the kingdoms of Israel and of Judah. The second text was written to demonstrate the power of Yahweh and that there is consequently no need for a king in Israel. In the Pentateuch, in the book of Joshua, in the book of Judges, and in the books of Samuel the so-called Yahweh wars predominate by far.6 Their commonality is the specific theological purpose but they do not belong to a certain literary genre. The situation is similar for texts that cover historical battles. These accounts focus on the legitimacy of the dynasties and on the relation between the northern kingdom of Israel and the southern kingdom of Judah. If these authors would have wished to include detailed battle descriptions, they could have used the royal records or, in case of recent events, could have resorted to eyewitnesses. The lack of detail in biblical battle texts from monarchic times is not a question of availability of historical information.

2.2

Poetic and Prose Texts Referring to the Same Battle

As for genre, in the Hebrew Bible there are poetic texts mentioning or — to a certain extent—describing a battle: songs of victory, for example. And there are narratives in prose mentioning or — again: to a certain extent — describing battles. In a few cases we have both types for the same event. One case is the so-called sea miracle on the course of Israel’s exodus out of Egypt. Exod 14 narrates the events in prose: Yahweh, the God of Israel fights against the Pharaoh and his army and defeats them by drowning them under walls of water. Exod 15:1 – 18 is a hymn on Yahweh, the divine warrior, and this poem makes a number of allusions to the preceding narrative. But again, this is no battle description, since the Egyptians have no human opponent but the God of Israel, Yahweh. No fighting takes place, no weapons are employed. Another case is the battle of Deborah. Judg 4 narrates the events in prose while Judg 5 provides the poetic version of it. Both texts are relatively long and cover a wide array of aspects. In the narrative Judg 4, two out of twenty-four verses contain refer5 6

See Würthwein 1984, p. 371. See Obermeyer 2011, sect. 5.2.1.

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ences to military actions, in the poem Judg 5 four out of thirty verses deal with warfare. In Judg 4, the prose version, we read: Judg 4:13 Sisera called out all his chariots, nine hundred chariots of iron, and all the people/soldiers who were with him, from Harosheth-ha-Goiim to the Wadi Kishon. 14 Then Deborah said to Barak: “Up ! For this is the day on which Yahweh has given Sisera into your hand. Yahweh is indeed going out before you.” So Barak went down from Mount Tabor with ten thousand men following him. 15 And Yahweh threw Sisera and all his chariots and all his (military) camp into a panic with the edge of the sword before Barak. Sisera got down from his chariot and fled away on foot, 16 while Barak pursued the chariots and the army to Harosheth-ha-Goiim. All the (military) camp of Sisera fell by the sword. No one was left.

In Judg 5, the poetic version, we read: Judg 5:19 The kings came, they fought; / then fought the kings of Canaan, | at Taanach, by the waters of Megiddo; / they got no spoils of silver. | 20 The stars fought from heaven, / from their courses they fought against Sisera. | 21 The torrent Kishon swept them away, / the onrushing torrent, the torrent Kishon. / March on, my soul, with might ! | 22 Then loud beat the horses’ hoofs with the galloping, / galloping of his steeds.

The prose version displays a certain interest in weaponry. Sisera, the Canaanite general, has nine hundred chariots of iron and infantry, whereas the Israelites only have infantry. The figures have a symbolic meaning, as they do often in biblical texts.7 Because of the technical superiority of the enemy the intervention of Yahweh is required. Due to the chaos caused by Yahweh the Israelites are able to defeat the mighty adversary only by means of their swords. Remarkable is the designation “chariots of iron” (rekeb barzel), because iron-reinforced chariots were developed by the Assyrians not before 700 BCE.8 This is one of the many anachronisms that occur all over the Hebrew Bible. The time when the narrative texts of the Hebrew Bible were put into writing is typically much later than the time of the narrated story, sometimes several 7

8

The figure 10,000 (4:14) is an ancient Hebrew topos and occurs frequently in order to designate big masses of people, i. e. armies, prisoners of war etc. See Groß 2009, p. 270. Similarly, the round figure of 900 (4:13) is not the result of a calculation or estimation, rather it expresses superiority. Other examples of symbolic use of high figures for chariotry are Exod 14:7; 1Sam 13:5; 2Sam 8:4, 10:18; 1Kgs 10:26. Groß 2009, pp. 265 – 266. Until the 8th century the military use of horses was restricted to chariotpulling. At the end of the 8th century the Assyrians began to use horse riders who were able to use javelins and — several decades later — to use bow and arrow, riding free-handedly. It is disputed whether they hired Scythians or learned it from them; probably both. The people of the Levant and the Egyptians never adopted this type of warfare. As for the Israelites, only messengers are depicted as riding on horseback, whereas Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians, and Scythians are said to having used cavalry in battles. See Staubli 2010, sect. 3.2.; Kunz-Lübcke 2011, sect. 8.3.

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centuries.9 But besides the mentioning of the chariots the course of the battle remains unclear. As Walter Groß puts it: “Die Darstellung der Schlacht entbehrt jeglicher Anschaulichkeit [lacks any vividness whatsoever]; nicht der geringste Erzählzug macht augenfällig, wie die Fußsoldaten Baraks die 900 eisernen Wagen Siseras besiegen konnten. Freilich ist das nur konsequent, denn nicht Baraks Aufgebot, sondern JHWH hat sie besiegt.”10

The same can be said about the poetic version. The text merely says that the opponents fought and that horses were involved. V. 22 mentions only the horses of the Canaanites, the chariots occur later in v. 28. But how were the horses used ? Only as chariot horses or also as riding horses ? For historical reasons (see above), only the first alternative is probable. Anyway, the decisive action comes from heaven, although — and in contrast to the narrative — not from Yahweh, the God of Israel, but from the stars. Finally, the fighters were swept away by the floods of the river Kishon. Again, the text lacks any vividness, and again, this is due to the non-human powers that induces the victory, this time the stars and the river.

2.3

A Battle Between Two Foreign Armies

The poem Jer 46:3 – 12 consists of two strophes, the first of which (42:3 – 6) is of particular interest because of its relatively detailed description of soldiers and their equipment. The superscription in v. 2 connects the poem with the battle at Carchemish between Pharaoh Neco II and king Nebuchadrezzar of Babylon in the year 605 BCE. This battle is not of interest because of its particular course of events but because of the impact it had on Judah. The victory of Nebuchadrezzar marked the beginning of the decade long vassality of Judah under the suzerainty of Babylon. Thus, the importance of the battle lies in its consequences for the people of Judah. And this particular concern determines the literary shape of the poem. Jer 46:3 Prepare buckler and shield, / and advance for battle ! | 4 Harness the horses, / mount the steeds/chariots ! | Take your positions with helmets on ! / Whet the spears, / put on the armours ! | 5 Why do I see them terrified, / retreating backwards ? | Their warriors are beaten down, / and have fled in haste. | And they did not turn around, / terror is 9

Dating of biblical texts is generally much disputed and far away from any consensus. Since the story of Deborah is positioned before the story of Saul and David, the events seem to have taken place in the late second millennium. However, historical reconstructions favour the early first millennium as the time when the events that probably make up the historical kernel of the narratives took place. The oldest version of the song of Deborah might be from around 900 BCE (Groß 2009, p. 83), the battle section of the prose narrative from the late 7th or 6th century BCE (Groß 2009, p. 85). 10 Groß 2009, p. 274.

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all around. | Statement of Yahweh: “6 The swift shall not flee / and the strong shall not escape.”11 | In the north by the river Euphrates / they have stumbled and fallen.

The poem itself does not mention any names of persons or nations or dates. Only the river Euphrates is mentioned in the concluding v. 6. Moreover, the poem does not pay attention to the battle proper. The initial part (v. 3 – 4) thematizes the preparations for battle, but then the poem skips to the flight of the defeated (v. 5 – 6), omitting the battle as such. Again, there is no battle description in the proper sense, but some information may be gained. The warriors in the poem use small shields or bucklers (māgēn), a shield that is carried in one hand while the other hand holds the lancet. And they use large protection shields (ṣinnâ), which are carried by a shield-holder to protect an archer while shooting. Further, they use horses; the command ʿălû ha-pārāšîm (4aα) is difficult to translate because the ancient Israelite and Judahite writers did not distinguish between “mounting a horse” and “mounting a chariot pulled by horses”.12 The Babylonians are said to have mastered both combat styles, the Egyptians only the first. Based on the superscription the text refers to an Egyptian army and therefore it seems probable that chariot horses are imagined. Then, the poems turns back to the infantry: They wear helmets (kôbaʿ) and armour (siryôn) and carry lances (rōmaḥ). The statement in v.6 “The swift shall not flee, nor the strong escape” refers to the two main types of warriors in antiquity. The “swift” is the lightly armed fighter, the psilos or peltast as the Greeks called them. The “strong” is the heavily armed fighter, the hoplit in Greek terminology. The battle is said to have taken place at the banks of the river Euphrates (v. 6). This localization accords with the superscription in which the city of Carchemish is mentioned. This verse is the link between superscription and poem. When the attacking army comes under pressure and defeat is near, there is no orderly withdrawal or surrender. Rather, the defeated forces flee hastily and unorganized without even turning around. What the poem describes is not the battle but the chaotic flight when the battle is lost. If the localization “by the river Euphrates” would not be given, the poem could be applied to almost any battle. Except for this river name the poem expresses the typical preparation ahead of a battle and the typical course of events in case of defeat.13

11 The translation of v. 6a poses difficulties, see Fischer 2005, p. 474. 12 The Hebrew word pārāš may mean “horse and cart/chariot”, “horses pulling a cart/chariot”, “rider”, and “cart/chariot driver”, see HALAT, s. v. 13 The second strophe 46:7 – 12 is a little bit more explicit since it mentions Egypt, its neighbours, and the river Nile, but, again, not Babylon. Instead, Yahweh, the God of Israel, appears as the true adversary of Egypt (v. 10). This might be the reason for ignoring Babylon, see Carroll 1986, pp. 763 – 765.

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2.4

Blockades and Sieges

As for sieges one has to distinguish between the siege proper, in which the besieger employs siege engines of various kinds in order to break down the walls, and, on the other hand, the blockade in which the attacking party merely surrounds the town and imposes a blockade. This distinction is important since sieges proper required technical and tactical knowledge that was not generally available. With one partial exception (2Sam 20:15, see below) all biblical descriptions of sieges refer to Assyrian, Babylonian or Greek armies. Whenever the Israelites besieged a town they merely conducted a blockade. The combat actions took place in front of the walls, not on or at the walls. A good example for this is the war against Rabbat, the capital of the Ammonites. 2Sam 11:16 As Joab (the general of king David) was blockading the city, he assigned Uriah to the place where he knew there were valiant warriors. 17 The men of the city came out and fought with Joab. And some of the servants of David among the people fell. Uriah the Hittite was killed as well.

Another example for this type of warfare is the conquest of Ai in Josh 8 (see below). As mentioned before there is one exception to the rule, the siege of the city of AbelBeth-Maacah in 2Sam 20:15. The event is supposed to have taken place in the reign of king David in the tenth century BCE. A rebel leader by the name of Sheba ben Bikhri has fled from the troops of David into the northern Israelite town. In order to take hold of Sheba the fighters from the tribes of Israel besiege the city: 2Sam 20:15 And they came and besieged him in Abel of Beth-Maacah. They threw up a ramp against the city, and it stood against the rampart. And all the people who were with Joab engaged in destruction work in order to break down the wall.

This description is ambivalent. On the one hand, it mentions a ramp (sōlĕlâ) and some kind of fortification, probably a rampart or a bastion (ḥêl). Then the attacking army tries to break down the city wall. The text does not say by which means, merely the word mašḥîtim “destroying” is used. There is no mention of siege engines which would have been required for such a venture. But the reference to siege engines would have resulted in a case of stark anachronism. But when no siege engines were available, why would they raise a ramp ? Did the Israelites of the tenth century have the means at all to raise a ramp ? Would they undertake such an enormous effort for a single rebel ? A blockade would have been sufficient to achieve the goal. All these questions amount to the conclusion that 2Sam 20:15 does not draw on memory of a particular event. Rather, this depiction is based on three pillars: (1) general knowledge about sieges, (2) special knowledge that siege engines were unavailable for Israelites, and (3) the (highly improbable) assumption that David’s troops

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did nevertheless perform active sieges by throwing up a ramp in order to get hold of a rebel.

2.5

Two Examples of Sieges

The most detailed description of a siege in the technical sense of the word is found in Ezek 26:7 – 14. Ezek 26:7 For thus says Yahweh, the lord: “I will bring against Tyre from the north King Nebuchadrezzar of Babylon, king of kings, together with horses, chariots, cavalry/charioteers, and a great and powerful army. 8 Your daughter-towns in the country he shall put to the sword. He shall set up a siege tower (dāyēq) against you, cast up a ramp (sōlĕlâ) against you, and raise protection shields (ṣinnâ) against you. 9 He shall direct the shock of his battering rams (qĕbōl) against your walls and break down your towers with his axes (ḥereb). 10 His horses shall be so many that their dust shall cover you. At the noise of chariot horses (pāraš), wheels (galgal), and chariots (rekeb) your very walls shall shake, when he enters your gates like those entering a breached city. 11 With the hoofs of his horses he shall trample all your streets. He shall put your people to the sword, and your strong pillars shall fall to the ground. 12 They will plunder your riches and loot your merchandise. They shall break down your walls and destroy your fine houses. Your stones and timber and soil they shall cast into the water. 13 I will silence the music of your songs; the sound of your lyres shall be heard no more. 14 I will make you a bare rock; you shall be a place for spreading nets. You shall never again be rebuilt, for I, Yahweh, have spoken — speech of Yahweh, the lord.”

Verses 8 – 9 introduce an almost complete inventory of ancient siegecraft: siege towers, ramps, protection shields and battering rams.14 Although this is the most detailed text on a siege throughout the Hebrew Bible, this is no description of what happened, rather Ezekiel proclaims what is going to happen. And things are even more complicated. What Ezekiel announces actually never happened. King Nebuchadrezzar of Babylon besieged Tyre for several years but he never conquered the city. It was only Alexander the Great more than two hundred years later who besieged Tyre successfully.15 And there are more problems: The description in Ezek 26 does not reflect the special situation of Tyre. The island position of Tyre would require the attackers to build a dam, it would further require measures taken from the seaside, as have been reported with regard to Alexander. The scenario of Ezek 26 is that of a normal inland

14 The exact meaning of the military-technical terms is not always clear. See Zimmerli 1979b, pp. 608 – 609, and the dictionaries s. v. 15 See Saur 2011.

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siege. The wording is almost the same as in Ezek 4:2, a vision of the upcoming siege of Jerusalem. Ezek 4:2 Put siegeworks against it, and build a siege tower (dāyēq) against it, and cast up a ramp (sōlĕlâ) against it. Set camps also against it, and plant rams (kar) against it all around.

That is to say, the description of the envisioned siege of Tyre in Ezek 26:8 – 9 uses formulaic language. It gives the reader/listener an impression of how sieges were generally conducted. The authors of the ancient Hebrew literature knew that from many painful experiences during the Assyrian and the Babylonian eras. But there is no detailed description of a particular siege. Even the account of the fall of Jerusalem in 587 BCE, the most severe caesura in the history of ancient Judah, is very short as far as the siege is concerned. 2Kgs 25:1 And in the ninth year of his reign, in the tenth month, on the tenth day of the month, King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon came with all his army against Jerusalem, and laid siege to it. They built siegeworks (dāyēq) against it all around. 2 So the city was besieged until the eleventh year of King Zedekiah. 3 On the ninth day of the fourth month the famine became so severe in the city that there was no food for the people of the land. 4 Then a breach was made in the city wall. …

Another informative case of siege is the campaign against Jerusalem by the Assyrian king Sennacherib in 701 BCE, an event that is historically well attested. Sennacherib gives a detailed account of his campaign in his annals: As for Hezekiah, the Judean, I besieged forty-six of his fortified walled cities and surrounding smaller towns, which were without number. Using packed-down ramps and applying battering rams, infantry attacks by mines, breeches, and siege machines, I conquered (them). I took out 200 150 people, young and old, male and female, horses, mules, donkeys, camels, cattle, and sheep, without number, and counted them as spoil. He himself, I locked up within Jerusalem, his royal city, like a bird in a cage I surrounded him with earthworks, and made it unthinkable for him to exit by the city gate.16

The biblical version is much less picturesque: 2Kgs 18:13 In the fourteenth year of King Hezekiah, King Sennacherib of Assyria came up against all the fortified cities of Judah and captured them. … 18:17abα The king of Assyria sent the Tartan, the Rabsaris, and the Rabshakeh with a great army from Lachish to King Hezekiah at Jerusalem. They went up and came to Jerusalem.

16 Hallo 2003, p. 303.

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To be sure, the overall narrative in the book of Kings is quite long. It includes long dialogues about the power of the God of Israel and the faith of king Hezekiah, and so on. But the details of the siege are not of interest.

3

Battle Descriptions in the Book of Joshua

When it comes to the issue of war and fighting in the Hebrew Bible, the book of Joshua is always the first on the agenda. General perception associates Joshua with forced eviction and even with genocide. Before analyzing the relevant texts, a few words about the book of Joshua as a whole seem to be in order. (1) Of the twenty-four chapters of the book, only chapters 6 – 12 deal with wars. Chapters 3 – 4 relate the eisodos of Israel into the country, the remaining chapters have the internal organisation of the people of Israel as its theme. (2) The common designation as conquest story expresses only one aspect of the matter, the other one is the divine promise of the land and the divine intervention on the side of Israel. As much as it is a land grab (“Landnahme”) it is a land gift (“Landgabe”). (3) Although Josh 21:43 – 45 states that the whole land is in possession of Israel, Josh 23 makes unequivocally clear that all the foreign nations are still in the land. The Amorite people are organized in their city states or communities as before. Taken these issues together, it becomes apparent that the book of Joshua itself deconstructs the notion of a violent people performing mass evictions and genocide. Despite this overall conception, it seems obvious that the chapters Josh 6 – 12 relate wars and battles. The relevant texts can be grouped into two pairs. The first pair gives two quite long and in some respect also detailed accounts, that is the seizure of Jericho (Josh 6) and the capture of Ai (Josh 7 – 8). The second pair gives summary accounts of two campaigns, the campaign against the southern alliance, i. e. kings located in what would become Judah (Josh 10) and the campaign against the northern alliance (Josh 11). Josh 12 contains two lists of defeated kings.

3.1

Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho — Did He ? (Josh 6)

The question whether there was a battle of Jericho is usually understood historically. In this sense the question can be answered easily and quickly: No.17 But my question aims at the literary presentation of the case. Does the text of Josh 6 relate a battle ?18 17 The last settlement period in which Jericho had a considerable town wall ended in a blaze around 1550 BCE. In the second half of the second millennium Jericho was only a small village. See van der Veen 2008, sect. 2. and sect.s 4.3.6 – 7; Bienkowski 2001, pp. 425 – 426. 18 Here and elsewhere in this article I refer to the Masoretic text of the book of Joshua. This is done for the sake of convenience, as a detailed study of these differences would go beyond the scope of this article. As is well known, the textual history of Joshua is complicated and it seems as if the transla-

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Although it may come as a surprise, the answer remains the same: No. But what does Josh 6 actually relate ? The narrative of Josh 6 shows a strong resemblance to a construction plan.19 The design principle is symmetry between directive and execution.20 This correspondence is a well-known construction in biblical texts, we call it the promise-fulfillment-pattern. But in Josh 6 this scheme is taken to the extreme. The design goal of the narrative is to demonstrate that the Israelites seized Jericho without the use of military means.21 The people merely shout, then the walls collapse without an explicit cause. However, it is clear from the context that it is the presence of Yahweh in the form of the ark that brings about the success. The ark seems to have the same function as the divine standards which the Babylonians and Assyrians used in their armies. But even after the wall has collapsed, the people do not start fighting. The text says (6:20b): “The people went up into the city, each one straight ahead of him (ʾîš negdô). And they seized the city.” The Hebrew expression ʾîš negdô means “each one for himself ” i. e. not coordinated, not in a military formation. Eventually, the Israelites seize the city but again we are not told how. Joshua is not even mentioned in this part of the story. And it is not before that point in the narrative that the violence begins. After the seizure all living beings have to be brought to Yahweh and have to be devoted to him. This is a common ancient near eastern procedure known under the designation ḥerem.22 The people must not make any prey, but rather everything has to be given to God, the living beings as a sort of sacrifice, the valuables as votives to the treasury. The rest must be burned. So again, there is no battle description, not even a battle.

3.2

How to Conquer a Heap of Ruins (Josh 7 – 8)

The second part of the first pair is the narrative of the conquest of the city of Ai. The word “Ai” is actually not a name but a common noun meaning “ruins”. The writer had an already ruined city in mind when he wrote this story and likewise his readers and listeners.23 The story begins with an unsuccessful attempt to conquer the city (Josh 7).

19 20

21 22 23

tor of the Greek book of Joshua had a different version of the Hebrew text at hand which could be older than the Masoretic text. For the question at issue in this study these differences are not decisive. For a detailed exposition of the textual problems, see Tov 1999. See Table 1: “The Structure of the Narrative of the Seizure of Jericho (Josh 6)” at the end of this article. Fritz 1994, p. 68: “Diese Erzählung vom Fall Jerichos ist keine Sage mit langer Überlieferung und ätiologischer Absicht. Vielmehr ist sie ein sorgfältig gebautes Stück, das aus einer Anordnung Jahwes und deren fast wortgetreuer Ausführung besteht.” Knauf 2008, p. 70, speaks of “Entmilitarisierung”. Dietrich 2007. This is one of the features both narratives share. Whereas in the case of Jericho the tumbled walls seem to have been the significant landmark for the author and his addressees, in the case of Ai those

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We leave this part of the text aside and concentrate on the second attempt of which an extended description in Josh 8 exists. Again, we recognize the directive-execution-pattern but in a different version.24 The initial speech of God contains a promise which is very similar to the one at the beginning of the Jericho story (Josh 8:1b): “See, I have handed over to you the king of Ai with his people, his city, and his land.” Further, God gives the command to conquer the city, but contrary to the Jericho story, no details are given. He just says (8:1 – 2*): “Take all the fighting men with you, and go up now to Ai. … Set an ambush against the city, behind it.” God intervenes for a second time: in Josh 8:18 he commands Joshua: “Stretch out the sword that is in your hand toward Ai. For I will give it into your hand.” This is a symbolic gesture with no concrete impact on the events. It’s a superadditum that reminds the reader that also in the case of Ai it is God who stands behind the success. This is not self-evident because in contrast to the seizure of Jericho the narrative in Josh 8 depicts Joshua as an able military leader who gives detailed commands to his fighters. In Josh 6 God commands a procession, whereas in Josh 8 he commands a military operation. But in both cases it is God who guarantees the success. The tactics are clear. Joshua divides his army. One part makes a feint attack in order to decoy the citizens of Ai. When the Aians chase this part of Joshua’s army the other fraction comes out of the ambush and follows the Aians from behind. As a result, the city of Ai is unguarded and the army of the Aians is under attack from two sides. As mentioned above the Israelites do not besiege the city because they did not have the necessary technology. All fighting takes place in the open field. The battle of Ai is an example of the widely known tactics of “the ruse of simulated retreat and ambush”25 which also appears in Judg 20:14 – 48. That means, the narrative has two traditio-historical kernels: (1) the successful execution of the demanding tactical pattern which shows the military proficiencies of the leader, and (2) the etiology of the mighty ruins. It was the author of the narrative who combined the two constituents. He adapted the well-known simulated-retreat-and-ambush-plot to the area of Ai — and moreover to the goal of his narrative.26 Thus, the text Josh 8, insofar as it is a battle description, does not describe an individual event, but — not unlike Ezek 26, see above — a common military action applied to a specific location. Finally, one might ask, why the two paradigmatic conquest narratives Josh 6 and Josh 8 are so different from each other. The story of the destruction of Jericho is completely dominated by the idea of the land as a divine gift. Yahweh, the God of Israel

were heaps of stone. Ai was destroyed around 2400 BCE and remained uninhabited for more than a thousand years. Between 1200 and 1050 there was a small village, and after this village was abandoned the site was never build up again. For more details cf. Koenen 2007; Knauf 2008, p. 83. 24 See Table 2: “The Structure of the Narrative of the Capture of Ai (Josh 8)” at the end of this article. 25 Nelson 1997, p. 111. For classical parallels see Fritz 1997, p. 90; Malamat 1983, pp. 24 – 25. 26 Nelson 1997, p. 111.

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does everything, Israel more or less nothing. In the story of the conquest of Ai this idea is also prevalent, but it is superimposed on some older material in which human actors perform military actions.

3.3

The Campaigns Against the Southern and the Northern Coalitions (Josh 10 – 11)

The chapters Josh 10 – 11 contain the second pair of conquest narratives, with the first referring to the conquest of cities in what would later become Judah, and the second referring to cities in what would become the northern kingdom of Israel. None of the battles is described in detail — with one exception. The battle at Gibeon has a miraculous sequel:27 Josh 10:8 And Yahweh said to Joshua: “Do not fear them, for I have handed them over to you. Not one of them shall stand before you.” 9 And Joshua came upon them suddenly, having marched up all night from Gilgal. 10 And Yahweh threw them into a panic before Israel. And he smote them with a big strike at Gibeon, he chased them by the way of the ascent of Beth-Horon, and struck them down as far as Azekah (and Makkedah). 11 As they fled before Israel, while they were going down the slope of Beth-Horon, Yahweh threw down huge stones from heaven on them as far as Azekah, and they died. There were more who died because of the hailstones than the Israelites killed with the sword. 12 At that time Joshua spoke to Yahweh, on the day when Yahweh gave the Amorites over to the Israelites. And he said in the sight of Israel: “Sun, stand still at Gibeon, and Moon, at the valley of Aijalon.” 13a And the sun stood still, and the moon stopped, until a nation took vengeance on their enemies. Is this not written in the Book of Jashar ? 13b And the sun stopped in the middle of the sky/heaven, and did not hurry to set for about a whole day. 14 There has been no day like it before or since, that Yahweh heeded a human voice; for Yahweh fought for Israel.

The account of the battle at Aijalon (10:8 – 11) proceeds as usual: Yahweh encourages Joshua to fight against the Amorites, Joshua starts the attack and Yahweh intervenes on the side of Israel, this time in the form of a hailstorm. Finally, it is stated that the heavenly hailstones killed more enemies than the weapons of the Israelites. The depiction of the battle is as succinct as always: The victorious attack is expressed by the general term nkh “to smite” followed by a chase. At this point the narrative could be finished, but the story continues with the vague temporal conjunction ʾāz “back then / at that time” in v. 12. At the same time when Yahweh brought about the victory of Israel, something else did happen. Accord27 For a detailed study on the textual history of Josh 10, see De Troyer 2016.

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ing to an obviously old tradition28 Joshua addressed the sun and the moon — or to put it more clearly: the sun god and the moon god, and asked them to stand still. And they did so over the valley of Aijalon, a location name that occurs only in the poem. The old poetic tradition might have had the following wording: And he said: “Sun, stand still at Gibeon, / and Moon, at the valley of Aijalon.” And the sun stood still, / and the moon stopped, / until a nation took vengeance on their enemies.

The meaning of this piece is disputed: Some commentators say Joshua implored the two astral gods for support,29 others assume that the sun and the moon were the gods of the enemy and Joshua coerced the two gods not to intervene on their side.30 Be that as it may, the deuteronomistic31 authors of the book of Joshua revised the unorthodox polytheistic tradition. According to v. 12a Joshua did not address the astral gods but Yahweh, the God of Israel (“Joshua spoke to Yahweh”). And according to v. 13b all what happened was some unusual delay of the sun. And finally v. 14 makes clear that everything happened only because Yahweh performed it. The old tradition about a battle in the valley of Aijalon resembles the poetic version of the battle of Deborah (see above). Judg 5:20 reads “The stars fought from heaven, from their courses they fought against Sisera”, while Josh 10:13a says “And the sun stood still, and the moon stopped, until a nation took vengeance on their enemies.” In both cases there are astral powers who interfere in the battle. And in both cases the later deuteronomistic authors replaced the astral powers by Yahweh, the God of Israel. It seems as if the intervention of divine forces was a frequently used motif in battle descriptions, both in earlier polytheistic/polylatric and in later monolatric/monotheistic cultures.

4

Conclusion

To summarize, there are almost no battle descriptions in the Hebrew Bible. Although battles and wars are mentioned many times, there is mostly no interest in military details such as tactics and weaponry. The reason for this lies in the circumstances of the composition of these texts. Unlike the vast majority of ancient near eastern inscrip28 According to Fritz 1994, pp. 111 – 112, the saying of Joshua and the subsequent confirmation are fragments from an archaic song of victory, collected among other songs (cf. 1Sam 1:18) in the — lost — “Book of Jashar”. 29 Fritz 1994, p. 111; Nelson 1997, p. 141. 30 Knauf 2008, pp. 98 – 100. 31 The term “deuteronomistic” means: influenced by the conceptions and the language of the book of Deuteronomy. This influence is detectable in Joshua to Kings, hence one speaks of the “Deuteronomistic History”.

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tions, the biblical texts were not commissioned in the aftermath of a military victory, they are no royal inscriptions. Biblical texts do not hail the military power of the king. Rather, they focus on matters of legitimacy, and for this aim it is important to have won the war, but not how exactly the victory was gained. What is more, the majority of biblical war accounts emphasize the divine aspect: Yahweh, the God of Israel, mandates or permits the war, he is said to be with the leader, he brings about the success, and finally it is he who is lauded for the triumph. In traditional ancient near eastern depictions, the great victor is always the king with the Gods supporting him. In biblical texts the great victor is Yahweh, the God of Israel, himself, while the human field commander — if there is one at all — is only his agent. This might be the main reason for the lack of detailed battle descriptions in the Hebrew Bible.

Bibliography Berman, Joshua A. 2004. Narrative Analogy in the Hebrew Bible: Battle Stories and Their Equivalent Non-Battle Narratives. Leiden: Brill. Bienkowski, Piotr. 42001. Art. Jericho. In Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart. Vol. 4. Hans D. Betz et al eds, 425 – 426. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Carroll, Robert P. 1986. The Book of Jeremiah. A Commentary (The Old Testament Library). London: SCM Press. De Troyer, Kristin. 2016. Reconstructing the Older Hebrew Text of the Book of Joshua: An Analysis of Joshua 10. Textus 26 in print. http://www.hum.huji.ac.il/upload/_FILE_1474293575. pdf, accessed 14 April 2018. Dietrich, Walter. 2007. Art. Bann/Banngut. In Das Wissenschaftliche Bibellexikon im Internet (www.wibilex.de) (2 January 2018). Dozeman, Thomas B. 2015. Joshua 1 – 12: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (The Anchor Yale Bible). New Haven: Yale University Press. Ernst, Stephanie. 2010. Jahwe als Kriegsherr in den Eroberungsberichten von Jericho und Ai (Jos 6 und 8) – Ein Vergleich der erzählerischen Mittel von “Schreibtischstrategen”. In Kulte, Priester, Rituale. Beiträge zu Kult und Kultkritik im Alten Testament und Alten Orient: Festschrift für Theodor Seidl zum 65. Geburtstag, Stephanie Ernst and Maria Häusl eds, 159 – 174. St. Ottilien: EOS Verlag. Fischer, Georg. 2005. Jeremia 26 – 52 (Herders Theologischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament). Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder. Frevel, Christian. 2015. Geschichte Israels (Studienbücher Theologie 2). Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Fritz, Volkmar. 1994. Das Buch Josua (Handbuch zum Alten Testament I/7). Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Groß, Walter. 2009. Richter (Herders Theologischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament). Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder.

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Köhler, Ludwig (et al. eds). 2004. Hebräisches und aramäisches Lexikon zum Alten Testament (HALAT). 2004. Leiden: Brill. Hallo, William W. 2003. The Context of Scripture. Monumental Inscriptions from the Biblical World. Leiden: Brill. Hobbs, T. Ray. 1995. Aspects of Warfare in the First Testament World. Biblical Theology Bulletin 25 (1995): 79 – 90. Knauf, Ernst Axel. 2008. Josua (Zürcher Bibelkommentare Altes Testament 6). Zürich: TVZ. Knauf, Ernst Axel. 2016. Richter (Zürcher Bibelkommentare Altes Testament 7). Zürich: TVZ. Koenen, Klaus. 2007. Art. Ai. In Das Wissenschaftliche Bibellexikon im Internet (www.wibilex. de) (2 January 2018). Kunz-Lübcke, Andreas. 2011. Art. Heer. In Das Wissenschaftliche Bibellexikon im Internet (www.wibilex.de) (2 January 2018). Malamat, Abraham. 1983. Die Eroberung Kanaans. Die israelitische Kriegsführung nach der biblischen Tradition. In Das Land Israel in biblischer Zeit. Jerusalem-Symposium 1981, Georg Strecker ed., 7 – 32. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Nelson, Richard D. 1997. Joshua. A Commentary (The Old Testament Library). Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press. Obermayer, Bernd. 2011. Art. Krieg (AT). In Das Wissenschaftliche Bibellexikon im Internet (www.wibilex.de) (2 January 2018). Oeming, Manfred. 2017. § 16 Krieg und Frieden. In Die Welt der Hebräischen Bibel. Umfeld – Inhalte – Grundthemen, Walter Dietrich ed., 226 – 241. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Saur, Markus. 2011. Art. Tyrus. In Das Wissenschaftliche Bibellexikon im Internet (www.wibilex. de) (14 April 2018). Staubli, Thomas. 2010. Art. Reiten/Reiter. In Das Wissenschaftliche Bibellexikon im Internet (www.wibilex.de) (2 January 2018). Tov, Emanuel. 1999. The Growth of the Book of Joshua in Light of the Evidence of the Septuagint. In The Greek and Hebrew Bible. Collected Essays on the Septuagint, Emanuel Tov ed. Leiden: Brill, 385 – 396. van der Veen, Peter. 2008. Art. Jericho (AT). In Das Wissenschaftliche Bibellexikon im Internet (www.wibilex.de) (2 January 2018). Würthwein, Ernst. 1984. Die Bücher der Könige. 1. Kön. 17 – 2. Kön. 25 (DasAlte Testament Deutsch 11/2). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Zimmerli, Walther. 21979a. Ezechiel, 1. Teilband, Ezechiel 1 – 24 (Biblischer Kommentar Altes Testament XIII/1). Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. Zimmerli, Walther. 21979b. Ezechiel, 2. Teilband, Ezechiel 25 – 48 (Biblischer Kommentar Altes Testament XIII/2). Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag.

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Table 1 The Structure of the Narrative of the Seizure of Jericho (Josh 6)

Principal declaration of Yahweh (6:2): “See, I have handed Jericho over to you, along with its king and the warriors.” Directives Yahweh • Joshua

Before the seizure

Execution

6:3 – 4aα

Day 1 – 6: Encircling the city one time each day

6:8a2b – 14

6:4aβγb

Day 7: Encircling the city seven times

6:15

Seizure on the seventh day Special signal of the shofar

6:16a

Directives Yahweh • Joshua (6:5a) Joshua • people (6:10.16b)

Shouting of the people

6:20abα

Announcement of Yahweh (6:5b)

Collapse of the city wall — Going up of the people without formation

6:20bβ

Directives Joshua • people

After the seizure

Exexcution

6:17a 6:17b 6:18

6:19

The city and all inside are devotional goods (h.eræm) Exemption of Rahab the harlot and her family Warning not to take anything from the devotional goods

6:21 6:22 – 23 • Jos 7

Burning of the city

6:24a

All precious things into the treasury of the house of Yahweh

6:24b

Concluding statement (6:27): “So Yahweh was with Joshua; and his fame was in all the land.”

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Table 2 The Structure of the Narrative of the Capture of Ai (Josh 8)

Principal declaration of Yahweh (8:1 || 6:2): “See, I have handed over to you the king of Ai with his people, his city, and his land.” Directives Yahweh • Joshua

Before the campaign

8:2a

Same procedure as with Jericho, but allowance to keep the prey

8:27

8:2b

Laying an ambush

see below

8:18a

Joshua to strech out the sickle sword

8:18b, 26

Directives Joshua • people

The capture and burning of Ai by two divisions of the Israelite army

Exexcution

8:4

Laying an ambush by division I west of Ai

8:9

8:5

Advancing to the city by division II

8:13

8:5

Attack of the citizens of Ai against division II

8:14

8:6

Flight of division II to the east, pursuit by the Aians

8:6

Distancing of the Aians from their city

8:7

Decampment from the ambush of division I

8:7

Seizure of the empty city by division I

8:8

Burning of the city by division I

8:15 – 16 8:16

8:19

Turnaround of division II

8:21

Attacking of division I from the west and of division II from the east

8:22

Capture of the king of Ai

8:23

Concluding remarks on the number of fatalities, on the presence of the ruins “to this day”, and on the stretched sickle sword of Joshua (8:24 – 29)

Plataea, 479 BC Kai Ruffing

1

Introduction

Although the battle of Plataea was without any doubt the decisive battle of the GrecoPersian war 480/479 BC, this bloody encounter between the Greek coalition and the Achaemenid armed forces did not become a lieu de mémoire for the victory of the Hellenic league to the same degree as in the case of the battles of Marathon in 490, at the Thermopylae and Salamis in 480 BC.1 Thus modern research did and does not pay much attention to this battle, at least in comparison with the three canonical battles of the Greco-Persian wars. One key point of scholarly attention was the elegy of Simonides on the battle of Plataea, which came to the knowledge of philological research through the publication of a new papyrus text in the 59th volume of the Oxyrhynchus Papyri (P. Oxy LIX 3965).2 Furthermore, the battle played a role in William Kendrick Pritchett’s engagement with what he called the ‘liar school of Herodotus’.3 But as Christoph Schäfer has convincingly shown in a recent article, Herodotus’ account of the battle cannot be taken at face value and is to be seen in the context of political circumstances in fifth century Hellas. Furthermore, Schäfer established that Herodotus’ version of events is to be seen in context with other literary efforts to claim the most important role in the battle for one of the poleis fighting on the outskirts of Plataea.4 In what follows, however, emphasis is laid on a different issue. Even though Herodotus’ account of the battle of Plataea became the master narrative, it was only one of the possible interpretations of this event. Immediately after the end of the fighting the battle became part of the commemorative culture of those poleis who participated in 1 2 3 4

For a more recent description of the battle see Ray 2009, pp. 91 – 103; Stephenson 2016, pp. 34 – 38. Boedeker, Sider 2001. Pritchett 1993, pp. 294 – 296. Schäfer 2015.

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_6

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the combat. Thus the aim of this paper is a twofold one. Firstly, in order to contextualize Herodotus’s report of the fighting at Plataea, the commemoration of the battle by other authors and other texts until the end of the fifth century BC will be briefly sketched.5 Secondly, there will be some remarks on how Herodotus styled his account of the battle of Plataea and how he used his narrative of it to make remarks regarding events and politics of his own time.

2

Some Remarks on Plataea in the Commemorative Culture

The first author who wrote about the battle of Plataea was Simonides (fr. 10 – 18 ed. West/ed. Sider),6 the poet of the battles of the Persian War.7 As Rainer Thiel has convincingly shown, Simonides’ elegy on the battle of Plataea was commissioned in the name of the Spartans by Pausanias, the commander-in-chief of the Greek allied forces, and was staged on the occasion of the funeral of the fallen Spartan soldiers.8 The date of its public presentation was most likely between 479 and 477 BC.9 As a matter of consequence Sparta and its commander-in-chief (fr. 11, 21 – 34) had a special place in the elegy. The merits of Sparta’s Peloponnesian allies are mentioned as well (fr. 15). Thus the elegy attributes the merit of having prevailed against the Persian invaders to Sparta as the hegemon of the Peloponnesian League and its allies.10 The view provided by the text inscribed on the famous Serpent Column is rather different, which according to Herodotus was dedicated by the Greeks to the Delphian Apollo after the battle, and was fabricated from the booty of Plataea (Hdt. 9,81). It states laconically “These have fought the war” and then it gives a list of 31 poleis, which is headed by the Lacedaemonians, Athenians and Corinthians (ML 27).11 One moves clearly on safe ground in concluding that these three poleis were the most prominent members of the Greek coalition.12 The list, however, is not consistent with the one provided by Herodotus in his account of the fighting between 480 and 479, since it lacks the mention of the Croton, Pale, Seriphos and the Opuntian Locrians.13 Interestingly, Thucydides reports that the list replaced a first inscription, which mentioned Pausanias as having dedicated the monument after the destruction of the 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

12 13

On the function of the battle in the commemorative culture of the Greek and Roman world see Jung 2006, pp. 225 – 383. The editions cited here are West 1992 and Sider 2001. Cf. Ruffing 2006, pp. 6 – 7 with the relevant bibliography. Thiel 2011, esp. p. 390. His view was corrobated by Stelow 2013. Thiel 2011, p. 388. Cf. Kowerski 2005, pp. 75 – 76; Jung 2006, pp. 225 – 241, esp. pp. 233 – 239, Thiel 2011, pp. 385 – 386. There different proposals regarding the reconstruction of the monument: see Jung 2006, pp. 243 – 244. — On the text see ML, p. 59 – 60; ATL III, 95 – 100; Jung 2006, pp. 248 – 252. See also Stephenson 2016, pp. 67 – 92 with a discussion of the monument. Jung 2006, pp. 250 – 251. ML, p. 59 – 60.

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army of the Medes (Thuk. 1,132,2). This inscription is a another elegy of Simonides (Paus. 3,8,2), which was the cause of a dispute between Sparta and its allies. According to Thucydides, it was then replaced by the Spartans with the list of the poleis, which fought the war against the Persians (Thuk. 1,132,3).14 The elegy on the fallen Spartan soldiers as well as the dispute between the allies regarding the inscription on the dedication and the final inscription on the Serpent Column clearly show that already immediately after the battle different interpretations and a different staging of the victory was possible. Furthermore, the manner in which the victory was used was important for the allies. The further traceable literary usage and the further staging of the battle in different literary sources confirms this view. It was then the time of the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War, in which the memory of the battle of Plataea became an important issue for political propaganda and the self-staging of the poleis which participated in the fighting in 479 BC, as shown by Michael Jung.15 That the battle had such an importance during this time is not at least due to the events at the beginning of the war. The polis Plataea was besieged by Spartan troops and finally, after its surrender to the Spartans, the Thebans, then allies of the former, arranged for the total destruction of it in 427 BC. This event gave reason for a detailed description of the circumstances by Thucydides, who gives a couple of speeches in his narration. In these speeches the role of the Plataeans in the battle of 479 BC is used as an argument (Thuc. 2,71 – 78 and 3,52 – 68).16 The use Thucydides made of the events of 479 BC was common in Periclean Athens. The fate of Plataea in the Archidamian war gave rise to a new interpretation of the events of the Persian War. Its commemoration in Athens had an increasingly anti-Spartan touch, whereas the Athenians styled themselves as protectors of the weaker poleis, among them Plataea. Accordingly Sparta’s role in the battle as well as in the Persian War in general was weakened. Regarding the battle itself, that meant either a stressing of the importance of Marathon and Salamis against that of Plataea, which sometimes was not even mentioned in the context of the commemoration of the war, or the fighting was reinterpreted as an Athenian success and merit.17 Since the research in the past decades has broadly shown that Herodotus used the Histories to comment on the events of his own days, and thus the politics of Athens in the Peloponnesian War played an important role as to how Herodotus staged history,18 his account of the battle is to be seen in the context of contemporary events and contemporary commemorative culture. At this point it might be enough to ob14 On the whole story of the quarrel about the inscription on the monument see Jung 2006, pp. 246 – 248. 15 Jung 2006, p. 289. 16 Jung 2006, pp. 282 – 289. 17 Jung 2006, pp. 291 – 293. 18 Fornara 1971, pp. 75 – 91; Raaflaub 1987, p. 224 and pp. 231 – 234; Raaflaub 1988, pp. 309 – 314, esp. p. 313; Stadter 1992; Moles 1996; Bichler 2001, pp. 366 – 377; Moles 2002, pp. 50 – 52; Raaflaub 2002, pp. 164 – 183, esp. 165; Fowler 2003; Blösel 2004; Blösel 2013; Irwin 2013a; Irwin 2013b; Irwin 2013c.

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serve that, according to Herodotus, the victory of Plataea was owed to the Spartans as well as to the Athenians, since the Spartans conducted the decisive fight against the Persian troops, during which the Persian commander-in-chief Mardonios was killed. Furthermore, he underlines that the Persian troops were fighting bravely and with such an individual valor, that they were only defeated due to their poor personal equipment (Hdt. 9,61 – 64), whereas the Athenians saved the day at an earlier stage of the battle by means of deploying a unit of 300 selected soldiers (Hdt. 9,21), by fighting against the Greek allies of the Persians (Hdt. 9,61) — an engagement, during which the Athenians killed the 300 best Theban soldiers (Hdt. 9,67) — and by conquering the Persian camp by means of capturing the walls (Hdt. 9,70). The rest of the contingents of all the poleis, who participated in the battle on the side of the Greek coalition, in Herodotus’ account strictu sensu did not fight in the battle, because they did not obey the orders of Pausanias, which is why they were waiting for the arrival of the Spartans and the Athenians at the Heraion on the outskirts of Plataea (Hdt. 9,52). Interestingly enough, Herodotus maintains that the Greek allies on the Persian side fought without any spirit, which however is not true for the Boiotians in general and the Thebans in particular, who were the only Greeks encouraging the Persians to fight again and again (Hdt. 9,67).19 Thus Herodotus’ narration of the battle is rather idiosyncratic. Even though the image, which he creates of the Spartans, is not seamlessly positive,20 he gives credit to the important role of Pausanias and his men for the victory in this decisive battle. But this victory would have been impossible without the Athenians fighting bravely against the Greek allies on the Persian side. Here it becomes already clear that Herodotus’ view is different from that prevailing in Athenian commemorative culture. Instead of minimizing or withholding Sparta’s role in the battle, he highlights the merits of the Lacedaemonians and their commander. The effect of the narration of the decisive fighting, in which Spartan and Athenian troops participated, is amplified by the message, which, according to Herodotus, Pausanias sent to the Athenians: “Men of Athens, as our greatest contest, one which will determine the freedom or enslavement of Hellas, lies before us, we Lacedaemonians and you Athenians have been betrayed during the past night by our allies, who have run away. So now it is obvious what we must do from this point on: we must protect and defend each other to the best of our abilities.” (Hdt. 9,60,1 – 2).21 Therefore he emphasizes the importance of both poleis for the freedom of Hellas, even though at another point in the histories he states that one does not stray from the truth when saying that Athens was the savior of Hellas (Hdt. 7,139,5). Finally, in the light of the events which led to the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War, it is interesting to see that Herodotus intentionally excludes the allies of both from the decisive moment of the battle. Hellenic freedom is thus the merit of both leading powers. In this way Herodotus creates his own use of the battle 19 On Herodotus’ account of the battle see Bichler 2001, pp. 350 – 355. 20 On Herodotus’ image of the Spartans see Millender 2002; Blösel 2018. 21 Translation of Purvis in Strassler 2007, p. 693.

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as a political argument and/or comment on his own times, which is neither pro-Athenian nor pro-Lacedaemonian. As it seems, his view is to a high degree independent from the specific Athenian commemorative culture. Before going into further detail of the Herodotean account of the battle, some remarks need to be made on other literary descriptions or mentions of it. Thucydides does not give much space to the Persian Wars. He emphasizes that as a result of it Sparta became the leading military power on land, whereas Athens by means of this war became the leading naval power in Hellas (Thuc. 1,18,2 – 3). Furthermore, according to him, two land and two sea battles quickly brought about the Hellenic victory (Thuc. 1,23,1). Certainly Plataea was one of the two land battles which he meant.22 As mentioned above, he used the memory of the battle in his narration of the fate of Plataea in the Peloponnesian War. On the occasion of the siege of Plataea by Spartan and Theban troops he gives a speech which was delivered by Plataean envoys before the Spartan king Archidamos. The first issue mentioned here is that after the battle and after having made a sacrifice to Zeus Eleutherios Pausanias guaranteed in the presence of the assembly of all allies of the Greek coalition the everlasting Plataean autonomy and that nobody should wage an unjust war against the Plataeans in order to subdue them. If somebody would do that then all allies should support them against the enemy (Thuk. 2,71,2). Thus the commemoration of the battle is used as an argument against any military action to the disfavor of the Plataeans, but — at least in the eyes of Thucydides — this was not a valid argument for the Spartan king. In his account of the destruction of Plataea he also puts the memory of the Persian Wars in the mouth of a Plataean (Thuc. 3,54,3 – 4).23 Herodotus’ version of the events, however, was rather mighty. Thus in the Platonic Menexenos the battle of Plataea is referred to as worthy of the third price of virtue. This price has to be given to the Athenians and the Lacedaemonians due to their common efforts in the rescue of Hellas (ἡ Ελληνικὴ σωτηρία) (Plat. Menex. 241d).24 And even the account of the battle in the work of Diodorus Siculus (Diod. 11,29 – 31), who might have taken his material from the work of Ephoros of Cyme, resembles the narration of Herodotus, and almost seems like a summary of it. As usual, Ctesias discloses a fundamentally different version of the battle. He says that Xerxes deployed an army of 120,000 soldiers, Mardonios being the commander-in-chief, and that the Thebans urged him to attack Plataea, where the Lacedaemonian Pausanias was commander of a force of 300 Spartans, 1,000 perioikoi, and 6,000 soldiers of the other poleis. The Persians were then defeated (FGrHist 688 F 13 (28) ed. Lenfant). Interestingly, according to Ctesias, this battle between the Greek coalition and the troops of Xerxes was fought before Salamis, thus giving an order of the canonical battles of the Persian 22 Hornblower 1991, p. 62 thinks that the battle at the Thermopylae was the other one. 23 On the whole issue see Jung 2006, pp. 282 – 289; Hornblower 1991, pp. 444 – 446 and pp. 462 – 463. 24 Regarding the Menexenos and the commemoration of the battles of the Persian war see Ruffing 2006, pp. 19 – 20.

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War that differs from that of Herodotus.25 That he referred to 300 Spartans fighting at Plataea is a clear reference to Herodotus’ account of the battle at the Thermopylae.26 Both issues — the reference to this number of warriors and the change to the order of the battles of the Persian War — are part of Ctesias’ literary effort to revise the tradition that was established by the Halicarnassian, as Reinhold Bichler has convincingly shown.27 That Herodotus’ account of the Persian War in general and of the battle of Plataea in particular was even in antiquity perceived as being highly biased can be seen by means of examining Plutarch’s de Herodoti malignitate.28 Although one has to take into account Plutarch’s negative view of Herodotus,29 his different views regarding the battles of the Persian War are striking. If nothing else, it clearly means that his literary styling of the battle and the underlying intentions were already seen in antiquity, at least through the eyes of Plutarch.

3

The Mirror of Herodotus

It becomes clear from the varying narrations and different uses of the battle in the Pentecontaetia and during the Peloponnesian War that, depending on the political position, intentions and literary efforts of each author, contrasting narrations and different stylings of the battle with various outcomes were possible.30 As mentioned above, Herodotus’ description is rather idiosyncratic compared to other narrations from contemporary Athens. Thus, even though Herodotus’ account became the grand narrative for modern reconstructions of the events of Plataea, it was only one narration amongst others, which had its own Sitz im Leben and its own literary aims as well as its own intention. Already for that very reason alone the narration of what happened at Plataea is to be seen as mirrored by Herodotus’ literary genius. In other words: the posterity is looking at — to borrow the famous book title of François Hartog — the mirror of Herodotus.31 Things become even more complex through the genre itself. Since history (“Geschichtsdarstellung”) itself is to be qualified as a “… Kohärenzfiktion auf faktischer Basis …”, as Reinhold Bichler puts it,32 this is so much the more true for the description of battles, where the sources at our disposal refer to different numbers for troops, casualties and battle orders as well as divergent accounts of what happened during the fighting.33 And even if a historian

25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

On Ctesias’ account of the battle of Plataea see Lenfant 2004, pp. XCIII – XCIV. On the use of the number 300 see Ruffing 2013. Bichler 2007, pp. 241 – 242. See Ruffing 2006, p. 12 regarding the battle of Salamis. Hershbell 1993; Marincola 1994. Nyland 1992, pp. 86 – 87. Hartog 1988. Bichler 2016, p. 43. Bichler 2016, pp. 45 – 53.

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could have used the reports of participants of the battle, the question arises immediately as to what degree someone fighting in the battle could have conceived what was going on in general.34 As a matter of consequence, assigning the idiosyncrasies or — as it was brought forward elsewhere — the problems of Herodotus’ narration of the events to sources of the Halicarnassian,35 is not a solution, since it means merely to transfer the above mentioned constraints for narrating the story from Herodotus to his sources, even without entering into the vexed question of Herodotus’ sources.36 That Herodotus here as elsewhere in the Histories had a precise aim or maybe even aims in telling the story of the battle seems to be evident, because his narration is not congruent with the Athenian self-staging or with other forms of the commemoration of the fighting. In the light of what has been said until now, it thus seems an unreasonable assumption that the tendencies and interpretations are owed to a certain type of source used by the father of history. This is seemingly all the more true, because the account of the battle seems to be a cornerstone for the description of the war of the Greek coalition against Xerxes and the army of the Achaemenid Empire. The whole story including the prologue and epilogue is told in 89 of 122 chapters in book nine.37 This makes the narration of Plataea by far the longest of all battle descriptions in the Histories. It includes real fireworks of literary tools which can also be found elsewhere in his work, amidst them speeches,38 dreams, prodigies, army lists and a synchronism. By discussing certain issues like the fatality of wealth it is thus connected to the guiding themes of the whole work. And last, but not least, Herodotus comments on the events from his time through using the historie. Thus the issue would deserve a much longer analysis than can be given here. As a matter of consequence, in what follows only four examples are briefly discussed. The first point is the dispute between the Athenians and Tegeans regarding their position in the battle line. In this agon the Tegeans pleaded for a position of their troops on the left wing of the Greek battle line, since they had this right since the time of the return of the Heraclids and had achieved more major deeds than the Athenians (Hdt. 9,26). The response of the Athenians demonstrates that Herodotus was very well aware of the Athenian self-staging in the ἐπιτάφιοι λόγοι, an awareness which he also shows elsewhere.39 Thus the Athenians give a catalogue of their mythic 34 Bichler 2016, pp. 53 – 56. 35 Nyland 1992, pp. 81 – 96 who identifies the Greeks fighting on the Persian side as sources for Herodotus’ account of the battle. 36 See e. g. Jacoby 1913, pp. 392 – 419; Fehling 1971/1989; West 1985; Hartog 1988; Pritchett 1993; Rollinger 1993, pp. 167 – 187; Shrimpton and Gillis 1997; Hornblower 2002; Bichler and Rollinger 2011, pp. 145 – 146, 164 – 168; Bichler 2013; Dorati 2013; Nesselrath 2013; Prontera 2013; Rösler 2013; Rollinger 2013; West 2013; Rollinger 2014. 37 See the structure given by Myres 1953, pp. 133 – 134. 38 On the speeches given in the Herodotean account of Plataea see Solmsen 1944; Scardino 2007, pp. 300 – 315. 39 Cf. Irwin 2013a, pp. 248 – 249.

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deeds and praise themselves for their victory over the Persians and 45 other nations at Marathon, which is why they would have the merits for the honor of leading the left wing. But — as Herodotus lets them say — since it is unfitting to quarrel about the leadership, they would accept the decision of the Lacedaemonians. The mythic catalogue of deeds embraces four issues. Firstly, that the Athenians received the Heraclids when they were refugees, secondly, that they buried the fallen Argives, when they themselves waged war against Thebes, thirdly, that they defeated the Amazons who were attacking Attica, and fourthly, that they were inferior to nobody in the Trojan War (9,27). Both motives — the catalogue of mythic deeds as well as the boasting about the battle of Marathon — are integral features of the ἐπιτάφιοι λόγοι.40 The fundamental function of the mythic deeds for the Athenian self-staging and thus the justification of the Athenian hegemony after the end of the Persian War also become evident in other types of sources,41 but the battle of Marathon was certainly a cornerstone of Athenian self-staging in order to justify their arche in the Delian league.42 The way, however, in which Herodotus puts the boast about the deeds accomplished at Marathon in the mouth of the Athenians before the battle of Plataea is rather remarkable: “… there [sc. at Marathon] we alone of the Hellenes fought the Persians by ourselves and not only survived such a remarkable endeavor, but won a victory over forty-six nations.” (Hdt. 9, 27,6).43 Thus Herodotus takes up a common feature of Athenian self-staging — to have won at Marathon without the help of any other Hellenes (e. g. Thuc. 1,73,4)44—, even though in his account of the battle in 490 BC he underlines the role of the Plataean contingent, by means of telling the story of how the Plataeans became subjects of the Athenians (Hdt. 6,108). It seems to be a reasonable assumption to even see this whole narration in the light of the events of 431 – 427 BC, since in the story told by Herodotus it were the same Spartans who forced the Plataeans to seek protection from the Athenians and who were now the reason for the destruction of Plataea, because they put forward the argument that the Plataeans were allies of the Athenians.45 That he then makes the Athenians talk in this way on the occasion of the battle of Plataea can be interpreted in the light of the destruction of Plataea. In a certain sense the Plataeans were thus deprived of their merits in the battle of Marathon as well as in the battle of Plataea and had to pay a high price for being allies of the Athenians despite having made an important contribution to the fight for Hellenic freedom. Furthermore, the quarrel about who should be the commander of the left wing of the Hellenic battle line is later depicted in a different light by Herodotus. After the message of Alexander I. and the report of its content to Pausanias on the right wing (Hdt. 9,44 – 45), Herodotus quotes a speech of the Spartan king: “Well, then, since the 40 41 42 43 44 45

Solmsen 1944, p. 248; Kierdorf 1966, pp. 90 – 92; Loraux 1986, pp. 95 – 97 and 155 – 171. Siewert 1986; Grethlein 2004; Bernek 2004; Scardino 2007, p. 304. Loraux 1986, pp. 155 – 171. See in general Jung 2006, pp. 27 – 224, esp. pp. 128 – 146 Translation of Purvis in Strassler 2007, p. 677. Jung 2006, pp. 131 – 133. Hennig 1992, pp. 22 – 24.

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battle will begin at dawn, it would be the best for you, the Athenians, to oppose the Persians, and for us to face the Boeotians and the Hellenes opposite you. After all, you are familiar with the Medes and how they fight, since you fought them at Marathon, while not a single one of us, the men of Sparta, has any experience or knowledge of the Medes in battle, although we are quite familiar with the Boitians and the Thessalians. Therefore you should take up your arms and come over to this wing, and we shall go to the left.” (Hdt. 9,46,2 – 3). Then Herodotus reports the answer of the Athenians: “Actually, for a long time now, indeed from the very beginning when we saw you deployed opposite the Persians, we ourselves have been thinking about suggesting just what you proposed, but we feared that our advice would displease you. Now that you have suggested it, we are pleased with your proposal and are most ready and willing to carry it out.” (Hdt. 9, 46,3).46 In the light of the fate of Plataea in the Peloponnesian War it seems to be ironical that a Spartan king should stress that Spartan soldiers are accustomed to fight against Boeotians. The same is true for the motif of a Spartan king, who follows the Athenian boasts regarding Marathon and withdraws his troops, whilst the Spartan self-staging — as far as the sources for that are at our disposal — underlines its role in the battle of Plataea. And even in the inscription of the monument dedicated after the Persian War Sparta had the first place among the poleis fighting against the Persians, as seen above. But the story does not end here. Herodotus then reports the change of the positions of the Spartan and Athenian troops in the battle line, a move, which was followed by the Persians. When Pausanias learned what was going on he again changed the positions, as the Persians did (Hdt. 9,47). Herodotus then gives a speech of Mardonios, through which Herodotus casts doubts on the virtue of the Lacedaemonians as warriors: they are only said to be the best and bravest men, they are said to fight until they win or die, whereas they had now already left their positions in order to avoid fighting against the Persians and in order to fight against slaves (δοῦλοι) instead. Then Mardonios offers a battle between a single Spartan and Persian detachment, which would initiate the decision about Hellenic freedom or enslavement (Hdt. 9,48).47 Thus Herodotus indeed sheds a negative light on the Spartans by converting the praise of the Lacedaemonian virtue into its reverse, which he had put in the mouth of Demaratos at the beginning of Xerxes’ campaign (Hdt. 7,104).48 Against the background of the actions of the Spartans and the behavior of Archidamos towards the Plataeans this speech makes perfect sense for an audience living in the time of the Peloponnesian War and is congruent with Herodotus’ negative views of Sparta elsewhere in the Histories.49 At the same moment Herodotus can make his criticisms or comments about the Athenian boasts of their deeds at Marathon, since Mardonios prefers a combat with those warriors, who are at least said to be the bravest men of

46 47 48 49

Translation of Purvis in Strassler 2007, p. 688. On the speech see Solmsen 1944, p. 251; Scardino 2007, pp. 308 – 309. Scardino 2007, p. 309. Bichler 2007, p. 20; Millender 2002.

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Hellas. The whole story about the quarrel about who should command the left wing thus becomes the object of a reductio ad absurdum, by means of which Herodotus plays a literary game with the Athenian self-staging. One can therefore see in the detail of the speeches, to which degree the Halicarnassian used his account of the battle for making comments on events and discourses of his own times. The same becomes visible in another detail. As already mentioned, Herodotus states clearly that the Spartans prevailed against the Persian troops and that Mardonios was killed by a the Spartan warrior named Arimnestus, who was later killed in action together with his whole unit of 300 Spartans in a battle against the Messenians (Hdt. 9,63 – 64). Immediately after the death of Mardonius, the Persians began to flee back to their camp, which was fortified by a wooden wall (Hdt. 9,65). This wall has been described earlier in the account of the battle: it had a length of a little less than 10 stades (or about 1.8 km) on each side. Thus it did not have the same extension as the frontline of the whole army along the river Asopus, as Herodotus highlights (Hdt. 9, 15,3). The Asopus, on the other hand, has an important function in his account, since he mentioned earlier that according to a decision of the Athenians this river was the border between Plataea and Thebes (Hdt. 6,108,6). Thus the Thebans — in the eyes of Herodotus — were already guilty during the Persian War of the transgression of the border between them and the Plataeans, as they were in his own times.50 But in the past the Athenians defended Plataea, because — as he highlights — it was the Athenian troops who fought at Plataea against the Greek allies, among whom the Thebans were those who battled most fiercely (Hdt. 9,67). The defence of Plataea was exactly what the Athenians did not do in Herdotus’ own times. Also the mention of the wooden walls of the Persian camps seems to be all but accidental. Thucydides at length describes the wall, that the Spartans built during the siege of Plataea. But more importantly, when they began to build the wall, they cut trees on the Kitharion range in order to construct a wooden frame, which was filled up with earth and rocks (Thuc. 2,75,1 – 2). A few words later this construction is called a wooden wall (ξύλινον τεῖχος) by the Athenians (Thuc. 2,75,4). The wall was evidently a rather impressive building, since Thucydides says that the work was done within seventy days (2,75,3).51 Thus it seems not impossible that Herodotus through the mention of a τεῖχος ξύλινον, which was built by the Persians, forms an allusion to the wooden wall at Plataea, which was evidently famous in the first year of the Peloponnesan War. At least the way in which Herodotus continues with the story points in that direction. Herodotus then reports about the fate of the fleeing Persian troops and their allies. The Persians and their allies gathered themselves in the camp and prepared to defend it. When the Spartans arrived at the camp, the combat started again and the

50 On the importance of borders and the transgression of borders in Herodotus see Bichler 2006, esp. pp. 158 – 159; Bichler and Rollinger 2013, pp. 98 – 99: Mardoinios, too, by means of crossing the Asopus transgresses the border, which was set by an oracle: Hdt. 9,43. 51 Hornblower 1991, p. 360, however, retains it possible that the text here could be corrupt.

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Spartans were unable to break up the Persian position, because they “… had little experience of siege warfare.” (Hdt. 9,70,2).52 At first glance, this affirmation seems to be pretty strange in the light of what has been said about the Spartan siege works at Plataea during the Peloponnesian War. But Herodotus continues to relate that the Persians defended themselves very well until the Athenians arrived. The Athenians then brought the decision: “Finally, by their valor and perseverance, the Athenians mounted the wall and tore it down …” (Hdt. 9,70,2),53 by means of which the victory was completed. As a matter of consequence Herodotus seems to make a comment about the behavior of the Athenians towards the Plataeans in his own times. Through their valor and perseverance (ἀρετῇ τε καὶ λιπαρίῃ) they were able to mount the wall and tear it down, when they fought against the Persians, thus they could have done the same for the Plataeans when the latter were besieged by the Spartans. But they did not, since at the same time they fought on Lesbos as well as on Minoa and had to deal with the Spartan invasion in Attica (Thuc. 3,26 – 51).54 Thus the strategy of not waging war on land and of using the navy to project military power elsewhere in the theatre of the Peloponnesian War brought with it the total destruction of Plataea and its annihilation as a political entity. Herodotus’ description with its possible allusions to his own times seems to be not only a bitter comment on what was going on in his own times, but also a forceful comment on the behavior of Athens and Sparta. Both poleis, saviors of Hellas in the Persian War, sole winners of the decisive battle at Plataea, became responsible for the destruction of the city as well as the polity of the Plataeans and made it possible that Thebes, which was fighting bravely on the side of the Persian invaders and had then already encouraged the Persians to attack Plataea, finally prevailed in the conflict between the Thebans and the Plataeans. The effect of this particular description of the deeds of the Spartans and Athenians at Plataea is amplified by the synchronism of this battle with that at Mykale and that both battles were fought in the vicinity of the sanctuary of the Euleusinian Demeter (Hdt. 9,62,2 and 9,101,1); at Mykale a rumor was heard at the very moment when the Hellenes had prevailed at Plataea (Hdt.9,101,3).55 Thus it was, in the view of Herodotus, one single day, which in 479 BC brought freedom for the Greeks in Hellas and Asia. The two examples discussed here and the narrations regarding the battle in other sources show clearly that Herodotus’ description of the events at Plataea in 479 BC is only one version of them, even though it was a mighty one. It seems, at least, to be highly probable that Herodotus’ narration was highly biased through his literary effort to comment on, and maybe even to judge, the events of his own times by means of the historie.

52 53 54 55

Translation of Purvis in Strassler 2007, p. 699. Translation of Purvis in Strassler 2007, p. 699. On the Athenian actions on Mytilene see Ruffing 2016a, p. 36. On the synchronisms of battles in Herodotus and the Greek historiography see Bichler 2001, pp. 356 – 357; Bichler 2007 (1985).

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Other motifs for the narration of the events at Plataea are part of literary efforts, which can be found in the whole work, as already mentioned above. This is for instance the case with the advice of Artabazos. During the time in which both the Hellenic coalition and the Persians as well as their allies did not start the combat due to unfavorable auspices, Mardonios had a meeting with the aforementioned Artabazos, who — as Herodotus underlines — was one of the few persons, who were highly esteemed by Xerxes. Artabazos, now, has the role of the wise adviser for Mardonios, a motive which often occurs in the Histories.56 He gives the advice to withdraw all troops to Thebes, since there there were a lot of supplies and money as well as gold and silver (9,41,2 – 3). Then he goes on and gives to Mardonios the following advice: “They should spare none of this [sc. gold, silver and coinage], he said, but send it off to be distributed among the Hellenes, especially among those who were prominent in their cities; if they did this, the Hellenes would quickly surrender their freedom and the Persians would not have to be exposed to the risks of battle. This proposal of Artabazos was really the same advice as that which the Thebans had given [see Hdt. 9,2], as he also had more foresight than the Persian commander.” (Hdt. 9,41,3 – 4).57 As usual in Herodotus, Mardonius did not listen to his adviser and suffered the same fate as all persons not listening to the advice of wise men. On the other hand, Artabazos and his soldiers — 40,000 men — escaped from the slaughter which followed the battle (Hdt. 9,66). But, more importantly, his affirmation that a distribution of money among the leading citizens in the poleis of the Hellenes would cause the surrender of Hellas and Herodotus’ auctorial comment that even the Thebans had given the same advice, is part of a general literary effort which can also be observed elsewhere: the corrupting power of wealth and money.58 Together with other stories found in the Histories, the advice given by Artabazos — as reported by the Halicarnassian — demonstrates clearly that in his view money was highly pernicious in processes of political decisions.59 Herodotus evidently did not have any doubt that the Persians would have prevailed, if Mardionius had listened to the Thebans and Artabazos. Thus he gives a rather pessimistic comment: all military bravery of the Athenians as well as of the Spartans would have been useless, if Mardonios had had enough foresight to listen to his advisers. Hellenic freedom is thus based on the arrogance and hybris of a Persian commander in chief, who had too much confidence in the military power at his disposal: “Indeed, Mardonios’ attitude was the more forceful and competitive of the two, and in no way submissive, for he believed his army was much stronger than that of the Hellenes, and that it should engage in battle as quickly as possible rather than allow the Hellenes to marshal still more men than they had already assembled.” In this way

56 57 58 59

Bischoff 1932; Bichler and Rollinger 2013, pp. 108 – 111. Translation of Purvis in Strassler 2007, p. 686. Bichler 2007 (1984), esp. pp. 23 – 24. Ruffing 2016b, pp. 178 – 179.

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the whole narration of the victory of the Greek coalition gets a stale aftertaste and Hellenic bravery at war is set in an unfavorable light. That wealth notoriously brings harm with it is underlined by a further episode which was narrated in the context of the battle of Plataea. As Herodotus reports, Pausanias had ordered the helots to gather the booty on the battlefield. Indeed, he gives a rather vivid description of what the helots did: “They scattered throughout the camp and found tents adorned with gold and silver, golden mixing bowls, libation bowls, and other drinking vessels. On the wagons they discovered sacks in which they saw cauldrons of gold and silver. And they stripped the bodies lying there of their bracelets, necklaces, and golden daggers, but they paid no attention at all to the embroidered clothing.” (Hdt. 9,80,1 – 2).60 Then, he goes on to mention that the helots stole parts of the booty and sold these parts to the Aiginetans; the latter became wealthy through the possession of the stolen goods (Hdt. 9,80,3).61 For Herodotus’ audience the consequences of this unlawful acquisition of wealth must have been obvious, since Aegina was annihilated shortly after the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War as a political entity by the Athenians due to general security considerations and due to the belief that Aegina was the reason for the beginning of the conflict. All inhabitants of the polis, men, women and children were expelled by the Athenians (Thuc. 2,27).62 Again, the image created by Herodotus is an impressive one: those who became wealthy through unlawful deeds were then deprived of their wealth and became displaced persons through the deeds of those who fought bravely at Plataea for the freedom of Hellas. Thus, once more it becomes clear that wealth brings only harm, not happiness. It seems to be a safe assumption that Herodotus, by means of mentioning this episode again, combines an allusion to the events of his own times with a broader narrative pattern, which is the discussion of the evil brought about through wealth and money. In this way Herodotus gave his own view on the discourse about the role and importance of wealth, which had evidently been flourishing since the Pentecontaetia, at least in Athens.63

4

Conclusion

What has been mentioned until this point gives every reason for the view that Herodotus’ description of the battle of Plataea forms part of his broader literary aims. His narration and attribution of the merits for the Hellenic victory to Sparta and Athens are to be seen as a critical comment on what was going on in his own time. Evidently, he is part of the same discourse community as Thucydides. This makes it possible 60 61 62 63

On Herodotus’ quite idiosyncratic view of the helots see Ruffing 2016c, pp. 193 – 194. On Herodotus and the Aeginetans see Irwin 2011. Ruffing 2016a, p. 35. Ruffing 2016b.

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to use Thucydides as a source, which participates, with another point of view, in the same discussions in Athens. Sometimes the latter even made comments on Herodotus’ view, which he evidently knew well.64 At the very least, some of the contemporary discourses become visible in this way. On the other hand, it becomes visible that Herodotus did not only have his own literary aims and efforts, but that he also used the narration of the past, the historie, in order to discuss and comment on the events of his own time. This is not only true for his whole work, but also in the case of his description of the battle of Plataea. The overall impression is that this description is a masterpiece of Herodotean narrative art, which is styled in every detail. It combines comments about what was happening in Herodotus’ own times with broader literary patterns and aims, by means of which Herodotus participated in broader discourses flourishing in Athens during the beginning of the Peloponnesian War. A comparison with other possibilities of the commemoration of the decisive battle of the Persian War clearly shows how idiosyncratic Herodotus’ account is. The inversion of the argument shows that his reading of the events is highly intentional, that he uses the past as an argument in contemporary discourses. For this kind of historie Hans-Joachim Gehrke coined the term ‘intentional history’.65 But this means nothing other than that, even regarding the description of the battle of Plataea, there is — to borrow once again the famous book title of François Hartog — only the ‘mirror of Herodotus’, whose account later became the grand narrative for the fighting in 479 BC.

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Bichler, R. 2007 (1985). Der Synchronismus von Himera und Salamis. Eine quellenkritische Studie zu Herodot, In Reinhold Bichler. Historiographie – Ethnographie – Utopie. Gesammelte Schriften, Teil 1: Studien zu Herodots Kunst der Historie, R. Rollinger ed., 47 – 54. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. (Orig.: R. Bichler 1985. Der Synchronismus von Himera und Salamis. Eine quellenkritische Studie zu Herodot. In Römische Geschichte, Altertumskunde und Epigraphik. Festschrift Artur Betz, E. Weber and G. Dobesch eds, 59 – 74, Wien: Österreichische Gesellschaft für Archäologie.) Bichler, R. 2016 (2009). Probleme und Grenzen der Rekonstruktion von Ereignissen am Beispiel antiker Schlachtbeschreibungen. In Reinhold Bichler. Historiographie – Ethnographie – Utopie. Gesammelte Schriften, Teil 4: Studien zur griechischen Historiographie, R. Rollinger and K. Ruffing eds, 43 – 66. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. (Orig.: R. Bichler 2016. Probleme und Grenzen der Rekonstruktion von Ereignissen am Beispiel antiker Schlachtbeschreibungen. Zur Fragestellung im Rahmen des Generalthemas der Tagung. In Das Ereignis. Geschichtsschreibung zwischen Vorfall und Befund, M. Fitzenreiter ed., 17 – 34. London: Golden House.) Bichler, R. 2013. Zur Funktion der Autopsiebehauptungen bei Herodot. In Herodots Quellen – Die Quellen Herodots, B. Dunsch and K. Ruffing eds, 135 – 151. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Bichler, R. and Rollinger, R. 32011. Herodot. Hildesheim et al.: Olms. Bischoff, H. 1932. Der Warner bei Herodot, Borna and Leipzig: Noske. Blösel, W. 2004. Themistokles bei Herodot. Spiegel Athens im fünften Jahrhunder. Studien zu Geschichte und historiographischen Konstruktion des griechischen Freiheitskampfes 480 v. Chr. Stuttgart: Steiner. Blösel, W. 2013. Quellen – Kritik: Herodots Darstellung der Athener. In Herodots Quellen – Die Quellen Herodots, B. Dunsch and K. Ruffing eds, 255 – 271. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Blösel W. 2018. Herodotus’ Allusions to the Sparta of his Day. In Interpreting Herodotus, Th. Harrison and E. Irwin eds, 243 – 264. Oxford University Press. Boedeker, D. and Sider, D. 2001. The New Simonides. Contexts of Praise and Desire, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dorati, M. 2013. Indicazioni di fonti (‘Quellenangaben’) e narrazione storica. Alcune considerazioni narratologiche. In Herodots Quellen – Die Quellen Herodots, B. Dunsch and K. Ruffing eds, 223 – 240. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Fehling, D. 1971. Die Quellenangaben bei Herodot. Studien zur Erzählkunst Herodots. Berlin and New York: De Gruyter. Fehling, D. 1989. Herodotus and his sources. Citation, Invention and Narrative Art. Leeds: Francis Cairns. Fornara, C. W. 1971. Herodotus. An Interpretative Essay. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fowler, R. 2003. Herodotus and Athens. In Herodotus and His World. Essays in a Conference in Memory of George Forrest, P. Derow and R. Parker eds, 305 – 318. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gehrke, H.-J. 1994. Mythos, Geschichte, Politik – antik und modern. Saeculum 45: 239 – 264. Gehrke, H.-J. 2004. Was ist Vergangenheit ? In Der neue Streit um Troja. Eine Bilanz, C. Ulf ed., 62 – 80, München: Beck.

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„Eine Schlacht wie keine andere“ – alles nur Literatur, oder was ? Agesilaos II., Xenophon und der „Sieg“ Spartas in der Schlacht bei Koroneia (14. August, 394 v. Chr.), der vielleicht eher doch eine Niederlage war !

Oliver Stoll

Nach dem Ende des Peloponnesischen Krieges (431 – 404) stand Sparta vor großen Aufgaben: Eine Kontrolle über das griechische Festland und die Ägäis musste übernommen werden, ohne dass es ein geeignetes Integrations- oder „Reichskonzept“ gegeben hätte. Nach wie vor waren die Spartaner zudem mit den Persern konfrontiert – ein Kräftemessen um die griechischen Städte Kleinasiens, das Sparta im Grunde überforderte. Und auch in Griechenland selbst regte sich zunehmend Widerstand. Mit dem Scheitern des Versuches des Kyros, sich gegen seinen regierenden Bruder, den Großkönig Artaxerxes II., im Kampf um den persischen Thron durchzusetzen (402/401 v. Chr.) – Ereignisse, an denen zahlreich griechische Söldner und auf Beschluss der Ephoren u. a. auch 700 – 800 Hopliten unter Cheirisophos beteiligt waren (Xen. Hell. 3,1,1 und Xen. An. 1,4,3), und über die wir den „Augenzeugenbericht“ des Xenophon von Athen (geb. zwischen 430 – 425; gest. ca. 355 v. Chr.), die Anabasis, vorliegen haben –, bot sich nach einem Hilfegesuch der ionischen Poleis für Sparta als „Schutzmacht aller Hellenen“ eine Gelegenheit, entsprechend aufzutreten (Xen. Hell. 3,1,3). Der Harmost Thibron – ebenfalls in der Anabasis erwähnt – wurde mit Truppen nach Asien entsandt und eröffnete, zusammen mit den Resten der Söldnerarmee des Kyros, den „Kyreiern“, den sogenannten Spartanischen Perserkrieg (400 – 394 v. Chr.). Nach wechselhaften und wenig erfolgreichen Aktionen übernahm 396 König Agesilaos II. das Kommando, um den Griechenstädten zur Autonomie zu verhelfen. Seine Operationen verliefen erfolgversprechend, so dass es sogar zu Friedensverhandlungen kam, bei deren Erfolg zwar Agesilaos das Land hätte verlassen müssen, aber die kleinasiatischen Städte wären fortan autonom gewesen, wenn auch tributpflichtig. Die Verhandlungen scheiterten aber, die Perser hatten inzwischen mit Gold in Griechenland für die Bildung einer antispartanischen Koalition gesorgt: Im Frühjahr 394 wurde Agesilaos aus Asien zurückgerufen, Athen hatte zwischenzeitlich das Bündnis mit Sparta gebrochen und mit Theben, Argos, Korinth einen Bund geschlossen – die Symmachie, letztendlich dann der Korinther, Boioter, Athener und Argiver, war bereits 395 „auf ewige Zeiten“ geschlossen worden (Diod. 14,82): Der © Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_7

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Korinthische Krieg (395 – 386 v. Chr.) hatte begonnen, der geführt wurde, um Spartas Vorherrschaft in Griechenland zu beenden. Er schränkte Spartas Macht nach schwankendem Verlauf zwar stark ein, blieb aber am Ende ohne eindeutigen Sieger.1 Am Auftakt des Korinthischen Krieges, 394 v. Chr., schlugen die Lakedaimonier zwei siegreiche Schlachten gegen eine Koalition aus Boiotern, Korinthern und Athenern: die eine bei Korinth, am Nemeabach (Xen. Hell. 4,2,9 – 23; 4,3,1), unter Aristodemos, die andere bei Koroneia. Gerade für die Schlacht am Nemeabach nennt Xenophon in den Hellenika recht viele Details, nicht zuletzt (anscheinend) genaue Zahlen zu den Kontingenten der Gegner. Als der Sieg dem heranrückenden Agesilaos gemeldet wird, nennt Xenophon auch Opferzahlen (allerdings sind diese doch etwas kursorisch – acht Lakedaimonier, „nicht wenige von den Bundesgenossen“, „viele von den Feinden“: Xen. Hell. 4,2,21; 4,3,1; in Xen. Ages. 7,5 sind es „10 000“ Gefallene auf der Seite der Allierten) und differieren sehr von den entsprechenden Angaben Diodors.2 Beide Male siegte das spartanische Heer und beide Male können wir Xenophons Darstellung in den Hellenika mit der Gestaltung des Geschehens im Enkomion Agesilaos vergleichen (d. h., im Agesilaos ist es für die Schlacht am Nemeabach ein negativer Befund: sie fehlt, weil eben ein anderer kommandierte), aber nur bei Koroneia befehligte eben auch König Agesilaos II., der in besonderer Weise mit Xenophon verbunden war. Ich möchte mich hier daher auf die Schlacht von Koroneia konzentrieren (Xen. Hell. 4,3,15 – 21; Xen. Ages. 2,6 – 16), aber doch gelegentlich Vergleiche zu den Ereignissen von Korinth bzw. anderen Schlachten des Agesilaos selbst und aus seiner Re1

2

Eine gute Zusammenfassung der Ereignisse insgesamt findet sich u. a. bei Thommen 2003, SS. 169 – 170; s. a. Welwei 2011, SS. 334 – 339; Welwei 2004, SS. 277 – 284; Baltrusch 2016, SS. 102 – 107, aber auch bei Hamilton 1997, SS. 41 – 65; Hamilton 1979, SS. 211 – 298 und Strauss und Ober 1990, SS. 75 – 101 sowie insgesamt bei Buckler 2003, SS. 1 – 128; zu Spartas Krieg in Kleinasien und v. a. auch zum Korinthischen Krieg s. weiter auch Hamilton 1991, SS. 86 – 119 und Cartledge 1987, SS. 208 – 226, 347 – 368 sowie Toalster 2011, SS. 34 – 39. Zu den systemimmanenten Problemen des spartanischen Staates und seines Militärwesens im 4. Jh. v. Chr., dem Festhalten an alten Militärstrukturen aus herrschaftssoziologischen Gründen s. etwa knapp und gut Schulz 1999, SS. 291 – 293, 296, 310. Die Lebensdaten des Xenophon: Binder 2008, SS. 65 – 66 (s. aber Diogenes Laertius [2,55 – 56], der als sein Todesjahr das erste Jahr der 105. Olympiade nennt, im Archontat des Callidemides, und in dem Jahr, in dem Philipp II. in Makedonien auf den Thron kam, das wäre 360/59 v. Chr.), vgl. so aber auch überzeugend Breitenbach 1966, SS. 1571 – 1573. Zu dieser Schlacht vgl. etwa den Überblick über Quellen, Zahlen und Ereignisse bei Sabin 2007b, SS. 111 – 114 und v. a. immer noch auch Pritchett 1969, SS. 73 – 84; s. a. Buckler 2003, SS. 87 – 89. Zu den Problemen der Darstellung, auch zu den Zahlen vgl. Tuplin 1986, SS. 51 – 52. Diodor (14,83,1 – 2) hat wie gesagt andere Zahlenverhältnisse; bei den Verlusten ist er expliziter als Xenophon (Diod. 14, 83,2): 1100 Tote auf Spartanischer Seite, 2800 bei den Koalitionstruppen. S. a. Németh 1994, SS. 95 – 96, 98 der letztlich die Zahlen von Diodor für wahrscheinlicher hält: Bei den angegebenen Zahlen der Kombattanten (Xen. Hell. 4,2, 16 – 17), rund 25 550 Mann aufseiten der Alliierten und 14 800 Mann auf spartanischer Seite hätten die Alliierten bei 10 000 Toten 40 % Verluste gehabt, was sehr unwahrscheinlich ist, zumal ja wenige Wochen später bei Koroneia eine weitere substantielle Armee auf das Feld gestellt werden konnte. Allerdings sind auch bei einer Gefallenenzahl von 2800 die Verluste der Alliierten nicht unbeträchtlich, bei mehr als 10 % (auf spartanischer Seite: etwas mehr als 7 %). Die Truppenzahlen Diodors (14,83,1 – 2) differieren (23 500 Spartaner).

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gierungszeit ziehen, vor allem zu Gefechten im Rahmen des Asienfeldzuges: Wie werden sie in den beiden Werken ein- und desselben Autors – verschiedenen Genres zugehörig, hier Historiographie, dort Enkomion – geschildert, gedeutet und in einen größeren Zusammenhang eingebettet ? Was wird weggelassen und verschwiegen, was wird umgedeutet oder überbetont (z. B. auch „Zahlen“) ? Wie wir wissen, ist Xenophon, Freund und Weggefährte des Agesilaos, selbst Augenzeuge des Geschehens gewesen – von einer direkten Kampfbeteiligung wissen wir zwar nichts ganz Verbindliches, dürfen es aber vielleicht doch ziemlich sicher vermuten.3 Ergänzende „Parallelüberlieferungen“, bei Diodor (Diod. 14,84,1 – 2),4 Plutarch (Plut. Ages. 18,1 – 19,3)5 und Cornelius Nepos (Nepos, Ages. 4,5), Pausanias (Paus. 9,6,4) sowie bei den 3

4

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Vgl. vor allem das Autorzeugnis Xen. An. 5,3,6, er sei mit Agesilaos auf dem Zug gegen die Boioter aus Asien weggezogen. Plut. Ages. 18,1 betont, dass Xenophon anwesend gewesen sei und auf der Seite des Agesilaos gekämpft habe. Zur Frage der Teilnahme an der Schlacht – oder wenigstens der Anwesenheit – gibt es eine Vielzahl von Vermutungen und Meinungen, da man diese bisweilen, wahrscheinlich zu Recht, würde ich meinen, als den wirklichen Grund für seine Verbannung aus Athen angesehen hat, vgl. etwa: Trundle 2004, SS. 159; Rusch 2011, S. 172 und ferner auch Lendle 1995, SS. 315 – 316 sowie Breitenbach 1966, SS. 1574 – 1575. „Augenzeuge“: S. a. Lazenby 2012, S. 172. „Teilnehmer/Mitkämpfer“: Binder 2008, S. 66; vgl. auch Cartledge 1987, S. 60 oder Toalster 2011, S. 91. Zu den Gründen der Verbannung vgl. eine Zusammenfassung der Diskussion bei Waterfield 2006, SS. 51 – 54 oder auch Nickel 2016, SS. 12 – 15. Anders als bei der Schlacht am Paktolos („Battle of Sardis“: Wylie 1992, SS. 118, 121 – 123, 125) können uns aber hier bei der Prüfung und dem kritischen Miteinbezug der Diodor-Passage die Hellenika Oxyrhynchika nicht weiterhelfen, da die Schlacht von Koroneia dort wohl nicht mehr behandelt worden zu sein scheint: Behrwald 2005, S. 15; möglicherweise – ganz sicher ist es nicht – bildete die Seeschlacht von Knidos 394 v. Chr. und damit ein Ereignis unmittelbar vor der Schlacht bei Koroneia den Endpunkt der Hellenika Oxyrhynchika. Vgl. auch Scardino 2014, SS. 620 – 621: Das Werk (Autor Theopomp oder Kratippos ?) umfasst die Zeit von 411 v. Chr. bis zur Seeschlacht von Knidos 394 v. Chr. oder Bleckmann 1998, S. 8; zum Universalhistoriker Diodor und dessen Abhängigkeit, insbesondere von Ephoros, vgl. dann ebd. SS. 668 – 672 und zu Ephoros vgl. ebd. SS. 631 – 633. Zur Schlachtbeschreibung und ihrer Abhängigkeit von Ephoros, dessen Ruf als „Militärhistoriker“ nicht gerade groß ist s. auch Buckler und Beck 2008, SS. 59 – 60 mit Anm. 3. S. a. Toalster 2011, SS. 26 – 27. Zu Xenophon und Diodor vgl. Rood 2004, SS. 341 – 395 und auch Krafft 1967, SS. 145 – 149, ebd. S. 342 zu Diodor und den Hellenika Oxyrhynchika. Zu Xenophon und den Hellenika Oxyrhynchika s. auch weiter Buckler 2004, SS. 397 – 411, der a. a. O. S. 410 im Vergleich die Darstellung des Xenophon bevorzugt. Flower 2012, SS. 66 – 67 zu „Auslassungen“ wichtiger Ereignisse in den Hellenika (z. B. die Gründung des Zweiten Attischen Seebundes; Gründung von Megalopolis) und der Bedeutung Diodors und der Hellenika Oxyrhynchika als notwendigem Korrektiv. Ausführliche Vergleiche zwischen Schlachtdarstellungen bei Xenophon und solchen in der Hellenika Oxyrhynchika-Tradition, bzw. bei Diodor, hat Bleckmann 1998, SS. 41 – 198 angestellt (allerdings konzentriert sich Bleckmann auf Schlachten des Dekeleischen Krieges) und kommt, was den Quellenwert der letzteren angeht, zu einem eher negativen Ergebnis (s. etwa besonders Bleckmann 1998, SS. 129 – 132, SS. 180 – 182 zur Glaubwürdigkeit und literarischen Konstruiertheit der Schlachtenberichte Diodors und der Hellenika Oxyrhynchika, nämlich auch durch Variation umfangreicher xenophontischer Elemente [wörtliche Abhängigkeiten: s. ebd. SS. 133 – 148], versus der knapperen, aber sachlich richtigen Analysen des Xenophon, s. etwa ebd. SS. 183 – 188 zu dessen Authentizität). Vgl. aber die weiteren Hinweise bzw. eine relativierende Sicht bei Scardino 2014, S. 621 mit Anm. 17. Vgl. vor allem den Kommentar von Shipley 1997. Ebd. SS. 46 – 55 zu den Quellen des Plutarch (Xenophon, Hellenika und Agesilaos, aber auch Ephoros und möglicherweise Diodor sowie die Hellenika Oxyrhynchica u. a.) und s. weiter ebd. SS. 226 – 240 zur Schlacht von Koroneia.

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Fachschriftstellern Frontin (Frontin. strat. 2,6,6) und Polyainos (Polyain. 2,1,3 – 5), mit ihren Strategemsammlungen, runden das zu betrachtende Bild ab. Entsteht ein stimmiger Eindruck, wie – und vielleicht auch warum – antike Schlachtdarstellungen literarisch „bearbeitet“, verändert und gedeutet werden können ? Dass es sich hier nur um eine exemplarische Untersuchung, mit keinem Anspruch auf allgemeine Gültigkeit, handeln kann, bedarf sicher keiner eigenen Erwähnung !6

Paradigmatische Historiographie: die Hellenika, der Agesilaos, der spartanische König Agesilaos II. und Xenophon von Athen Was die Chronologie der Werke Hellenika und Agesilaos bzw. ihre Werkfolge angeht, so ist es fast communis opinio, dass das Enkomion Agesilaos dem Geschichtswerk nachfolgt, allerdings gibt es auch immer einmal wieder den Versuch, das Gegenteil zu erweisen:7 Hier ist insbesondere K. Bringmann zu nennen, der die Auffassung vertreten hat, dass die Hellenika – und auch mit kleineren Abänderungen die Darstellung der Schlacht von Koroneia darin – bzw. die Endredaktion des Werkes auf den Agesilaos folgt.8 Da die Hellenika von 411 v. Chr. bis zur Schlacht von Mantineia (362 v. Chr.) reichen, dürften sie um 360 fertiggestellt worden sein, das gleiche gilt aber auch für den Agesilaos, der als Enkomion unmittelbar nach dem Tode des Königs verfasst worden sein muss und damit ebenfalls um 360/59 v. Chr.9 Allzu weit entfernt sind die beiden Werke also nicht in ihrer Abfassungszeit und das erklärt vielleicht auch einiges: Wie bei der „Battle of Sardis“, dem Gefecht am Paktolos, fällt bei einem Vergleich der Darstellungen der Schlacht von Koroneia in den Hellenika und dem Agesilaos grundsätzlich zunächst auf, dass beide größtenteils übereinstim-

6

7

8 9

Allgemein zur Darstellung „militärischer Ereignisse“ in den Hellenika vgl. Tuplin 1986, SS. 37 – 66, der 153 entsprechende Passagen im Text des Werkes gezählt hat ! Seine Statistik der „Genauigkeit“ (oder der „Auslassungen“) in deren Rahmen macht aber keine große Hoffnung: 25 % der Darstellungen nennt keine Kommandeure, 50 % nennt nicht genauer die beteiligten Truppengattungen, mehr als 60 % gibt keinerlei Informationen über Truppenstärken; ähnlich ungenau sind Erörterungen der Topographie oder zur genauen Taktik (ebd. SS. 37 – 39). Vgl. etwa Wylie 1992, S. 118 Anm. 1 mit weiteren Hinweisen auf „Meinungen“ dazu. Breitenbach 1966, S. 1702, zu den beiden Werken spezieller vgl. ebd. SS. 1656 – 1708; s. dann auch zur Hellenika Scardino 2014, SS. 625 – 627 und zum Agesilaos Schorn 2014, SS. 700 – 701 – „Enkomion“ vgl. Xen. Ages. 10,3; Flower 2012, S. 27. Komplizierter (wechselnde Abhängigkeiten – sich überschneidenden „Arbeitsphasen“ an beiden Werken ?): Krömer 1971, SS. 98 – 105, 116; Scardino 2014, SS. 626 – 627; Nickel 2016, SS. 162 – 164 und Nickel 1979, S. 88: der Agesilaos setzt die Hellenika voraus; so auch Toalster 2011, S. 91. Bringmann 1971, SS. 224 – 241, zu Koroneia s. ebd. SS. 231 – 236; dazu s. auch Hirsch 1985, SS. 56 – 57 und Nickel 2016, SS. 163 – 165. Zur Werkchronologie: s. etwa Binder 2008, S. 67. Zu einer Charakterisierung der beiden Werke vgl. Nickel 2016, SS. 67 – 87 und Nickel 1979, SS. 44 – 56, s. a. ebd. SS. 86 – 89 und auch die Lit. oben Anm. 5.

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men, sogar fast in identischem Wortlaut.10 Überhaupt stimmen Kap. 1,6 – 2,24 des Agesilaos, der Abschnitt zu seinen Taten, und die entsprechenden Abschnitte aus den Büchern 3 – 6 der Hellenika weitgehend überein.11 Aber es gibt gerade bei der Schlacht von Koroneia eben auch Unterschiede in Darstellung und Bewertung in den beiden Werken, sich ergänzende Versionen oder auch Widersprüche, auf die wir besonders, allerdings vorwiegend erst im nächsten Abschnitt hinweisen wollen.12 Die Charakteristik der beiden Gattungen – hier (jedenfalls vordergündig) Historiographie, dort Lobschrift bzw. Nachruf und Enkomion – ist eine Erklärung hierfür, die schon früh gefunden worden ist:13 Im Agesilaos könne man das Musterbild des Königs, Feldherren und Patrioten finden; da konnten benötigte Einzelheiten ausgewählt und aus den Hellenika entnommen und gegebenenfalls ergänzt werden. Das, was zum „Lobe seines Helden nichts beitrug“, blieb eben im Enkomion dann unberichtet. Xenophon geht hier nicht auf die historische Bedeutung seines Helden ein, nur die Persönlichkeit zählt, ein Idealbild, bei dem es nicht auf historische Wahrheit ankam.14 Andererseits erzählt natürlich auch der Agesilaos manches, was in den Hellenika nicht zu finden ist, Dinge, die in einer Lobschrift angebracht sind, in einem Werk der Historiographie aber eben nicht. Allerdings sind aber auch die Hellenika nach weitverbreiteter Einschätzung keine historiographisch umfassende Wiedergabe und Analyse geschichtlicher Vorgänge, sondern werden zu einer Darstellung „ruhmvoller Taten“ ohne Rücksicht auf historischen Gehalt, mit der Absicht, die exemplarische Bedeutung menschlicher Leistungen, unabhängig von ihrem historischen Gehalt herauszustellen. Der „rhetorische Charakter“ der Historiographie erlaubt es, dass das historische Material „geformt“ wird (Umdeutungen, Auslassungen, Verschweigen), die „ganze Wahrheit“ über den Gegenstand oder Personen muss nicht enthüllt wer-

10 Für die Paktolos-Schlacht (Xen. Hell. 3,4,21 – 25 und Xen. Ages. 1,29 – 32) vgl. die Analyse von Wylie 1992, SS. 118 – 130. Zu den fast wörtlichen Entsprechungen zwischen Hellenika und Agesilaos s. schon Güthling 1888, S. 1. 11 Bringmann 1971, SS. 225; v. a. Breitenbach 1966, SS. 1703 – 1705 mit einer genauen Auflistung der vergleichbaren Passagen. Zum (selbst erlebten) Zeitgeschichtscharakter der Bücher 3 – 5,1 der Hellenika, ja einem gewissen „Memoirencharakter“ und einem „spartanischen Blickwinkel“ s. Scardino 2014, S. 626. 12 Tejada 2004, SS. 139 – 140 sieht gerade in dieser Verbreitung heterogenen Materials auf verschiedene Werke, über die Grenzen literarischer Konvention hinaus, die Innovativität des Historikers Xenophon. Was nicht in die politisch-militärische Geschichte der Hellenika „hineinpasse“, erscheine eben in anderen Werken von historiographischer Signifikanz, etwa in „Biographien“, wie dem Agesilaos, oder in Fachschriften (Hipparchikos, Peri Hippikes) oder anderswo in seinem Werk. Zu Unterschieden vgl. Dillery 1995, SS. 114 – 119. 13 Güthling 1888, S. 2. Zum Agesilaos als Enkomion vgl. Nickel 2016, SS. 204 – 206 und Schorn 2014, SS. 700 – 701, der zugleich auf die apologetische Funktion des Werkes hinweist: Die Reputation des Agesilaos in der öffentlichen Meinung sei extrem schlecht gewesen, es habe gegolten, diese wiederherzustellen. Von versteckter Kritik könne keine Rede sein. Für die Schlachtdarstellung (Koroneia) gilt das sicher nicht, wie wir noch sehen werden. 14 Nickel 2016, SS. 85, 208; Nickel 1979, S. 54; Mueller-Goldingen 2007, SS. 90 – 91. S. a. Hamilton 1991, SS. 10 – 11.

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den, um den Zweck zu erfüllen: Das Interesse an herausragenden Persönlichkeiten verbindet die beiden Werke bei Xenophon, die Hellenika und den Agesilaos.15 In den Hellenika – aus militärhistorischer Sicht eine Art „collection of campaign narratives“16 von eher wechselnder Genauigkeit – werden Leben und Leistungen des Eurypontiden Agesilaos II.17 zwischen 401 und 361 v. Chr. recht ausführlich, aber durchaus mit unterschiedlicher Intensität entfaltet. Von seiner Königswahl (Xen. Hell. 3,3,4), über die Entsendung nach Kleinasien auf Betreiben des Lysander (Xen. Hell. 3,4,2 – 4),18 mit dem Oberbefehl über ein Heer von 30 Spartiaten, 2000 Neodamoden, also zum Kriegsdienst herangezogenen, freigelassenen Heloten, und 15 Nickel 2016, SS. 68 – 69. Deswegen ist die Einschätzung von Mueller-Goldingen 2007, S. 123 interessant, die Hellenika seien „eine Art praktisches Handbuch für zeitgenössische Politiker“ ! Zu Xenophons historiographischer Methode vgl. aber Breitenbach 1950 und Nickel 2016, SS. 75 – 78 mit einer kurzen und prägnanten Zusammenfassung der entsprechenden Ergebnisse; s. aber auch Nickel 1979, SS. 116 – 118: Xenophon verzichtet auf eine systematische Sammlung und Auswertung von Informationen, verschweigt historisch relevante Fakten – er hat den Rahmen der historiographischen Gattung vielfach verlassen. Zu den erstaunlichen Auslassungen vgl. Jehne 2004, SS. 463 – 480, v. a. zur Kategorie des Verschweigens. An diesem Punkt muss auf einen zentralen Begriff für Xenophons Denken hingewiesen werden, die Nützlichkeit (ὠϕέλεια): Das Wissen, das Xenophon schaffen will, muss einen Nutzen haben (Nützlichkeitsprinzip: vgl. Nickel 1979, SS. 32 f.), das steht selbstverständlich bei der literarischen Formung des jeweiligen Gegenstandes im Hintergrund. Zu Xenophon als Autor und seiner „Erzähltechnik“ vgl. allgemein Flower 2012, SS. 40 – 59, zu den Hellenika, etwa ebd. SS. 47 – 50, 51 zu seinem „didactic purpose“; ebd. SS. 66 – 67 zu „Auslassungen“ wichtiger Ereignisse in den Hellenika (z. B. der Gründung des Zweiten Attischen Seebundes; aber auch die Seeschlacht von Knidos wird eigentlich nur am Rande erwähnt, obwohl sie ja für Agesilaos eine große Rolle spielt) und der Bedeutung Diodors und der Hellenika Oxyrhynchika als Korrektiv. Zu den Auslassungen und der „didaktischen Absicht“ s. a. Scardino 2014, S. 627, vgl. ebd. SS. 630 – 631 zur Bewertung von Xenophon als Historiker. 16 Rood 2012, SS. 161 – 162, zu den Hellenika bes. SS. 162 – 169; vgl. auch Tuplin 1986, SS. 37 – 66. 17 An moderneren Behandlungen zur Person des Königs, bzw. zur spartanischen Politik zwischen dem Ende des Peloponnesischen Krieges und den Schlachten bei Leuktra oder Mantineia, hat es eigentlich keinen Mangel (zum König und der Politik Spartas vgl. etwa Cartledge 1987, Hamilton 1991); die Schlacht von Koroneia wird dabei aber meist nur eher en passant genannt. Stellvertretend seien hier genannt De Voto 1982, SS. 120 – 123; im größeren Zusammenhang vgl. etwa auch Rusch 2011, SS. 148 – 179, bes. SS. 171 – 174 zur Schlacht; dann s. auch Hamilton 1979, SS. 225 – 226 und Hamilton 1991, SS. 106 – 109 sowie Cartledge 1987, SS. 221 – 222; besonders bemerkenswert Welwei 2011, SS. 334 – 339, der die Schlacht in nur einem einzigen Satz erwähnt; s. a. Welwei 2004, S. 284 (ebenfalls ein Satz !). Baltrusch 2016, SS. 104 – 105 erwähnt sie überhaupt nicht ! Zu Xenophon und seiner Darstellung des Agesilaos und seinem Wirken, inklusive der Schlacht von Koroneia vgl. insgesamt auch Anderson 1974, SS. 146 – 171. Etwas ausführlicher zur Schlacht von Koroneia Lazenby 2012, SS. 168 – 172; Sabin 2007b, SS. 114 – 117 und v. a. die hervorragende und übersichtliche Synopse bei Schwartz 2009, SS. 248 – 249; vgl. dann aber auch Anderson 1970, SS. 150 – 154 („Hoplite against Hoplite“) und vor allem Buckler 1996, SS. 59 – 72 und Buckler und Beck 2008, SS. 59 – 70, dann s. a. Pritchett 1969, SS. 85 – 95 sowie auch Toalster 2011, SS. 102 – 112; s. a. Buckler 2003, SS. 90 – 95; zu Problemen mit der Darstellung der Schlacht bei Xenophon s. Tuplin 1986, SS. 52 – 53. 18 In Xen. Ages. 1,7 sind die Zahlenangaben zum Heer identisch, nicht aber die Behandlung der Rolle des Lysander: Im Agesilaos wird der König auf eigenen Antrieb hin „panhellenisch tätig“. Neodamoden, Bündner und Peltastensöldner bei auswärtigen Verpflichtungen: Schulz 1999, S. 291 sieht hier zu Recht einen Ausdruck der Krise Spartas im 4. Jh., ein Ergebnis eines Widerspruches zwischen der traditionellen politischen Staatsstruktur, dem Mangel an hoplitenfähigen Spartiaten und der ange-

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6000 Bundesgenossen,19 im Jahr 396 und im Rahmen des lakedaimonisch-persischen Krieges (400 – 394 v. Chr.), entspinnt sich die Darstellung. Dann wird über seine Abberufung im Jahr 394 (Xen. Hell. 4,2,1 – 8) berichtet, über die Schlacht am Nemeabach bei Korinth (Xen. Hell. 4,2,16 – 23), danach über den Marsch vom Hellespont über Makedonien und durch Thessalien (Xen. Hell. 4,3,3 – 9). Auf die Schlacht von Koroneia (Xen. Hell. 4,3,15 – 21) folgt die Schilderung zweier Feldzüge gegen Argos und Korinth (Xen. Hell. 4,4,19 und 4,5,1 – 19) 393/92 v. Chr., die Darstellung seines Feldzug in Akarnanien (Xen. Hell. 4,6,1 – 14) 391/90 v. Chr. und der Belagerung von Phleius (Xen. Hell. 5,3,13 – 25), 381 – 379 v. Chr., sowie die zweier weiterer Feldzüge unter seinem Befehl gegen Theben (5,4,35 – 41. 47 – 55), 378/77 v. Chr. Am Ende reicht die Darstellung über den Zug des Agesilaos gegen Arkadien und die Mantineer (Xen. Hell. 6,5,10 – 22) und bis zur Schlacht von Mantineia, 362 v. Chr. (Xen. Hell. 7,5,21 – 27), an der er aber letztlich selbst nicht teilnahm, und damit bis unmittelbar zum „Regierungsantritt“ seines Sohnes Archidamos III. Sein Tod ist in den Hellenika nicht erwähnt (wohl aber eine Erkrankung an zwei Stellen: Xen. Hell. 5,4,58; 6,4,18),20 zuletzt erwähnt ist Agesilaos dort eben vor der Schlacht von Mantineia, als er zum Schutz seiner Heimatstadt nach Sparta umkehrt (Xen. Hell. 7,5,10). Gerade in der ersten Phase, bis zu seiner Abberufung aus Kleinasien, werden immer einmal wieder Gefechte und Schlachten genannt, die später, beim Vergleich von Hellenika und Agesilaos und der Beurteilung der Darstellung der Schlacht von Koroneia noch eine Rolle spielen. Sie werden hier von uns aber meist nur summarisch erwähnt, v. a. ein für die Griechen eher unglücklich verlaufendes Reitergefecht bei Daskyleion (Xen. Hell. 3,4,13 – 15) und der Feldzug gegen Tissaphernes mit der entscheidenden Schlacht am Paktolos (Xen. Hell. 3,4,21 – 24)21 sind gemeint. Das missglückte Gefecht bei Daskyleion beispielsweise wird im Agesilaos überhaupt nicht erwähnt ! Nach der Abberufung aus Kleinasien22 und dem Marsch durch Makedonien und Thessalien (Xen. Hell. 4,3,3 – 9)23 ist dann

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strebten Beherrschung größerer Territorien. Zu Unterschieden in den Hellenika und dem Agesilaos, was panhellenische Gedanken und Politik angeht, vgl. auch Nickel 2016, SS. 36 – 37: Im Enkomion sei der panhellenische Gedanke eine notwendige „rhetorische Ausmalung“. Hamilton 1991, SS. 59 – 60 Agesilaos hatte m. E., was die Zusammensetzung seiner „Armee“ angeht, ähnliche Probleme, wie sie Xenophon im Rahmen der Anabasis bewegten: Die unterschiedlichen Truppenkompartimente mussten motiviert, „zusammengeschweißt“, zu Gehorsam und Loyalität gegenüber dem Kommandeur gebracht werden: Die Kriterien der „guten oder idealen Feldherren“, die Xenophon ja auch bereits in der Anabasis an sich selbst exemplifiziert hatte, und die in allen seinen Werken die essentielle Rolle zum Verständnis spielen, ließen sich also in der Person des Königs hier erneut paradigmatisch und exemplarisch vorführen und darstellen. Für die literarische Ausgestaltung der Königsfigur durch Xenophon erklärt das m. E. Einiges. Zum Tod des 84-jährigen Königs auf dem Heimweg aus Ägypten: Plut. Ages. 40,3; zu seiner Heroisierung bzw. seinem Heroenkult in Sparta vgl. Xen. Ages. 11,16 und Stenger 2004, SS. 421 – 424. Zum Gefecht vgl. die Darstellung bei Xen. Ages. 1, 30 – 32. Zur Schlacht vom Paktolos (dort aber „Battle of Sardis“ genannt) vgl. Wylie, Agesilaos SS. 118 – 130. Sein pflicht- und gesetzestreues Verhalten dabei wird insbesondere Xen. Ages. 1, 36 – 38 ausführlich gewürdigt und eingeordnet. Vollkommen und fast wörtlich vergleichbar: die entsprechende Passage bei Xen. Ages. 2,1 – 5.

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auch noch die Meldung über die Niederlage der Spartaner in der Seeschlacht von Knidos 394 v. Chr. gegen die von dem Athener Konon befehligte persische Flotte und die Reaktion des Agesilaos für unseren Vergleich von Bedeutung (Xen. Hell. 4,3,10 – 14); auch die für Sparta so verheerende Schlacht von Leuktra (Xen. Hell. 6,4,4 – 15) im Jahr 371 v. Chr. steht manches Mal als Bezugspunkt „im Hintergrund“, ohne dass Agesilaos hier direkt beteiligt gewesen wäre; der König war damals wohl auch krank und nicht einsatzfähig (Xen. Hell. 4,4,18; vgl. auch Xen. Ages. 2,23 – 24). Bereits im Zuge der Schilderung des Agierens des Agesilaos in Kleinasien, inklusive seines (etwas verhinderten) Opfers an Artemis in Aulis, das den Zug, wie andere Details auch, in „panhellenischem Licht“ und ihn selbst gewissermaßen als auf den Spuren des Agamemnon gegen Troja wandelnd erscheinen lässt (Xen. Hell. 3,4,3 – 4; 3,5,5 und 7,1,34; vgl. Xen. Hell. 3,5,5; 4,1,41 zu den Absichten des Agesilaos im Perserreich, u. a. Autonomie der Griechenstädte und s. a. Xen. Hell. 6,1,12),24 zeichnet Xenophon in den Hellenika – vom Agesilaos wollen wir gar nicht reden, das ist bei dem Charakter des Werkes ohnehin zweifelsfrei sicher – den Spartanerkönig als idealen Feldherrn, wie er ihn sich vorstellt und mit Kriterien, die er immer wieder und in allen seinen Werken zum Einsatz bringt:25 • Agesilaos ist fromm und „moralisch“;26 Opferhandlungen, um den Ratschlag der Götter einzuholen, spielen immer wieder eine Rolle (Xen. Hell. 3,4,3 – 4; 3,4,15 [nach dem Gefecht von Daskyleion: ein ungünstiges Vorzeichen an der Leber des Opfertieres erzwingt eine Planänderung]; er wählt häufig Heiligtümer als Lagerorte, um dann an Opfern teilzunehmen: Xen. Hell. 4,1,41 [Thebe/Heiligtum der Artemis von Astyra]; 4,5,2 [Isthmos/Poseidon]); Verträge, beschworen im Namen der Götter, sind ihm heilig (Xen. Hell. 3,4,6), während andere (etwa Tissaphernes) Verträge brechen (Xen. Hell. 3,4,11).27 Lokale Kulte werden berücksichtigt, etwa in Ephesos (Kranzweihungen an Artemis: Xen. Hell. 3,4,18): Götterverehrung (ne24 Xen. Ages. 1,6 – 8: die Absicht des Unternehmens sei Rache für die Perserkriege und die „Invasion Griechenlands“ in einem „Offensivkrieg“ zur Unterwerfung Asiens; panhellenische Parolen – Freiheit/Befreiung – und ihr Erfolg bzw. Anerkennung der „Hegemonie“ des Agesilaos: Xen. Ages. 1, 33 – 35. Agesilaos und sein Opfer bei Aulis als Vorbild für das Opfer Alexanders III. und die entsprechende panhellenische Publizistik: Zahrnt 2016, SS. 23 – 24. Agesilaos als „panhellenischer Heros“ vgl. Hirsch 1985, SS. 39 – 55 und insgesamt zum „Panhellenismus“ bei Xenophon Breitenbach 1950, SS. 105 – 115. Man darf im übrigen auch die durch die Boiotarchen verhinderten Opferhandlungen, eine starke Demütigung, als Ursache für den Zorn des Agesilaos auf die Thebaner sehen (vgl. etwa den Wortlaut in Xen. Hell. 3,4,4; 3,5,5), der später, wohl auch bei Koroneia, wieder hochkochte. Zum daraus resultierenden „Thebaner-Hass“ als „dominierendem Movens“ des politischen Handelns des Königs s. a. Toalster 2011, SS. 36 – 37 mit Anm. 20, SS. 38 – 39, 88. 25 Exemplarisch vgl. Stoll 2002, SS. 141 – 149. 26 Frömmigkeit des Agesilaos: Xen. Ages. 3,2 – 5. Allgemein zur Rolle der Religion im Führungsideal des Xenophon vgl. auch Stoll 2010, SS. 52 – 54 und Stoll 2002, SS. 166 – 170; Hutchinson 2000, SS. 45 – 51, 187 – 189, speziell zu Agesilaos und dessen Religiosität ebd. SS. 124 – 125. Religion bei Xenophon vgl. auch Flower 2012, SS. 203 – 216. 27 Dazu vergleiche bes. auch Xen. Ages. 1,10 – 12.

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ben Waffenkunst und Gehorsam) ist hier das Geheimnis für gute Moral und Optimismus.28 Wie üblich, werden Kampfhandlungen ganz selbstverständlich durch Opferhandlungen eröffnet (z. B. Paktolos: Xen. Hell. 3,4,23) und auch formal beschlossen. Bei der Schlacht von Koroneia wird er das Asylrecht des Tempels der Athena Itonia respektieren: Xen. Hell. 4,3,20. Andererseits verzeichnet Xenophon zumindest in den Hellenika auch Sprünge im Idealbild der Person des Königs (etwa bei den Wut und Eifersüchteleien gegen Lysander: Xen. Hell. 3,4,7 – 9). Insbesondere erstaunlich ist in diesem Zusammenhang dann auch die Episode zur spartanischen Niederlage zu See bei Knidos (Xen. Hell. 4,3,10 – 14), weil sie zeigt, wie Agesilaos mithilfe von Kulthandlungen „manipuliert“ und instrumentalisiert, um die Motivation seiner Männer zu erhalten (s. v. a. Xen. Hell. 4,3,13 Überlegungen des Königs zur „Erfolgsabhängigkeit“ der Moral): Die Nachricht vom Tod des Nauarchen Peisandros verkündet er zwar, behauptet aber, die Seeschlacht gegen Pharnabazos und Konon sei ansonsten siegreich gewesen: Er lässt Dankopfer bringen und Opferfleisch verteilen – Xenophon sieht diese „Lüge“ (Xen. Hell. 4,3,14), ein Strategem, zumindest indirekt als Voraussetzung für den Sieg bei Koroneia !29 Im Agesilaos fehlt dieser Zusammenhang: Auf den „Reitersieg“ in Thessalien folgt gleich die Schlacht von Koroneia (Xen. Ages. 2,6 – 16) – die Niederlage und die Lüge werden ausgeblendet ! • Agesilaos ist militärisch versiert, sein Fachwissen ist Teil einer umfassenden und klugen Planung und das resultiert auch in seiner unbestrittenen Führungsrolle.30 Vorausschauende Planungen zeigen sich öfter (z. B. Xen. Hell. 3,4,10.12 [Informationen/taktische bzw. strategische Anpassungen an gegebene Situationen]; Xen. Hell. 3,4,3.11.17.21 [Logistik/Lebensmittel; Ephesos als „Logistikzentrum“, als eine einzige „Kriegswerkstatt“, mit einer Vielzahl an Gewerben, die für Agesilaos arbeiten;31 Versorgung aus der jeweiligen Region: Xen. Hell. 4,1,15 – 17];32 Xen.

28 Hier lässt sich Xen. Ages. 1,27 vergleichen: Auch hier wird der beschriebene Zusammenhang hergestellt – die Verehrung der Götter, die Waffenübung und der Gehorsam sorgen für Optimismus und gute Moral. Das Ganze ist ein „Schlüsselsatz“ zum Verständnis der Denkweise Xenophons zum Wesen guter militärischer Führung ! 29 Und so verwendet die Episode dann auch Polyainos, als Strategem, um die Moral der Truppen zu festigen: Polyain. 2,1,3. Vgl. dazu auch Breitenbach 1950, SS. 74 – 75 und Gray 1989, SS. 150 – 152 sowie Toalster 2011, SS. 104 – 105 Als Vergleich verweist Breitenbach 1950, SS. 74 – 75 Anm. 113 auf Xen. Hell. 1,6,36 (und Polyain 1,44): Eteonikos stellt in Mytilene seinen Truppen die Niederlage bei den Arginusen als Sieg da. „Reception of bad news“ (Knidos): vgl. auch Gray 2011, S. 198, ebd. SS. 198 – 220 auch zu Eteonikos. 30 Fachwissen bzw. Qualität und Effektivität der guten Führung und Gehorsam als Ziel: vgl. Stoll 2010, SS. 54 – 58. 31 Hierzu vgl. Xen. Ages. 1,26. 32 Zur Logistik im Agesilaos s. z. B. Xen. Ages. 1,14 („Märkte“ in den Städten auf dem Weg nach Karien, in Ionien, der Aeolis und dem Hellespont); Xen. Ages. 1,20 (Schonung von dicht besiedeltem und kultiviertem Land aus Gründen der Versorgung der Truppe); s. a. Xen. Ages. 1, 28 (Versorgung aus dem Land). Zur Logistik und zu Märkten sowie zum Fouragieren allgemein vgl. auch Lazenby 1994, SS. 3 – 18, v. a. SS. 10 – 14; zur Logistik s. weitere Hinweise bei Stoll 2013, S. 292 Anm. 46.

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Hell. 3,4,11 [strategische Truppendislokation; „Treffpunkte“]; Xen. Hell. 3,4,12 [taktisches Anpassen an das Gelände und Durchkreuzen der feindlichen Pläne]). Er ist in der Lage, Innovationen einzuführen, wenn es erforderlich scheint: Sein Mangel an Reitern und die mangelhafte Ausrüstung der wenigen Reiter, die er hat [Xen. Hell. 3,4,12; unzulängliche Lanzen beim Reitergefecht von Daskyleion (im Agesilaos nicht erwähnt): Xen. Hell. 3,4,13], veranlassen ihn – zur Freude des Xenophon, der hier übrigens nicht ganz unbeteiligt gewesen zu sein scheint33 –, zur Einsicht, dass er eine eigene schlagkräftige Reiterei aufbauen müsse (Xen. Hell. 3, 4,15; erfolgreicher Einsatz und Freude des Agesilaos über „seine selbst zusammengestellte Truppe“: Xen. Hell. 4,3,9).34 Auch hier zeigt sich in der konsequenten Durchführung seine kluge Planung und Organisation: Die Städte des momentanen Gefechtsraumes werden aufgefordert, Listen mit den reichsten Bürgern zusammenzustellen, die für den Unterhalt der Pferde sorgen sollten; wer Pferd, Waffen und Reiter stellte, müsse nicht selbst am Feldzug teilnehmen, wurde verkündet, was offenbar, so Xenophon a. a. O., eine energische und wunschgemäße Erledigung der Sache zur Folge hatte (vergleichbar auch seine effektive Organisation eines Flottenbaues durch die Städte bei Xen. Hell. 3,4,28) !35 An einer weiteren Stelle, nämlich beim Marsch durch Thessalien, wählt er eine taktische Formation, die Xenophon für den Marsch von Infanterie in „Reitergelände“ empfohlen und auch entwickelt hat (also auch hier ist Xenophons unmittelbarer Einfluss auf den „ziemlich besten Freund“ Agesilaos zu spüren !): das Karree (τό πλαίσιον), mit 33 Innovationen des Xenophon bei der Komposition „seiner“ Armee, u. a. eben bei der Reiterei und deren Ausrüstung: Whitby 2004, S. 217. Die entsprechende Passage ist Xen. An. 3,3,19 – 20. In der Anabasis und anderswo bei Xenophon (zumal natürlich in seinen „Reiterschriften“) findet man immer wieder einen Hinweis auf die Vorteile einer funktionierenden Kavallerie: s. etwa auch Anderson 1974, S. 124 zu einigen betreffenden Passagen; Xenophon und die Reiterei vgl. Stoll 2012, SS. 250 – 257; Stoll 2010, passim, etwa ebd. SS. 15 – 16. Xenophons Interesse in den Hellenika an der Reiterei des Agesilaos vermerkt auch Rusch 2011, S. 160 mit Anm. 40. Wichtig: Wood 1964, S. 36. Allerdings kritisiert er später gerade diese spartanische Reiterei gehörig, nämlich bei der Darstellung ihrer Rolle bei der Schlacht von Leuktra: vgl. die Hinweise bei Stoll 2010, S. 20. 34 In Xen. Ages. 1,17 wird Agesilaos im Vergleich zu Tissaphernes als „Meister der Kriegskunst“ dargestellt, was sich auch auf Täuschungen und „Feldherrntricks“ bezieht; vgl. Xen. Ages. 1,23 – 24 zur Aufstellung und Ausstattung einer Kavallerieeinheit. Freude und Stolz über den Erfolg über die feindliche Reiterei in Thessalien, „dem Reiterland“ s. a. Xen. Ages. 2,5. Tissaphernes geht Agesilaos „auf den Leim“: vgl. Xen. Hell. 3,4,11 – 13. Weitere „Feldherrentricks“ im Agesilaos: Xen. Ages. 2,18 – 19; 2,20, dann vor allem auch Xen. Ages. 6, 6 – 8 zu seinem Trickreichtum im Krieg allgemein (Xen. Ages. 6,6: sogar Nachtangriffe nimmt der König vor; s. a. Whitehead 1988, S. 47). Agesilaos wird auch sonst relativ häufig mit Strategemen aller Art in Verbindung gebracht: s. etwa Frontin. strat. 1,4,2.3 (Gefangene als „Schutzschilde“, Ablenkungsmanöver); 1,8,12 (Täuschung des Tissaphernes, um in Sardis die königliche Kasse in den Besitz zu bekommen); 1,9,3 und 3,11,2 (vorgetäuschter Rückzug); 1,10,5 (Motivation der Truppen); 1,11,17 (Zurschaustellung von persischen Gefangenen, um die eigene Moral zu heben); genauso ist es auch im Werk des Polyainos (2,1,1 – 33; 2,3,10; 3,11,15; 4,4,3 und Exzerpte 8,2; 14,3; 24,2; 29,3; 32, 2 – 3; 42,2; 45,2; Leo-Exzerpte 12,1; 18; 23,2; 26,1). Fachwissen, Planung und die Fähigkeit zu Täuschungen und Strategemen als Kennzeichen des guten Feldherren vgl. auch Stoll 2010, SS. 58 – 60. 35 S. vorherige Anm.: Xen. Ages. 1,24.

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einem Reitervortrupp und einer Kavallerienachhut (Xen. Hell. 4,3,4).36 Die Offiziere werden durch Agesilaos in die Planungen „eingeweiht“ (die Planungen bzw. Absichten werden erklärt), ihre Einbindung dient der Information und letztlich auch der Sicherstellung von Solidarität und Gehorsam (Xen. Hell. 3,4,20 vor der Paktolos-Schlacht). Die Truppengattungen werden gleichzeitig als „verbundene Waffen“ klug eingesetzt, ebenfalls ein Gedanke, den Xenophon immer wieder als ideales Feldherrnhandeln nahelegt: Xen. Hell. 3,4,24 am Fluss Paktolos.37 Ein Gegenbild ist einer der Offiziere des Agesilaos, ein gewisser Herippidas,38 – erneut eher ein „Kratzer im Bild“ des idealen Feldherren: Ein von Agesilaos genehmigtes Unternehmen „geht schief “ bzw. führt zu keinem wirklichen Erfolg, weil Herippidas es offenbar weder versteht, seine Männer an sich zu binden, noch taktisch klug zu handeln; die Männer gehorchen ihm von vorneherein nicht, das Unternehmen hätte nicht um jeden Preis – wir erfahren, dass es ohnehin aus Ehrsucht motiviert war – begonnen werden sollen; zudem „vergrault“ er durch seine Beuteverteilung die persischen Rebellen, die Agesilaos zu Verbündeten gehabt hatte (Xen. Hell. 4,1, 21 – 28), für Agesilaos ein herber und enttäuschender politischer und persönlicher Rückschlag:39 Da Agesilaos den Offizier selbst ausgewählt hatte – und zwar als Kommandeur über die Kyreier (Xen. Hell. 3,4,2040), was Xenophon als vorherigen Kommandeur dieser eingeschworenen „Gemeinschaft“ (unter Thibron)41 ohnehin kritisch gestimmt und wahrscheinlich nicht besonders glücklich gemacht haben dürfte, kommt man hier nicht umhin, ein Wort der Kritik auch an Agesilaos als Feldherrn und „Personalchef “ zu erwarten:42 Es unterbleibt, auch Herippidas wird an dieser Stelle nicht mit einer disziplinarischen Konsequenz konfrontiert, die man dann doch von einem „guten Feldherrn“ als Reaktion fordern würde, im 36 Vgl. Xen. Ages. 2,2. Zum Karree bei Xenophon vgl. die Hinweise bei Stoll 2013, S. 303 und Lee 2007, SS. 155 – 163. 37 Die Taktik der verbundenen Waffen wird ohnehin im 4. Jh. v. Chr. Standard des Feldherrnhandwerks und verlangt diesem auch einiges an Professionalität ab (Wissen, Können, Organisation): s. z. B. zur Entwicklung Schulz 1999, SS. 281 – 284. Vgl. dann aber v. a. Stoll 2002, S. 139 und Stoll 2013, SS. 292 – 293 mit Anmerkungen; s. a. Stoll 2010, SS. 13, 17 – 19. 38 Diodor 14,38,4 – 5 und Polyain. 2,21 überliefern Herippidas als skrupellosen Harmosten, der nicht vor bewußt eingesetzten Massakern an Zivilbevölkerung zurückschreckt: Rusch 2011, S. 155. 39 Rusch 2011, S. 163. 40 Kyreier: οἱ Κυρειοι, so auch schon in Xen. Hell. 3,2,7; sie flößten als gefestigter und erfahrener Kampfverband mitunter dem Gegner solche Angst ein, dass dieser die Annahme des Kampfes von vorneherein schlicht verweigerte, wie das etwa für Tissaphernes aus Angst und Respekt in Xen. Hell. 3,2,18 geschildert wird. 41 Zu den Ereignissen von 400 bis 397 v. Chr. in Asien, zu Thibron (400/399 v. Chr.) und den damals noch 5000 Kyreiern vgl. Rusch 2011, SS. 155 – 159, 238 Anm. 25 (dort weiterführende Literaturhinweise); siehe auch Rusch 2011, SS. 159 – 163, 238 Anm. 35 (Literaturhinweise) zu Agesilaos in Asien (397 – 394 v. Chr.). Herippidas als „one of his (sc. Ages.) most trusted lieutenants“: Cartledge 1987, S. 219. Zu „Xenophon und Agesilaus in Asia“ insgesamt und zu Xenophon als Kommandeur der Kyreier vgl. auch Anderson 1974, SS. 146 – 161, zu seiner „Ablösung“ durch Herippidas s. ebd. S. 152. 42 Xenophon legt ansonsten großen Wert darauf, zu betonen, wie wichtig die richtige Auswahl von guten Offizieren (bzw. von „Personal“ allgemein) ist: vgl. etwa Wood 1964, S. 57. ˘

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Agesilaos ist diese Episode unterdrückt und weggelassen ! Später, bei der Schlacht von Koroneia kommandiert Herippidas (Xen. Hell. 4,3,15 und Xen. Ages. 2,10 – 11) sogar wieder die Söldnertruppen des Agesilaos, scheint also keinen bleibenden Schaden in seiner Wertschätzung und Position davongetragen zu haben; allerdings mag Xen. Hell. 4,3,17 mit dem Verhalten der Truppen unter Herippidas in der Schlacht (Ausbrechen aus der Reihe), erneut auf einen „Kontrollverlust“ dieses Offiziers hindeuten, gleichwohl Xenophon das nicht offen negativ wertet und Herippidas auch hier (jedenfalls im Text) durch Agesilaos selbst nicht dafür getadelt wird. • Seine planende, soziale Kompetenz als Feldherr kommt auch bei der Motivation der Truppen zum Einsatz, die Agesilaos planvoll – über Wettkämpfe/Übungen und Anreize – fördert und fordert, um Disziplin, eine hohe Moral und Gehorsam zu erreichen: etwa Xen. Hell. 3,4,16 – 18 bei der Musterung des Heeres in Ephesos.43 Gezielt werden die einzelnen Waffengattungen (Hopliten, Reiter, Leichtbewaffnete, Bogenschützen) zu Höchstleistungen animiert und offenbar dient das Ganze in diesem Fall auch der „Außenwirkung“ und der Festigung der Moral in Heer und Stadt (die ohnehin mit alle ihren Gewerben – Metallhandwerker, Zimmerleute, Sattler, Schildmaler werden genannt – aus der Anwesenheit des Heeres Gewinn erzielt), die mit eingeplant war.44 Zur guten Moral tragen Götterverehrung, Übung und Gehorsam bei, verantwortlich ist der Vorgesetzte: Xen. Hell. 3,4,18 fasst das in etwa so zusammen. Ein zweites Mal während des Asienfeldzuges nutzt er einen „Wettstreit“ oder Preise und Anreize, um nämlich viele (und die besten) Truppen zu finden, die ihn auf dem Rückweg aus Asien begleiten sollen (Xen. Hell. 4,2,5 – 8): Preise werden ausgesetzt, für die Städte, die das beste Heer entsandten (ein weiteres Mal Solidaritäts-Propaganda für gerade diese Städte, oder soll man sagen gezielte „Medienpolitik“, findet sich Xen. Hell. 4,3,2: Siegesnachrichten sollen an die Städte vermeldet werden, die Soldaten gestellt haben, hier die Nachricht vom Sieg am Nemeabach), dann für die Söldnerführer, die die bestgerüstete Abteilungen hätten und auch für den Reiterobersten mit der am besten berittenen und ausgerüsteten Abteilung – die Entscheidung solle aber erst beim Übertritt nach Europa gefällt werden.45 Als Preis waren besondere Prunkwaffen und Goldkränze ausgelobt. Die Schiedsrichter bestimmte der Feldherr unter seinen Offizieren – ein geschickter Schachzug –, darunter auch der uns schon bekannte Herippidas (Xen. Hell. 4,2,8). Dass der Feldherr soziale Kompetenz auch nutzt, 43 Zu diesem „Anreizsystem“ und seiner Rolle für Xenophons Konstruktion eines Führungsideales vgl. auch Stoll 2002, SS. 173 – 174; Stoll 2010, SS. 71 – 72, dort ebd. SS. 61 – 63 auch allgemein zur Bedeutung von Planung und sozialer Kompetenz für das Führungsideal des Xenophon. Siehe auch Wood 1964, S. 54. 44 Siehe dazu auch entsprechend Xen. Ages. 1,25. 45 Zu dieser Passage s. a. Trundle 2004, S. 128. Zu dieser „Methode“ der Motivation und Ausbildung durch den idealen Feldherren vgl. hier grundsätzlich auch weiter Breitenbach 1950, SS. 82 – 83; Stoll 2010, SS. 71 – 72.

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um doch eher „niedere Instinkte“ seiner Untergebenen zu manipulieren, zeigt die auch in der Strategemliteratur bisweilen als „Motivationsstrategie“ rezipierte Passage Xen. Hell. 3,4,19 mit der entwürdigenden Vorführung nackter und „verweichlichter“ Kriegsgefangener, die den Soldaten letztlich wohl die Angst nehmen sollte: Der Krieg gegen solche Leute bedeute wohl nichts anderes, als mit Frauen zu kämpfen !46 Selbst mithilfe von Kulthandlungen manipuliert er seine Untergebenen und „erzwingt“ auf diese Weise Gefolgschaft, wie wir bereits oben zu den „Dankopfern“ für einen angeblichen Sieg – gleichwohl in Wahrheit eben eine Niederlage – bei Knidos gesehen haben: Xen. Hell. 4,3,10 – 14. Die Lüge als Voraussetzung des Sieges bei Koroneia, so wie Xenophon das sieht, ist Resultat der Überlegung des Agesilaos bezüglich Wesen und Charakter seines Heeres – diese genaue Kenntnis und ihre Berücksichtigung ist grundsätzlich bei Xenophon eine positive Eigenschaft eines guten Feldherrn: Hier bedenkt Agesilaos konkret, dass das Gros seines Heeres von der Art sei, dass es gerne an Erfolgen teilhaben würde, aber nicht bei der Überwindung von Schwierigkeiten; allein die „Verfälschung der Tatsachen“, sei so letztlich Voraussetzung des folgenden Erfolges gewesen (Xen. Hell. 4,3, 13 – 14; von einem „Motivationsproblem“ der Verbündeten für einen Feldzug in Griechenland war auch bereits Xen. Hell. 4,2,5 die Rede, beim Übertritt nach Europa). • Agesilaos führt durch Vorbild, überzeugt auch durch seine Performanz als Feldherr („Diplomat“ und „General“), was wir später auch noch einmal ausdrucksstark in Form seiner Verwundungen bei der Schlacht von Koroneia sehen werden (Xen. Ages. 6,1 – 3 lobt seinen Mut und seinen kriegerischen Erfolg, sein Kämpfen in vorderster Reihe), sein Auftreten (etwa gegenüber den Gesandten des Tissaphernes: 46 Verwendet etwa bei Polyain. 2,1,6. Übrigens ist es im Agesilaos ganz widersprüchlich: Xen. Ages. 1,21 – 22 zeigt der König große Menschlichkeit gegenüber Kriegsgefangenen, besonders gegenüber Kindern, Alten und Kranken; in Xen. Ages. 7,5 bedauert er tote Gegner (allerdings die Toten der Schlacht am Nemeabach), die besser mit ihm gegen die Barbaren gekämpft hätten (s. a. aber teilweise irrtümlich Dayton 2007, S. 45); Xen. Ages. 1,28 dagegen ist die fast wörtliche Entsprechung der oben im Text genannten Hellenika-Passage. Zu den Strategemen: Frontin. strat. 1,4,2 (Gefangene als „Schutzschilde“ beim Rückmarsch) und Frontin. strat. 1,11,17 (Zurschaustellung von persischen Gefangenen, um die eigene Moral zu heben, die oben genannte Episode). „Feldherrnlisten“, Täuschungsmanöver und Strategeme als Standards antiker Kriegführung: allgemein vgl. etwa die Hinweise bei Dayton 2007, SS. 73 – 74 oder auch Krentz 2000, SS. 167 – 182 und Whitehead 1988, SS. 43 – 53, s. etwa ebd. bes. SS. 47, 49 zum Feldherrn als „Dieb“ (κλέπτηϛ), der den anderen mit seiner List „den Sieg stiehlt“: etwa Xen. Mem. 3,1,6 und Xen. Kyr. 1,6,27. Xenophon liebt Strategeme, sie gehören ohne jeden Zweifel zu seinem „Feldherrnideal“, er nennt sie angemessen, gerecht, regelgerecht (z. B. Xen. Ages. 1,17. 4,2,15; Xen. Kyr. 1,6,34) und sie kommen in allen seinen Werken vor. Auf einer witzigen Ebene behandelt Xen. An. 4,6,14 – 16 den „Betrug“ (sc. die milit. List oder „Tricks“) in einem Dialog zwischen dem Spartaner Cheirisophos und dem Athener Xenophon; vgl. insgesamt auch Krentz 2000, SS. 169 – 170 mit einigen weiterführenden Hinweisen auf entsprechende Quellenpassagen und bes. SS. 191 – 194 mit vielen Beispielen, v. a. aus den Hellenika; Zu „Strategem Stories“ in den Hellenika vgl. auch Gray 1989, SS. 146 – 153; weitere Hinweise bei Stoll 2002, SS. 135 – 136 und Stoll 2013, SS. 295 – 298 mit Anm. 58. Für Xenophon speziell vgl. auch immer wieder Breitenbach 1950, hier SS. 58 – 60 und vgl. auch Stoll 2010, SS. 58 – 60.

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Xen. Hell. 3,4,11 oder als „diplomatischer Heiratsvermittler“, um Unruhe im Perserreich zu erzeugen: Xen. Hell. 4,1,2 – 15) zeugt von Selbstvertrauen sowie Überlegenheit und „beruhigt“ (ein Gegenbild dazu wäre etwa der unglücklich agierende und später zum Tode verurteilte König Pausanias vor den Mauern von Haliartos, wo Lysander gefallen war: Xen.Hell. 3,5,22 – 25). Er teilt die Härten des Soldatenlebens mit seinen Männern, nicht nur im Kampf, sondern auch im Alltag (Xen. Ages. 5,1 – 3: Essen, Schlafen, Kleidung, harte Arbeit), ist ein „guter Kamerad“ (Xen. Ages. 6,4: Resultat dieses Verhaltens sei Zuneigung und Gehorsam der Kameraden). Zusammen mit den genannten Fähigkeiten trägt das zur Sicherung von Moral und Gehorsam der Truppen und Verbündeten bei und zur Stärke der Gefechtsformationen im Kampf (Xen. Ages. 6,4).47 Die für die Zeit vor der Schlacht von Koroneia (und dann für die Schlacht selbst) eben geschilderten „Charakteristika“ der Feldherrnpersönlichkeit des Agesilaos finden sich dann, wie zu erwarten, durchgehend auch in allen späteren Passagen in den Hellenika, die von ihm handeln48 (und natürlich besonders auch im Enkomion Agesilaos), in der einen oder anderen grundsätzlichen Art oder in leichter Variation wieder. Eine genauere Analyse kann hier aber nicht weiter Gegenstand der Betrachtung sein. Mit der Darstellung der Passagen der Hellenika zur Schlacht von Koroneia in ihrem Verhältnis zum Agesilaos wollen wir uns nun weiter der literarischen Gestaltung historischer Stoffe durch Xenophon annähern, wobei wir eben aber bis hierhin grundsätzlich schon gesehen haben, wie stark die Schilderung des historischen Geschehens selbst durch die spezifische Vorstellungs- und Wertewelt des Xenophon vorstrukturiert ist.

47 Allgemein vgl. auch Stoll 2010, SS. 76 – 81. Siehe hier auch Toalster 2011, S. 94. 48 Agesilaos ist fromm und „moralisch“ [Xen. Hell. 4,5,5: Asylrecht beachtet/Heilgtm. der Hera; Xen. Hell. 4,5,7: Fürsorge für die Toten; Xen. Hell. 4,6,6.10; 5,4,37.41.47.49; 6,5,12.17.18: Opfer vor Kriegshandlungen; Xen. Hell. 5,3,20: Agesilaos weint um Agesipolis]; Agesilaos ist militärisch versiert [Xen. Hell. 4,5,4: Logistik; Xen. Hell. 4,6,4 – 6: strategische Planung; Xen. Hell. 4,6,8 – 11 schwieriger Bergkampf; Xen. Hell. 5,4,40 – 41 schnelles Eingreifen und überraschender taktischer Vorstoß; Xen. Hell. 5,4,47 Agesilaos lässt Höhen und Pässe für einen gefahrlosen Vormarsch im Voraus besetzen; Xen. Hell. 5,4,48 – 49 Strategem und Täuschung der Thebaner; Xen. Hell. 6,5,18 – 19 kluges und effektives Rückzugmanöver in gefährlicher Situation gegen die Arkader]; planvolle, soziale Kompetenz als Feldherr [Xen. Hell. 4,5,4: „väterliche Fürsorge“ für die Soldaten (Feuer, Mahlzeiten, Wärme: vgl. für Xenophon selbst und die Anabasis: Stoll 2002, S. 149 und Stoll 2013, SS. 324 – 325; Feldherr als „Soldatenfreund“ s. auch Anderson 1974, SS. 131 – 132 und allgemein vgl. Breitenbach 1950, SS. 70 – 87); Xen. Hell. 4,5,7: Fürsorge für die Toten; Xen. Hell. 4,5,18: bewahrt seine Soldaten nach der Niederlage der Mora bei Lechaion vor der Schadenfreude der Mantineer]; Agesilaos führt durch Vorbild [Xen. Hell. 5,4,40: schnelles und beherztes Eingreifen gegen die Thebaner].

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„Eine Schlacht wie keine andere“ ? Koroneia, 394 v. Chr. Wie bei der Beschreibung der Schlacht von Kunaxa haben wir für Koroneia wie bereits gesagt einen „widerspenstigen Augenzeugenbericht“49 vor uns: Für Kunaxa hatte Otto Lendle bemerkt, dass man trotz aller Lebendigkeit und Frische der Schlachtschilderung kein klares Bild von der Schlacht bekommen könne, das Bild sei „im ganzen vielfach verschwommen und unklar“. Man müsse aus der subjektiven Darstellung den objektiven Tatbestand ermitteln, aus den Informationen Xenophons den wirklichen Ablauf rekonstruieren.50 Konzentrieren wir uns mit ähnlicher Absicht – der Suche nach dem objektiven Bestand im Zusammenhang einer subjektiven Darstellung – nun im Folgenden auf die Schlacht von Koroneia (Xen. Hell. 4,3,15 – 23; Xen. Ages. 2,6 – 16), die sich durch die Erwähnung einer partiellen Sonnenfinsternis auf den 14. August 394 v. Chr. datieren läßt (Xen. Hell. 4,3,10), und wenden uns zunächst jeweils der Beschreibung in den Hellenika zu, um sie dann, soweit möglich, direkt mit dem Agesilaos zu vergleichen: Die Schlachtbeschreibung folgt unmittelbar auf die Episode zur spartanischen Niederlage zur See bei Knidos (Xen. Hell. 4,3,10 – 14). Agesilaos instrumentalisiert Kulthandlungen und „manipuliert“ die Wahrheit, um Motivation und Moral seiner Männer zu erhalten – nur bei Plutarch (Ages. 17,2 – 3) erfahren wir, dass diese Opfer und Kulthandlungen in Chaironeia stattgefunden haben, dann folgt unmittelbar der Weitermarsch nach Koroneia (Plut. Ages. 18,1): Die „Lüge“ von einer siegreichen Seeschlacht gegen Pharnabazos und Konon sieht Xenophon (Xen. Hell. 4,3,14) zumindest indirekt auch als Voraussetzung für den Sieg bei Koroneia ! Die Schwindelei, das Strategem, die „Verfälschung der Tatsachen“ zur Stärkung schwankender Moral, sei Voraussetzung des anschließenden Erfolges gewesen (Xen. Hell. 4,3, 13 – 14) und nur deswegen hätten seine Truppen in der folgenden Auseinandersetzung die Oberhand über die Feinde behalten.51 Im Agesilaos fehlt die Episode völlig – eine spartanische Niederlage und die „Notlüge“ des verehrten Feldherren52 hatten hier keinen Platz, auch keine kleineren Misserfolge, wie das missglückte Gefecht bei Daskyleion, das, wie wir oben bereits festgestellt haben, im Agesilaos ja auch überhaupt nicht erwähnt wird !

49 Buckler und Beck 2008, S. 59: „refractory”. 50 Lendle 1966, SS. 429 – 430; ebd. SS. 434 – 435 zu Xenophons „Standpunkt“ in der Phalanx als Erzähler und Augenzeuge. Grundlegende Gedanken zu Problemen und Grenzen der Möglichkeiten zur Rekonstruktion von Schlachten nach antiken Beschreibungen finden sich bei Bichler 2016, SS. 43 – 66, ebd. SS. 53 – 56 speziell zum Problem der Kombattanten, einen Schlachtverlauf zu erfassen und auch zu Kunaxa als Beispiel. 51 Polyainos 2,1,3 und das Exzerpt dazu (14,3) beziehen das Handeln des Agesilaos direkt auf Koroneia: Die „Lüge“ trägt zur Motivation seines Heeres und deren Sieg bei Koroneia, der hier eben auch explizit erwähnt wird, bei. Zum Strategem vgl. auch nochmals Gray 1989, SS. 150 – 152. 52 Breitenbach 1966, S. 1704: Verschweigen, um der Frömmigkeit des Königs keinen Makel zuzufügen.

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Unmittelbar folgt also in den Hellenika die Schlachtbeschreibung; wo genau wir gerade sind, ist zunächst nur knapp Xen. Hell. 4,3,10 erwähnt: „an der Grenze zu Boiotien“. Im Agesilaos folgt auf die erfolgreiche Behauptung gegen die Reiterei der Thebaner sogleich der Grenzübertritt nach Boiotien (Xen. Ages. 2,5). Xen. Hell. 4,3,15 vermerkt bei einer eher kursorischen Aufzählung der Gegner dem Agesilaos gegenüber Boioter, Athener, Argiver, Korinther, Ainianen,53 Euboier und beiderlei Lokrer. Es fehlen Zahlenangaben und es fehlen zunächst auch genauere Angaben zur exakten Aufstellung der gegnerischen Schlachtlinien. Was die Aufzählung angeht, so ist sie im Agesilaos (Xen. Ages. 2,6) in der gleichen Ordnung präsentiert, nur, dass im Text „Thebaner“ statt „Boioter“ zu lesen steht. Die Dynamik und Dramatik wird im Agesilaos etwas erhöht, indem der König sozusagen sofort auf die bereits arrangierte Schlachtordnung der Feinde trifft und er auch seinerseits „ohne Zögern“ sofort reagiert und das eigene Heer im Angesicht des Feindes in Stellung bringt (Xen. Ages. 2,6: „… ούδὲν ἐμέλλησεν, ἀλλ᾿ ἐκ του φανερου ἀντιπαρέταττε …“).54 Bei den Truppen des Agesilaos zählt Xenophon im Paragraphen Xen. Hell. 4,3,15 eine mora55 auf, die aus Korinth gekommen sei, eine halbe Mora aus Orchomenos, dann die Neodamoden aus Sparta, die mit ihm gezogen waren (wenigstens deren Zahl kennen wir ja aus Xen. Hell. 3,4,2: 2000 Mann), dazu dann die Söldner56 unter dem Befehl des Herippidas, die Truppen aus den Griechenstädten Kleinasiens und aus den Städten Europas, die sich ihm beim Durchzug angeschlossen hatten. Aus der Nähe seien dann noch die Hopliten der Orchomenier und der Phoker hinzugestoßen. Man erfährt dann nur noch, dass Agesilaos weit mehr Leichtbewaffnete, also Peltasten, gehabt habe, die Zahl der Reiter sei aber auf beiden Seiten gleich gewesen.57 Was die konkrete Aufzählung der Truppen des Königs angeht, ist der Agesilaos 53 Güthling 1888, S. 27: Diese wohnten in dem an die Lokris grenzenden Teil Thessaliens, zwischen den Flüssen Inachos und Spercheios. 54 Zur Wahl des Ortes, dem ersten „praktikablen Schlachtort“ hinter der boiotischen Grenze vgl. Hamilton 1979, S. 225. 55 Zur Stärke vgl. etwa Spence 2002, S. 214: Bei der Infanterieeinheit dieses Namens gibt es verschiedene Angaben; die meisten Belege bewegen sich in einer Größenordnung zwischen 600 und 900 Mann; laut Lazenby 2012, SS. 6 – 13, v. a. ebd. S. 13 beträgt die „Idealgröße“ einer solchen Einheit jedoch theoretisch 1 280 Mann. Vgl. auch Sabin 2007b, S. 115. Im 5. und 4. Jh. hatte die spartanische Armee sechs solcher Einheiten zur Verfügung; s. a. Stoll 2002, S. 154. 56 Allgemein zur Bedeutung der Söldner für die griechischen Armeen des 4. Jhs. v. Chr. und auch speziell zu Agesilaos: Trundle 2004, SS. 65, 68, 156 et al., der einmal für das 4. Jh. griffig von einer „Greek mercenary explosion“ redet (ebd. S. 7). 57 Was die Ungenauigkeit bzw. Vernachlässigung der Zahlen angeht, das absichtlich Vage, lässt sich das mit der Schlacht von Mantineia bei Thukydides vergleichen, s. Buckler und Beck 2008, SS. 63 – 64 De Voto 1982, SS. 121 – 122 rechnet auf der Seite des Agesilaos mit 20 000 Mann, genauso auch für die „Koalitionstruppen“ der Gegner (so auch Hamilton 1979, S. 225 und Hamilton 1991, S. 106; vgl. auch Pritchett 1969, S. 93). Sehr ungefähre und freilich auch unsichere Zahlenvorstellungen lassen sich vielleicht aus einer „Rückprojektion“ zur Schlacht am Nemeabach erzielen, bei der Xenophon exaktere Daten geliefert hat: Xen. Hell. 4,2,16 – 17 – zusammengerechnet waren es dort 14 800 Lakedaimonier und Verbündete, die gegen 24 550 „Koalitionstruppen“ standen. Etwa höher für die Nemeabach-Schlacht sind die Zahlen bei Sabin 2007b, SS. 111 – 112: für die Spartaner, zwi-

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noch weitaus kursorischer – außer der Truppe, die er mitführt, habe er eineinhalb morai Lakedaimonier, dann noch die lokalen Verbündeten, und zwar „nur“ phokische Truppen und solche der Orchomenier, zur Verfügung gehabt (Xen. Ages. 2, 6). Auch hier keine Zahlenangaben, nichts genaueres zu den Truppengattungen etc., aber doch ein kleiner Hinweis auf eine mögliche Unterzahl: zunächst liest man „… των δ᾽αύτόθεν συμμάχων Φωκέαϛ καί ᾿ Ορχομενίουϛ μόνουϛ …“, also, „von den lokalen Verbündeten nur die Phoker und die Orchomenier“. Dann folgt nun aber eine ironisch daherkommende, eingeschobene Bemerkung des Autors in der ersten Person, die in den Hellenika fehlt und sich dann zu einem „kleinen Feldherrnlob“ bzw. zu einem Credo des Xenophon über das Erfolgssystem eines idealen Feldherrn, wie es Xenophon so oft entwirft bzw. beschrieben hat, entwickelt (Xen. Ages. 2,7 – 8):58 Es ließe sich hier jetzt aber dennoch nicht behaupten, dass seine Truppen weniger an Zahl und schlechter an Qualität gewesen seien und dass er trotzdem die Schlacht angenommen habe. Wenn man so etwas sagen würde, würde man Agesilaos eher den gesunden Menschenverstand absprechen und als Autor nur die Torheit begehen, einen Anführer um jeden Preis zu loben, der unbeherrscht entscheidende Momente leichtfertig aufs Spiel gesetzt habe. Das Gegenteil sei nämlich der Fall und das sei der Grund, warum er (sc. Xenophon) den Agesilaos bewundere: Die Armee, die jener ins Feld geführt habe, sei nämlich kein bisschen dem Feind unterlegen gewesen. Gut bewaffnet habe er sie, so dass ihre „Uniformen“59 wie eine solide Masse aus Bronze und Purpurrot ausgesehen hätten (also: Wert guter Waffen und Ausrüstung), er habe seinen Männern die Fähigkeit, alle Befehle sofort und effektiv auszuführen ˘

schen 18 – 19 000 bzw. 23 000 (diese Zahl überliefert auch Diod. 14,83, dazu müssen noch 500 Reiter genannt werden; demgegenüber stehen 15 000 Koalitionären, ebenfalls mit 500 Reitern); zu diesen Zahlen für die Schlacht von Nemea s. a. Pritchett 1969, SS. 73 – 74. Vgl. Sabin 2007b, SS. 114 – 115 mit einer entsprechenden Diskussion für Koroneia: 15 – 20 000 für die Koalitionstruppen, 15 000 für die spartanische Seite. S. auch Lazenby 2012, S. 169 mit entsprechenden Schätzungen: 15 000 Spartaner gegen 20 000 „Koalitionäre“. Aber, im Grunde bleibt das alles „educated guesswork“ ! Rusch 2011, S. 172 rechnet bei Koroneia mit etwa 15 000 Mann auf Seiten der Koalitionstruppen, während er für die Spartaner aus gutem Grund keine genauen Angaben macht. Nur für die beiden Morai und die Neodamoden können wir ungefähr eine Zahl nennen: ca. 3000 Mann, nicht für den Rest der Armee. Zu einfach macht es sich Buckler 1996, S. 63: „Xenophon did not know the numbers involved“. Zu den Truppenstärken bei Koroneia vgl. auch Toalster 2011, SS. 105 – 106. Zum Problem der Zahlen vgl. auch allgemein und exemplarisch Bichler 2016, SS. 45 – 50. 58 Zu dieser Passage ist wenig geschrieben worden: vgl. etwa knapp Anderson 1974, S. 164, s. a. ebd. S. 168 „the king as setting an example of all virtues“. Vgl. aber v. a. Bringmann 1971, S. 235 und Breitenbach 1966, S. 1704 erkennt hier eine Verteidigung gegen eine ungenannte literarische Darstellung. Siehe auch Gray 2011, SS. 81 – 83. Andere Beispiele für „Verteidigungen“ s. Toalster 2011, S. 91 mit Anm. 31. 59 „Pracht“ und „Ordnung“ des Heeres („… τὴν λαμπρότητα καὶ τὴν τάξιν του στρατεύματοϛ …“; Xen. An. 1,2,18), die (weitgehend) einheitliche Ausrüstung („Uniformität“; Farbe der Kleidung und Mäntel) spielen für Xenophon immer wieder eine Rolle, etwa auffällig auch in der Anabasis (Xen. An. 1,2,16: Parade bei Tyriaeion, auch dort sind es eherne Helme, purpurne Chitone, glänzende Beinschienen und Schilde; s. aber auch Xen. Lak. Pol. 11,3), dazu s. a. Stoll 2002, SS: 158 – 162; zum „collective visual effect“ und der „homogenous appearence“ vgl. auch Whitby 2004, SS. 217 – 220 und zur Glaubwürdigkeit der Darstellung s. a. Lee 2007, S. 111. ˘

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beigebracht (also: absoluter Gehorsam und Vertrauen in den Kommandeur als Ziel erreicht), er habe ihre Herzen mit dem Vertrauen erfüllt, dass sie jedem, aber auch jedem Feind standhalten könnten (also: Schaffung von Moral erfolgreich). Er habe sie inspiriert, sich mit großer Entschlossenheit einem „Wettbewerb“ der Tapferkeit auszusetzen (also: Wert der Ausbildung/Wettkampf und des Anreiz-Systems) und ihnen die Gewissheit gegeben, dass sich eine Bewährung, wenn sie sich also als gute Männer erweisen würden, für sie auszahlen würde. Seine Überzeugung sei gewesen, dass solcherart vorbereitete Männer mit größtem Effekt kämpfen würden – und er habe sich da auch nicht getäuscht ! Einmal mehr also ist in dieser Passage das „Führungscredo“ des Xenophon „tableauartig“ vorgeführt und Agesilaos ist der Feldherr, der alles „richtig gemacht hat“. Das also sei die Streitmacht auf beiden Seiten gewesen, so lautet der erste Satz in Paragraph Xen. Hell. 4,3,16, in dem es dann konkreter um die Aufstellung in den Schlachtlinien geht; Xenophon erklärt zunächst seine Absicht, nun von der Schlacht zu berichten; es folgt eine nicht weiter begründete Bewertung des Geschehens: Er wolle schildern „wie die Schlacht sich zu einer entwickelte wie keine zweite, zumindest zu meiner Zeit“ („διηγήσομαι δὲ καὶ τὴν μάχην, καὶ πωϛ ἐγένετο οἵα ούκ ἄλλη των γ᾽ ἐφ᾽ ἡμων“). Die gleiche Einordnung findet sich dann so auch (fast) genauso bei Xen. Ages. 2,9: „Διηγήσομαι δὲ καὶ τὴν μάχην καὶ γὰρ ἐγένετο οίαπερ ούκ ἄλλη των ἐφ᾽ ἡμων“.60 Die „Ebene von Koroneia“ wird als Ort der Konfrontation kurz erwähnt: Die Truppen des Agesilaos kamen aus der Richtung des Kephisos-Tales, die Truppen der Thebaner (und ihrer Verbündeten) vom Helikon-Gebirge her (Xen. Hell. 4,3,16 und genauso Xen. Ages. 2,9: „… τό κατά Κορω´νειαν πεδίον …“).61 Auch die Aufstellung beider Heere wird nur in groben Zügen geschildert: Die offenbar als wesent60 Dazu Güthling 1888, S. 29 mit weiteren Belegen. Plut. Ages. 18,1 übertrumpft die Aussage noch mit seinem vermeintlichen Xenophon-Zitat, den dort heißt es vielmehr: Die Schlacht ließe sich auch mit keiner früheren vergleichen (oben ist ja „nur“ ein zeitgeschichtlicher Bezug eröffnet): „λέγει δὲ τὴν μάχην ὁ Χενοϕων ἐκείνην οίαν οὐκ ἄλλην των πωποτε γενέσθαι …“ ! Zu Plutarch und dieser Passage vgl. Shipley 1997, S. 229. Dass übrigens diese Bemerkung in den beiden Passagen des Xenophon ein Indiz dafür sei, dass diese vor der Schlacht von Leuktra geschrieben worden seien (371 v. Chr.), die ja wohl nach allgemeiner Meinung tatsächlich die bedeutendste Schlacht der ganzen Zeit gewesen sei – so etwa auch Hamilton 1991, S. 106 –, möchte ich nicht gelten lassen; vgl. aber auch Bringmann 1971, S. 231 sowie Breitenbach 1966, S. 1704. Für Xenophon trifft seine Einordnung zu dieser Schlacht sicher allein deswegen zu, weil sie eben „sein Held“ gekämpft und gewonnen hat ! Worin die Einzigartigkeit wirklich liegt, wird ja oben verschiedentlich zu beantworten versucht. Ein chronologisches Indiz ist diese Umschreibung m. E. aber nicht zwingend. 61 „Koroneia in Boiotien“: Paus. 9,6,4. Zum Schlachtfeld und den Truppenbewegungen siehe auch Rusch 2011, SS. 172, 173 mit Abb. 10.2. Rusch entwickelt die Schlachtaufstellung südlich des Kuraios, parallel zum Strom, von Südwesten (nahe der Ausläufer des Helikon) nach Nordosten (Richtung Küstensaum des Kopais-Sees). Zur zurückhaltenden Beschreibung der Topographie bei Xenophon und auch zu notwendigen Überlegungen der Forschung zur Schlacht zum Ort des Geschehens vgl. Buckler 1996, SS. 59 – 63 und Buckler und Beck 2008, SS. 60 – 63, ebd. S. 61 „Xenophon gives very little information about the terrain“, s. dann auch S. 67. Außerdem vgl. Pritchett 1969, SS. 85 – 95. Xenophon ist in den Hellenika offenbar in besonderer Weise generell eher von einer nicht gera˘

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lich zählende Information ist, dass Agesilaos den rechten Flügel hielt; an seinem linken Flügel standen die Orchomenier. Die Thebaner auf der Gegenseite befanden sich auf dem rechten Flügel, an deren linkem Flügel standen die Argiver. Xen. Ages. 2,9 ergänzt, die gegeneinander aufgestellten Schlachtreihen seien nach Augenschein gleichstark gewesen, auch die Anzahl der Reiterei sei ungefähr gleich gewesen – eine kleine Differenz zu den oben für Xen. Hell. 4,3,15 gemachten Angaben. Die Peltasten und die Überlegenheit des Agesilaos in diesem Punkt spielen im Agesilaos keine Rolle, überhaupt findet man weder zu den Peltasten noch zur Reiterei und deren Einsatz während der Schlacht irgendwelche weiteren Informationen, weder in den Hellenika, noch im Agesilaos, dabei war kurz zuvor, auf dem Marsch durch Thessalien, noch deren Einsatz und Rolle so euphorisch gelobt worden !62 Die Betonung der Schlachtdarstellung liegt bei Koroneia allein auf dem Kampf „Hoplites against Hoplites“.63 Eigenartig, dass weder im Agesilaos noch in den Hellenika an dieser Stelle nicht die rituelle Eröffnung des Kampfes, die Opferung der sphagia durch den Kommandeur geschildert wird (beim Auszug aus dem Lager und dann noch einmal kurz vor der tatsächlichen Schlacht), dann auch weiter nicht das Singen des Paians beim Vorrücken, vor dem „final advance into battle“, Dinge, auf die Xenophon sonst peinlich genau Wert legt und die auch sonst offenbar fester Bestandteil der das Kriegsgeschehen begleitenden Rituale sind.64 In Xen. Lak. pol. 13,8 wird der Vorgang genau beschrieben: Unter den Augen des Feindes werde geopfert (in Xen. Hell. 4,2,20 ist es eine Ziege zu Ehren der Artemis Agrotera), alle anwesenden Flötenspieler, die ja zum Stab des Königs gehörten, sollen dabei blasen, alle Lakedaimonier Kränze tragen, die Waffen werden für dieses Ritual eigens poliert ! Oder in Xen. An. 4, 8,16: Hier befehlen die Feldherren ein Gebet, und nach Absingen des Paian rückt die Truppe vor – der Söldnerführer Iphikrates, heißt es bei Polyain (3,9,8) habe auf dieses gemeinsame Singen einen ebensogroßen Wert gelegt, wie auf das gemeinsame Absenken der Speere,

de geringen Zurückhaltung gegenüber der Erläuterung von Geographika geprägt: bloße Ortsnamen kommen sehr häufig und ohne Erläuterung oder Erklärung vor: Rood 2012, S. 165; zu vagen Lokalisierungen in den Hellenika vgl. auch Tuplin 1986, S. 39. 62 Wood 1964, S. 36 mit Verweis auf Xen. Hell. 4,3,3 – 9: „battle … between massed Greek cavalry formations”, „substantial victory”. 63 Anderson 1970, SS. 150 – 154. 64 Krentz 2013, SS. 140 – 141. Vor allem siehe Jameson 1991, SS. 197 – 227 und vgl. auch Parker 2000, SS. 299 – 314. Für Parker ebd. S. 299 is Xenophon „the most informative source for the various forms of military sacrifice“. Rolle des Paian-Singens bzw. des rhythmischen Gesanges beim Vormarsch: vgl. Schwartz 2009, SS. 196 – 197; es sei denn, wie Schwartz 2009, S. 248 bezieht man das betrügerische Dankopfer für die Seeschlacht von Knidos (Xen. Hell. 4,3,14) als „pre-battle rite“ auch gleich direkt auf die Schlacht von Koroneia; das geht m. E. aber nicht gut, die Opferhandlung wird ja doch a. a. O. recht eindeutig als „Dankopfer“ beschrieben. Zur „Religiosität“ Xenophons bzw. der Rolle, die Kulthandlungen, Rituale und Religion allgemein immer wieder im Verlauf der Handlung seiner Werke und eben auch in militärischem Kontext spielen: Stoll 2002, SS. 166 – 170 oder auch Stoll 2012, S. 252. Allgemein vgl. auch Popp 1957, SS. 41 – 58 zu Sparta und den üblichen Opfern beim Auszug, an der Grenze zum Feind, während des Feldzuges, unmittelbar vor dem Beginn der Schlacht, beim Abbruch eines Unternehmens. S. a. Toalster 2011, SS. 51 – 52.

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da mit beiden Maßnahmen der Eindruck eines wilden Tieres hervorgerufen werde.65 Xenophon erwähnt übrigens die sphagia des Agesilaos, schon im Anblick des Feindes, bei der Schlacht am Paktolosbach (Xen. Hell. 3,4,23 und Xen. Ages. 1,31) genauso, wie für die unmittelbar Koroneia vorausgehende Schlacht am Nemeabach (Xen. Hell. 4,2,20) ganz selbstverständlich !66 Das eigentliche Schlachtgeschehen ist im Folgenden in den Hellenika auf nur drei Paragraphen, aber in steigender Dramatik, verteilt: von der Stille bis zum Chaos der Schlacht, sozusagen (Xen. Hell. 4,3,17 – 19; im Agesilaos umspannt das Geschehen ebenfalls drei Paragraphen, nämlich Xen. Ages. 2,10 – 12). Zunächst Xen. Hell 4,3,17 (und Xen. Ages. 2,10): Man nähert sich in Stille und Schweigen. Das ist erstaunlich: Wo waren die spartanischen Flöten, die in Xen. Hell. 4,3,21 sehr wohl erwähnt werden und die, wie wir wissen, auch einen essentiellen Bestandteil zumal der spartanischen „Hoplitenkampfkultur“ ausmachten: Normalerweise waren die Spartaner dafür bekannt, wohlgeordnet, nach dem Klang der Flöten und im Gleichschritt auf den Gegner zuzuschreiten. Thukydides (Thuk. 5,70) erörtert eindeutig die Absicht, dass das geschehe, um des rhythmischen Vormarsches willen, damit die Schlachtreihe eben nicht auseinandergerissen werde,67 und das war von taktischem und psychologischem Vorteil, ließ öfter die Gegner noch vor dem Zusammenstoß die Flucht ergreifen !68 Die bis zum Kampf eingehaltene Ordnung und auch der einkalkulierte Erfolg des in der Regel stärkeren rechten Flügels, auf dem der König oder Befehlshaber stand, ermöglichte es (jedenfalls zu einem gewissen Grade noch) auf Krisen zu reagieren, wie sie in der Tat dann hier, in Koroneia, auch auftraten – bei Mantineia 418 v. Chr. hatte Agis II. trotz „zerreißender“ Fronten gesiegt, obwohl sein linker Flügel zurückgedrängt worden war und die Lücke auch nicht wieder hatte geschlossen werden können.69 Das ist ganz ähnlich wie hier, in Koroneia, wie wir gleich sehen werden. Warum also hier keine Flöten ? Doch weiter in der Beschreibung: Ein Stadion voneinander entfernt, also bei etwa 180 Metern, erheben die Thebaner Kriegsgeschrei und verfallen in den Laufschritt. Bei einer verbleibenden Entfernung von drei Plethren (etwa 90m) brechen aus der

65 Zum Paian vgl. weiter Stoll 2002, S. 168; Pritchett 1971 – 1992, I, SS. 105 – 108. 66 Popp 1957, S. 54. 67 Xen. Lak. Pol. 13,7 kann man entnehmen, dass die auletai zum Stab eines spartanischen Heeres gehörten, den Zeltgenossen des Königs, den Sehern, Ärzten, Offizieren und persönlichen Begleitern des Königs; zu den Flötenspielern und ihrer Funktion vgl. auch Anderson 1970, SS. 81 – 82 und s. auch Schwartz 2009, SS. 62 – 63 (auch zur Hörbarkeit). Natürlich kam daneben auch die Salpinx zum Einsatz, vgl. etwa allgemein die Hinweise bei Franz 2002, SS. 231, 291 mit Anm. 330, dort auch zum Paian. Allgemein zur Salpinx und ihrer militärischen Verwendung s. a. Krentz 1991, SS. 109 – 120. Eine schöne Abbildung zum Zusammenspiel auletai und Phalanx zeigt bekanntlich die um 650 v. Chr. entstandene Olpe des Macmillan-Malers (sog. „Chigi-Kanne“): etwa Abb. 16 bei Schwartz 2009, S. 125 und s. a. ebd. SS. 124, 126. 68 Schulz 2012, SS. 123 – 124. 69 Zur Schlacht Thuk. 5, 65 – 74 [zu den Flöten und den Flötenspielern, die „eingereiht“ waren: Thuk. 5, 70]; s. a. Welwei 2004, SS. 243 – 244.

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Phalanx (!) des Agesilaos die von Herippidas kommandierten Söldner hervor, denen die Ionier, Aiolier und Hellespontier nachfolgen (Xen. Hell. 4,3,17).70 Was bedeutet das ? Ist das ein Handeln auf Befehl des Agesilaos oder eine erneute übereilte und selbstherrliche Initiative des Herippidas, der eigentlich der feldherrlichen Kontrolle des Agesilaos „entweicht“ und damit sogar letztlich den Zusammenhalt der Phalanx – wie eben gesehen, war die „Norm“ des Vorrückens anders – gefährdet ? Negativ gewertet wird es hier aber nicht: Weder Agesilaos schreitet ein, noch gibt Xenophon dabei ein Wort der Wertung ab (nicht in den Hellenika und auch nicht im Agesilaos) ! Bezieht sich „eine Schlacht wie keine andere“71 auf das sich steigernde „Chaos“ und den steigenden „Kontrollverlust“ (durch Truppe und Feldherren) ? Schließlich konnte ein Verlust der Ordnung, gar eine Lücke in der Phalanx, ein „Aufbrechen“ (παράρρηξιϛ),72 im Ernstfall durchaus eine Schlacht entscheiden ! Speziell den Argivern, die, wie wir auch gleich sehen werden, auch bei Koroneia entsprechend reagierten, sagte man nach, dass sie leicht geneigt waren, zu schnell zu laufen und dabei die eigene Phalanx und die Schlachtreihen insgesamt zu zerreißen, eben im Gegensatz zu den Spartanern, die auch beim „final charge“ normalerweise dafür berühmt waren, die Schlachtordnung aufrecht erhalten zu können, wofür man u. a. eben gerne auch die auloi bzw. die auletai als Erklärung heranführte !73 70 „Kriegsgeschrei“ und Aufbrechen oder Lockerung der Phalanx beim Sturm im Laufschritt ist natürlich auf gewisse Weise auch „normal“ (vgl. auch Thuk. 5,70), aber das gilt in der Regel eben scheinbar nicht für die Spartaner: Krentz 2013, S. 141 und Hanson 2000, SS. 144 – 145. Hanson verkennt aber, dass es sich nur um Teile des spartanischen Heeres handelt, die in den Lauf übergehen, eben die Söldner und die Verbündeten, von den Spartanern selbst ist keine Rede. Auch Thukydides bietet hier eher ein idealisiertes Bild der spartanischen Kriegskunst. Grundsätzlich findet sich in der Anabasis dieses Phänomen ebenfalls wieder: Xen. An. 1,8,11 rücken die Kyreier ruhig („nicht mit Geschrei und in größtem Schweigen“), gleichmäßig und langsam vor. Dann Xen. An. 1,8, 18 – 20, in der Hitze des Gefechtes, unter Schlachtrufen und hin- und herwogenden Fronten und bei der Verfolgung der fliehenden Feinde, ermahnen sich die „Kyreier“ gegenseitig durch Schreie, die Ordnung einzuhalten und nicht beim Lauf während des Nachsetzens nach den Gegnern wild auszubrechen. Ausbrechen aus der Phalanx als taktisches Problem und Gefahr vgl. etwa auch Franz 2002, SS. 293 – 294, 309 – 312. Immerhin Cartledge 1987, S. 221 scheint ebenfalls diese Herippidas-Episode als „Anomalie“ der ersten Schlachtphase zu empfinden ! 71 Für diese Einordnung der Schlacht bei Xenophon findet man eigenartigerweise selten wirkliche Erklärungsversuche: Eine Ausnahme ist Lazenby 2012, S. 171, der zwei Erklärungen anbietet, nämlich einmal den „taktischen Seitenwechsel“ der Gegner auf dem Feld im Verlauf der Schlacht oder die ungewöhnliche Härte des abschließenden Gefechts beim Durchbruch der Thebaner bzw. Boioter. Einen anderen Einordnungsversuch findet man referierend bei Bringmann 1971, SS. 231 – 232, der selbst aber offenbar einen eher „recht konventionell(en)“ Verlauf der Schlacht gegeben sieht, s. dann aber ebd. S. 234: Die Besonderheit ist der Frontalangriff auf die Thebaner in der zweiten Phase der Schlacht. 72 Franz 2002, SS. 309 – 310. Vgl. auch Matthew 2012, SS. 205 – 237, v. a. SS. 222 – 223, 228 – 229 zu Koroneia und der Kollision der Phalangen. Zur Bedeutung des Zusammenhaltes bzw. der Aufrechterhaltung des Zusammenhaltes in einer Phalanx vgl. die grundsätzlichen Bemerkungen bei Schwartz 2009, SS. 195 – 198 und s. a. Stoll 2002, SS. 172 – 173 zur eutaxia und Disziplin. 73 Vgl. insbesondere Schwartz 2009, S. 196 mit Anm. 843: Polyain 1,10 „erklärt“ die spartanische Niederlage von Leuktra durch die Tatsache, dass dort zum ersten Mal nicht Fötenspieler verwendet worden seien.

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Die Vorstürmenden schlagen hier die Gegner (durch die Heftigkeit des Ansturmes auf Speerwurfweite) in die Flucht (Xen. Hell. 4,3,17; so auch Xen. Ages. 2,10 – 11). Die Argiver vermieden offenbar von vorneherein eine ernsthafte Feindberührung74 und flohen in Richtung Helikon. Diese erste Phase der Schlacht ist also relativ schnell vorbei (Plut. Ages. 18,3 und Diod. 14,84,1).75 In Xen. Hell. 4,3,18 (und auch in Xen. Ages. 2, 11) steigert sich nun die Dramatik, aber vielleicht auch die „Unprofessionalität“ – Kontrolle und Überblick sehen anders aus: Die Söldner postulieren vorschnell einen Sieg, wollen den Agesilaos bekränzen. Doch dieser erhält in diesem Moment die Meldung, dass an seinem linken Flügel die Thebaner siegreich waren. Offenbar hatte er selbst keinen Überblick mehr, er stand ja selbst, wie gesagt, am rechten Rand der Schlachtordnung, sozusagen als ein Hoplit unter anderen, mitten in der Reihe der Kämpfer.76 Die Thebaner waren durchgebrochen, hatten am linken Flügel die Orchomenier durchstoßen und waren bis zum Tross vorgedrungen:77 Eine geradezu klassische Friktions-Situation nimmt nun ihren Lauf.78 Wie oben gesagt, bei Mantineia, 418 v. Chr. gegen die Verbündeten Athen, Argos und Mantineia, scheint seinerzeit unter Agis II. möglicherweise eine vergleichbare Situation eingetreten zu sein,

74 Zur „Kollision“ der Schlachtreihen in der Hopliten-Schlacht: vgl. die Bemerkungen bei Krentz 2013, SS. 142 – 143 und Hanson 2000, SS. 152 – 159, ebd. S. 157 zu Koroneia. 75 Buckler und Beck 2008, S. 64. 76 Auffällig, wie genau (und lobend) Xenophon im Zusammenhang mit der Schlacht von Kunaxa die Position eines persischen Feldherrn, des Großkönigs, im Zentrum des Heeres kommentiert: Xen. An. 1,8,21 – 22: einerseits sei in der Mitte des Heeres für den Kommandeur die Sicherheit am größten, andererseits könnten von der Mitte aus Befehle doppelt so schnell nach beiden Seiten durchkommen, wie wenn sie von einem Flügel aus erteilt würden ! Natürlich ist ein in der Mitte positionierter Kommandeur aber auch selbst in der Lage, einen weitaus besseren Überblick zu erhalten, darf man also ergänzen ! Andererseits: Zwischen Kunaxa und Koroneia gibt es gerade in dieser Szene eine interessante „dramaturgische Übereinstimmung“: Auch in Kunaxa erhält Kyros vorschnell von seinem Gefolge die Huldigung als Sieger und neuer Großkönig (Xen. An. 1,8,21) und reagiert dann sehr bald in eigener Person auf eine ungünstig erscheinende Gefechtssituation, was dann in der Folge wegen seiner tödlichen Verwundung letztlich zum völligen Umschwung der Schlacht führt (Xen. An. 1,8,23 – 24). Zur Schlacht bei Kunaxa und dieser Situation vgl. etwa auch Whitby 2004, SS. 225 – 228. Zur Schlacht von Kunaxa vgl. auch den Kommentar von Lendle 1995, SS. 67 – 75, 86 – 89; Lendle 1966, hier v. a. S. 438 und Binder 2008, SS. 184 – 188. Agesilaos als Kämpfer, der immer in der ersten Reihe zu stehen pflegt: vgl. auch das Lob seines kriegerischen Mutes bei Xen. Ages. 6,1. Zur Position und den „Möglichkeiten“ eines Hoplitengenerals vgl. etwa auch Hanson 2000, SS. 107 – 108, 110, 111; Franz 2002, SS. 292 f. und Toalster 2011, SS. 71, 94 sowie besonders Schwartz 2009, SS. 179 – 183, ebd. SS. 180 – 181 zu Xenophon und seinem Ideal eines Generals („participating in danger and hardship on an equal footing“/„leading by example“) und in einem etwas größeren Zusammenhang vgl. auch Wheeler 1991, SS. 121 – 170. Einsatz des persönlichen Vorbildes („leading by example“) als Offziersideal vgl. etwa auch Stoll 2002, SS. 147 – 148 oder Stoll 2012, S. 254; Anderson 1974, SS. 125 – 126, 127 – 128, dort auch zu Offizieren zu Vorbildern im Kampf, als promachoi. 77 Rusch 2011, S. 173 sieht das Vordringen zum Tross als Hauptursache für das schnelle und harte Durchgreifen des Agesilaos – „Agesilaos could not let the spoils from Asia be looted – Sparta needed his war chest“. 78 Zu dem Begriff der Friktion vgl. den Klassiker der Militärwissenschaft: von Clausewitz 2009, SS. 49 – 51.

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die der König dort aber hatte bereinigen können: Die Front war zerrissen, der rechte Flügel hatte gesiegt, der linke war zurückgedrängt – das sind nicht die einzigen Parallelen. Auch in einem anderen Punkt kann man hier den Verdacht hegen, dass Xenophon sich an Thukydides orientiert hat:79 Denn auch bei Mantineia lobt zwar Thukydides Disziplin, Erfahrung und taktische Schulung der Spartaner, aber auch dort gibt es Ungehorsam (!) bzw. Unverstand. Gleich zwei unfähige Polemarchen (Aristokles und Hipponoidas: Thuk. 5, 71 – 72) nämlich werden genannt, die in kritischer Situation dem Befehl des Agis nicht folgen und so den Erfolg und den Plan des Königs gefährden. Durch ihr Zutun zerreißt die Front der Spartaner !80 Herippidas scheint mir hier also sehr eindeutig deren Rolle einzunehmen ! Er ist im Grunde der geeignete Sündenbock. Ihm geschieht hier m. E. nur nichts, weil das ein schlechtes Licht auf Agesilaos geworfen hätte – keine Kontrolle, keinen Überblick, kein „Händchen fürs Personal“ ! Übrigens, dass Koroneia ein wenig „Xenophons Mantineia“ ist, zeigt sich an einer weiteren Parallele bzw. einem offensichtlichen Bezug: So wie Xenophon die Einzigartigkeit seiner Schlacht herauszustellen sucht, konstatiert auch Thukydides (Thuk. 5,74) für „seine Schlacht“: „Derart … verlief diese Schlacht, die ohne Zweifel seit langen Zeiten die größte und von den bedeutendsten Städten geschlagene hellenische Schlacht gewesen ist“ („Καὶ ἡ μὲν μάχη τοιαύτη … ἐγένετο πλείστου δή χρόνου μεγίστη δή τωὑ Ελληνικων καὶ ὑπό ἀξιολογωτάτων πόλεων ξυνελθουσα“) ! Die Reaktion des Agesilaos bei Koroneia auf die Situation jedenfalls (Xen. Hell. 4, 3,18; Xen. Ages. 11) – Befehl zum Einschwenken bei Kehrtwende der Phalanx, also „Kontermarsch“ ἐξελιγμόϛ)81 – führt nun ihrerseits zur Gegenreaktion der Thebaner, die offensichtlich aber eigentlich nur ihren fliehenden Verbündeten hatten folgen ˘

79 Allgemein zu Xenophon als „Fortführer“ des Thukydides vgl. etwa auch Rood 2004, SS. 341 – 395 und Dillery 1995, SS. 9 – 15. Zu Mantineia als „pragmatischer Meistererzählung“ des Thukydides vgl. auch Bichler 2016, SS. 60 – 64. 80 Anders als bei Xenophon für Herippidas, gibt es aber für die beiden Polemarchen eine Konsequenz: Beide wurden als Feiglinge überführt und aus Sparta verbannt: Thuk. 5,72 ! Ein weiteres Mal gibt es hier aber auch eine interessante Parallele zur Schlacht von Kunaxa: Auch dort gibt es einen „Befehlsverweiger“, nämlich Klearchos selbst, der allerdings aus gutem Grund den Befehl des Kyros nicht ausführt (Xen. An. 1,8,12 – 13; zu dieser Passage und zur Rechtfertigung des Klearchos durch Xenophon s. a. Lendle 1995, SS. 68 – 69 mit weiteren Hinweisen): Den Befehl, das Hoplitenkontingent gegen das Zentrum der Feinde zu führen, gegen den Großkönig, führt er nicht aus, weil er sonst seinen rechten Flügel gefährdet hätte und diesem eine Umfassung gedroht hätte. Siehe zu dieser Passage auch Lendle 1966, SS. 440 – 442; Waterfield 2006, S. 15 und Binder 2008, SS. 186 – 187. 81 Der Kontermarsch ist eine typische taktische Bewegung der Spartaner: Xen. Lak. pol. 11,6 – 10; s. a. auch Toalster 2011, S. 108. Hier sehen wir mit Hutchinson 2000, SS. 153 – 154 eine, für uns aber bereits die dritte, Parallele zu Kunaxa. Dort schwenken nämlich die auf ihrer Seite der Gefechtsordnung siegreichen Griechen in Kehrtwendung (!) in Richtung auf den Tross ein, in den die Perser nach dem Tod des Kyros eingebrochen waren (also wie oben die Thebaner) und auch der Großkönig lässt daraufhin (in einigen komplizierten Bewegungen und Umgehungsmärschen) am Ende seine Formation umkehren und Stellung beziehen, es kommt jedoch nicht mehr zu einem Gefecht der neuformierten Schlachtreihen, weil die Perser letztlich fliehen (Xen. An. 1, 10,1 – 12). Dazu s. auch die schlagende Erklärung von Lendle 1966, SS. 443 – 451.

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wollen und nun eben versuchten, zu den eigenen Leuten durchzubrechen. Sie rückten jetzt mutig vor, wie Xenophon in den Hellenika sagt, „in dicht geschlossener Reihe“, d. h. diszipliniert und nicht kopflos, überlegt und eben auch „mutig“, wie es explizit im Text heißt („… συσπειραθέντεϛ ἐχώρουν ἐρρωμένωϛ …“), der damit eigentlich auch ein – zumindest professionelles – Lob des Xenophon für die Thebaner enthält.82 Im Agesilaos (Xen. Ages. 2,11) ist das „Thebanerlob“ deutlich abgeschwächt und auf die Bemerkung reduziert, sie hätten zu ihren Bundesgenossen fliehen wollen und seien heftig vorgedrungen. In Xen. Hell. 4,3,19 und in Xen. Ages. 2,12 leitet Xenophon mit fast identischen Worten auf das Handeln des Agesilaos selbst über: Ohne Zweifel ließe sich das, was folgt, „kühn“ oder „furchtlos“ nennen, der König habe jedenfalls nicht das gewählt, was am gefahrlosesten gewesen sei. Das klingt erneut nach einer gewissen Ironie oder Süffisanz, könnte aber auch einer Art „vorbeugenden Verteidigungshaltung“ entspringen, die Xenophon für den Freund einnahm.83 Ein wenig schwingt nämlich mit, das, was jetzt folgt, sei furchtlos gewesen, aber nicht unbedingt klug ?! Denn „obwohl es ihm möglich war“ („᾽Εξόν γάρ αύτῳ …“), einfach die Thebaner durchzulassen und dann, was Xenophon offenbar präferiert hätte, ihnen zu folgen und die Langsamsten und zurückfallende Rückzügler zu töten (der Moment und die Gelegenheit, wo für viele Hoplitenschlachten überliefert wird, dass man nun dem Gegner den größten Schaden an Kämpfern zufügen konnte), „tat er dies nicht (… ούκ ἐποίησε τουτο …), sondern prallte Stirn auf Stirn mit den Thebanern zusammen“, heißt es in den Hellenika und der Agesilaos redet ebenfalls von einer heftigen „Frontalattacke“.84 Es entwickelt sich also ein erbittertes Gefecht – eine zweite frontale Konfrontation sozusagen, fast „eine zweite Schlacht“, eine „Schlacht in der Schlacht“,85 und vielleicht macht auch das die „Einzigartigkeit“ von Koroneia aus –, das von beiden Seiten frontal und mit hohem Druck ausgekämpft wird: „Sie stießen die Schilde aufeinander, drängten, kämpften, töteten oder wurden getötet“. Diese Passage ist wortgenau in beiden Werken identisch (Xen. Hell. 4,3,19 und Xen. Ages. 2,12: „καὶ συμβαλόντεϛ τὰϛ ἀσπίδαϛ ἐωθουντο, ἐμάχοντο, ἀπέκτεινον, ἀπέθνησκον“) ! Das erbitterte Ringen und das gerne als Othismos beschriebene Phänomen des „Schubs und Gegenschubs“ der Schlachtreihen (die hinteren Reihen üben jeweils Druck auf die vorderen eigenen Reihen aus, irgendwann gelingt es einer Seite, sich nach vorne zu schieben und die Formation des Gegners zu zerbrechen) hätte kaum in prägnantere ˘

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82 Wenn es ihm nötig und angebracht erscheint, unterdrückt er ein solches Lob für die Thebaner nicht. Ein anderes Beispiel wäre sein Lob für das Können des Feldherrn Epameinondas in Xen. Hell. 7,5,8. 83 Lazenby 2012, S. 171 sieht hier eine Verteidigungshaltung. Lob und Tadel sind in der Passage vereint, meint Güthling 1888, S. 31. „Tadel“ empfindet Cartledge 1987, S. 221. Zu „Verteidigungspassagen“ im Agesilaos: s. Toalster 2011, S. 91 mit Anm. 31 und 32 (etwa Xen. Ages. 2,21; 4,3; 5,6; 8,7). 84 Güthling 1888, S. 31: „Front gegen Front“. Cornelius Nepos schreibt bei den wenigen Worten, die er für die Schlacht von Koroneia verwendet, doch von einem erbitterten Kampf („… gravi proelio …“: Nepos, Ages. 4,5). 85 So empfindet es auch Hamilton 1991, S. 106. Auch Polyain. 2,1,19 spricht von heftigem Kampf und „ϕόνοϛ ἀμϕοτέρων πολύϛ“, also „einem großen Gemetzel auf beiden Seiten“ !

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Worte gefasst werden können86 – oder etwa doch, hätte man das Geschehen anders werten können ? Hat der Feldherr hier durch sein Handeln auch unverhältnismäßig hohe Verluste seiner eigenen Männer zu verantworten ?87 Zahlen werden ja aber nicht genau genannt ! Bei Plutarch, Ages. 18,2, wird das „Understatement“ Xenophons übrigens deutlicher zur Kritik: Die Leidenschaft und der Siegeseifer („… ὑπό θυμου καὶ φιλονεικίαϛ …“) hätten den König „mitgerissen“, ein „Gewaltakt“ zur Vernichtung des Gegners („… ὤσασθαι κατά κράτοϛ βουλόμενοϛ“).88 Die Entscheidung des Königs war jedenfalls für die Heftigkeit des Kampfes bedeutsam: „The result was a bitter and hard-fought contest …“.89 Im Agesilaos (Xen. Ages. 6,2) fasst Xenophon in einer Passage zum Mut des Königs und zu seinem kriegerischen Erfolg, ganz offensichtlich mit einem Bezug auf gerade diese Episode bei Koroneia (ohne es explizit zu erwähnen), deutend und bewertend noch einmal zusammen, dass der König am Ende nicht aufgrund panischer Flucht der Feinde den Sieg errungen habe, sondern weil er sie in hartem Kampf angegangen habe („… ἀλλὰ μάχη ἀντιτύπῳ κρατήσαϛ τρόπαιον ἐστήσατο …“). Sehr interessant ist eine Zufügung des Agesilaos zum Geräuschpegel dieses Teils des Schlachtgeschehens, nachdem ja auch am Beginn, mit dem schweigenden Vor86 Rusch 2011, S. 174. Zum Phänomen vgl. Krentz 2013, SS. 143 – 148; das Wort selbst taucht übrigens bei Xenophon niemals auf (Krentz 2013, S. 144, ebd. S. 147 zur Passage im Xen. Ages. 2,12 – 14). Vgl. auch Hanson 2000, S. 172; Franz 2002, SS. 299 – 308, auch hier zur schwierigen Quellenlage. Allgemein findet sich eine recht prägnante Zusammenfassung der Phänomene der Hoplitenkriegführung bei Waterfield 2006, SS. 6 – 13. Siehe aber auch insgesamt Matthew 2012, SS. 205 – 241. 87 Ähnlich fasst das auch Toalster auf: Toalster 2011, SS. 96 – 97. 88 Vgl. den auf Plutarch zurückgehenden Versuch einer rationalen Erklärung bei Rusch 2011, SS. 174 – 175 und auch bei Lazenby 2012, S. 171: Agesilaos habe in diesem Moment mit allen Mitteln einen „Entscheidungsschlag“ gegen das thebanische Kontingent (bzw. das ganze boiotische Kontingent: vielleicht 5 – 6000 Mann, also wären die spartanischen Truppen an diesem Punkt der Schlacht vielleicht sogar in der Überzahl gewesen) führen wollen, habe eine „chance of annihilating victory“ gesehen und deswegen so gehandelt. Zur Plutarch-Episode und dem Verhalten des Königs s. auch Shipley 1997, S. 231. Als Fehler sehen Strauss und Ober 1990, S. 92 die Entscheidung des Königs, den Kampf so fortzuführen; kritisch auch Buckler 1996, S. 64 sowie Buckler und Beck 2008, S. 64: er findet die Entscheidung „… not only foolish but also nearly fatal …“ und s. auch Hutchinson 2000, S. 131, der von einer „unnecessary frontal attack“ aus „Rachedurst“ gegen die Thebaner spricht (vgl. auch ebd. SS. 146 – 147 mit Hinweisen auf den Hass des Agesilaos auf die Thebaner, u. a. Xen. Hell. 5, 1,33 und Plut. Ages. 22 und ebd. S. 155 zur „gelinde“ ausgefallenen Kritik des Xenophon); Rache als Motiv s. a. Buckler 2003, SS. 93 – 94 „Umdeutung“ bei Xenophon – so auch Toalster 2011, SS. 96 – 97: das ungestüme und unkluge Verhalten wird zum „Heldentum“. Xenophon lobt ansonsten im Rahmen seines Feldherrenideals eher genaue Vorbereitung und Planung, Rationalität, Kontrolle über Menschen und Geschehen s. etwa Wood 1964, SS. 58 – 59: Es ist also auch hier, bei dem eher chaotischen Verlauf der Schlacht von Koroneia und dem Handeln des Königs, die fehlende deutlichere Kritik auffällig. Vgl. dazu auch Schmitz 2009, SS. 65 – 66 vom „Krieg als Schachspiel“ bei Xenophon, von einer gewissen „Beherrschbarkeit“ des Krieges. Xen. Hell. 5,3,1 – 7 kritisiert übrigens Xenophon den vor Olynth kommandierenden Harmosten Teleutias (den Bruder des Agesilaos !), weil er im Zorn und damit ohne Vorsicht (ἡ μὲν γὰρ ὀργὴ ἀπρονόητον) einen heftigen Gegenangriff führte, der in einer Niederlage endete; erst bei reiflicher Überlegung sehe man die eigenen Nachteile wie auch den Schaden für die Feinde, s. den Hinweis bei Schmitz 2009, S. 67. 89 Sabin 2007b, S. 116.

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marsch und dem dann folgenden Geschrei der Thebaner, schon einmal die Akustik der Schlacht eine kurze Rolle gespielt hatte (Xen. Hell. 4,3,17: „Συνιόντων δὲ τέωϛ μέν σιγὴ πολλὴ ἀπ᾽ ἀμφοτέρων ἦν …“; vgl. Xen. Ages. 2,10): Das sei jetzt kein Geschrei und auch keine Stille gewesen, sondern ein eigenartiger Geräuschpegel wie ihn nur Wutgeheul und Schlachtenlärm zusammen produzieren könnten, ein „Getöse“, wie es ein erbitterter Kampf mit sich bringt (Xen. Ages. 2,12: „Καὶ κραυγὴ μὲν ούδεμία παρην, ού μὴν ούδὲ σιγὴ, φωνὴ δέ τιϛ ἦν τοιαύτη, ὁίαν ὀργή τε καὶ μάχη παράσχοιτ‘ ἄν“) !90 Jedenfalls bahnt sich am Ende ein Teil der Thebaner einen Weg zum Helikon, „viele aber wichen zurück und fielen“ (Xen. Hell. 4,3,19 und Xen. Ages. 2, 12),91 auch das ist in beiden Werken wortgleich. Es ist auffällig, wie schnell hier aber im Grunde über den „Durchbruch“ der Thebaner hinweggegangen wird, in einem Satz wie „schließlich konnte ein Teil der Thebaner zum Helikon durchbrechen“ („… τέλοϛ δὲ των Θηβαίων οἱμὲν διαπίπτουσι πρόϛ τόν῾ Ελικωνα …“). „Durchbruch der Thebaner“ bedeutet ja eben nichts anderes als ein Aufbrechen der spartanischen Phalanx, nachdem es dieser ihrerseits offenbar nicht gelungen war, die (tiefstehende) thebanische Phalanx zu zerbrechen, ein blutiges Ringen, in dem Agesilaos und die Männer um ihn – darauf komme ich später noch einmal zurück – also selbst weichen und die ˘

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90 Güthling 1888, S. 31. Krentz 2013, S. 147 sieht bei diesen Passagen – Schilde stoßen aufeinander, Schlachtenlärm, Sterben und Kämpfen, blutgetränkter Boden – Parallelen zur Ilias des Homer (Il. 4, 446 – 451; 8,60 – 65). Zu dieser Passage vgl. auch Tuplin 1986, S. 40. 91 Rusch 2011, S. 174 verortet an dieser Stelle die Strategem-Erzählungen bei Polyain. 2,1,19 (und Exzerpte 32,3) – noch deutlicher aber ist eigentlich die ganz kurze, ebenfalls mit Koroneia verknüpfte Sentenz Polyain. 2,1,4 – und bei Frontin. strat. 2,6,6 und zitiert dazu noch Plut. Ages. 18,3 – 4. Bei dem verzweifelten „Rückzugskampf “ der Thebaner, die auch vom Gelände eingeengt gewesen wären, hätten die Spartaner auf Befehl des Agesilaos ihre Reihen geöffnet und ihnen „erlaubt“, durchzugehen, um sie dann mit erneut geschlossenen eigenen Reihen von rückwärts zu töten. Dieses „legendenhafte“ angebliche Strategem widerspricht der Darstellung in den Hellenika, wie wir ja oben im Text gesehen haben: An dieser Stelle ist das gerade nicht erwähnt und auch nicht im Agesilaos. Hier kritisiert Xenophon ja den König gerade dafür, dass er das eigentlich nicht (oder nicht früh genug) getan hat: Xen. Hell. 4,3,19 und Xen. Ages. 2,12, die hier übereinstimmen. Bei Xenophon findet sich das Strategem also nicht, was auch Rusch 2011, 174 selbst noch einmal etwas widersprüchlich feststellt: „Xenophon is silent on how the Thebans got through; if the Spartans did deliberately open their ranks, he clearly did not regard it as a strategem“. Am Ende also mag ein „Durchlass” der Thebaner in der Tat mehr von diesen erkämpft als von den Spartanern zugelassen worden sein, obwohl man gewiss von spartanischer Seite versucht hat, die Durchbruchssituation auszunutzen. Plut. Ages. 18,4 scheint mir hier realistischer, in dem er eben genau das schildert: Man sei, als die thebanische Front nicht aufgebrochen werden konnte, von spartanischer Seite gezwungen gewesen, die eigene Front zu öffnen, was man eben zu Beginn des heftigen Kampfes der Phalangen nicht getan hatte oder hatte tun dürfen. Dann nutzte man die Situation von spartanischer Seite aus. Die Glorifizierung zum Strategem in der entsprechenden Fachliteratur der Antike ist m. E. also möglicherweise hier doch eher recht deutlich post eventum geschehen. Zum Sachverhalt vgl. auch Sabin 2007b, S. 116 sowie Lazenby 2012, S. 172, der ebenfalls den hier herausgearbeiteten Widerspruch in den Darstellungen sieht; s. a. Anderson 1970, S. 153 mit einer eher kritischen Haltung zur Taktik und der Entscheidung des Agesilaos; s. a. Hutchinson 2000, S. 155 als weitere kritischen Stimme zur Taktik des Königs, ebenso auch Buckler 1996, S. 67: „blunder“ nennt dieser das taktische Verhalten des Königs mit Blick auf die Thebaner, also einen dummen Fehler.

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Reihen öffnen mussten (so schildert das ausführlich und explizit genug Plut. Ages. 18, 3 – 4). Hätte diese Version ein schlechtes Licht auf den König geworfen ? Musste sie deswegen verkürzt und umgedeutet werden ? Offenbar besteht durchaus die Wahrscheinlichkeit, dass das für Xenophon so gewesen ist. Zumindest für „Spezialisten“ war aber sicher klar, was das zwischen den Zeilen bedeutete ! Wie dem auch sei: In den wesentlich wortgleichen Passagen Xen. Hell. 4,3,20 und in Xen. Ages. 2,13 wird der Sieg des Agesilaos konstatiert („νίκη ᾽Αγησιλάου“), aber auch, dass man den König selbst verwundet zu seiner Phalanx getragen habe, von vielen Wunden ist die Rede, die Agesilaos erhalten habe („von jeder Art Waffen“ ergänzt Xen. Ages. 2,13).92 Die Episode in den Hellenika und im Agesilaos bietet Gelegenheit, die Frömmigkeit des Königs als Thema einzuflechten: Achtzig bewaffnete Feinde hatten sich offenbar in den Bereich des Tempels der Athena Itonia gerettet, Versammlungsort des Boiotischen Bundes, der in der Nähe des Schlachtfeldes lag, und Agesilaos „vergaß nicht die schuldige Rücksicht auf die Gottheit“ (in beiden Versionen identisch), beachtete also offenbar das Asylrecht, und ließ diese versprengten Gegner ziehen, wohin sie wollten und ohne, dass man ihnen etwas zuleide hätte tun dürfen.93 Offenbar dauerten alle diese Ereignisse bis zum Abend an, denn Abendmahlzeit und Nachtruhe werden abschließend erwähnt – wann genau allerdings die Schlacht begonnen hat, lässt sich im Text nur indirekt erschließen, sicher aber mitten am Tag oder eher bereits am späteren Nachmittag (Xen. Hell. 4,3,9 – 10) – normalerweise dauerte eine „Hoplitenschlacht“ nicht länger als zwei Stunden.94 Der Agesilaos übertrumpft hier die Darstellung in den Hellenika noch in einem anderen Punkt deutlich, nämlich in der „tragischen“ Schilderung des Schlachtfeldes „nach dem Kampf “ (Xen. Ages. 2,14 – 15), die das blutige Geschehen noch weiter – und lebhafter – illustrieren: Ein unheimlicher Anblick sei das gewesen, die Erde blutgetränkt, Freund und Feind im Tode vereint und Seite an Seite, zerschmetterte Schilde, in zwei Hälften gebrochen Speere, Dolche ohne Scheide, einige auf dem Boden, andere in den Körpern, einige noch in der Hand der Toten. Die Toten der Feinde (Xen. Ag. 2,15) – und was ist mit 92 Interessante Gedanken dazu bei Hamilton 1991, S. 108: Was wäre geschehen, wenn der König, der sich hier auf dem Schlachtfeld so ganz offenbar extrem exponiert hatte, (siehe auch die Verluste bei seiner Leibgarde: Plut. Ages. 18,3 – 4), gefallen wäre ? Verwundungen des Agesilaos bei Plut. Ages. 18,3: „mit Schwertern und Speeren“. 93 Cornelius Nepos hat die Deutung des Xenophon übernommen und singt auch im Anschluss ein Hohelied auf die Frömmigkeit des Königs: Nepos, Ages. 4,6 – 7. Polyain. 2,1,5 sieht das Verhalten des Königs als „Strategem“. Agesilaos habe die Feinde aus dem Tempelbereich ziehen lassen, weil es gefährlich sei, sich verzweifelten und fliehenden Gegnern in den Weg zu stellen und stellt das Ganze damit in den Zusammenhang mit dem bekannten Strategem Polyain. 2,1,9, das wir oben schon als „Neudeutung“ entlarvt haben. 94 So Schulz 2012, 123; damit ist sicher auch nur der eigentliche Kampf gemeint. Ganz so einfach ist es aber vielleicht doch auch nicht, vielleicht sollte man hier eher „unbestimmt“ bleiben. Vgl. die eher kritischen Bemerkungen bei Franz 2002, SS. 320 – 321. Zur Dauer der Schlacht von Koroneia vgl. Matthew 2012, S. 114: eher „a long time“ und allgemein zur „endurance“ ebd. SS. 114 – 119. Sehr ausführlich zum Problem der Dauer von Hoplitenschlachten vgl. Schwartz 2009, SS. 201 – 225, ebd. S. 207 zu den Angaben bezüglich Koroneia als „vague“.

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den eigenen, den „spartanischen“ Toten geschehen ? (neutral: Plut. Ages. 19,1) – seien am Ende des Tages in die eigenen Linien gezogen worden (damit sie nicht geborgen werden konnten), vor Abendmahlzeit und Nachtruhe. Diese Beschreibung im Agesilaos ergänzt die oben behandelten Passagen in den Hellenika und dem Agesilaos mit der Schilderung des Othismos und dem Durchbruchversuch der Thebaner (Xen. Hell. 4,19 und Xen. Ages. 2,12). Den Druck des Othismos (eine „Spezialität“ der Thebaner, die in tiefer Formation zu kämpfen pflegten, auch um ein „Zerreißen“ ihrer Front, die erwähnte παράρρηξιϛ zu vermeiden; und bei der zweiten MantineiaSchlacht von 362 v. Chr. werden in Xen. Hell. 7,5,23 die die spartanischen Reihen durchstoßenden Thebaner mit einer Triere und deren Rammstoß verglichen)95 zeigen hier noch einmal eindrücklich die zerschmetterten Schilde, die Vehemenz des Kampfes die zerbrochenen Speere und die Dolche. Denn das „Geschiebe“ scheint die Hopliten nicht davon abgehalten zu haben, sich eben auch mit allen zur Verfügung stehenden Waffen getötet zu haben.96 Der, was den Schlachtverlauf selbst angeht, eher kursorische-ungenaue Diodor (Diod. 14,84,2) verzeichnet 600 Tote auf Seiten der Koalitionstruppen, 350 für die spartanische Seite – wie gesagt, bei Xenophon fehlen Angaben dazu.97 Für eine Hoplitenschlacht dieser Größe wäre das ein eher ausgeglichenes und tendenziell eher „unblutiges“ Ergebnis, wenn man Verlustzahlen anderer Schlachten vergleicht:98 Normalerweise liegen die entsprechenden Berechnungen (sofern überhaupt möglich) bei durchschnittlichen 14 % Verlusten auf der Verliererseite und etwa 5 % beim Sieger. Wenn man die Überlieferung bei Diodor (Diod. 14, 83,2) für die Nemeabach-Schlacht99 anschaut und vergleicht, dann sind dort etwa

95 Welwei 2004, S. 308; zur παράρρηξιϛ und der Tiefenstaffelung der Thebaner s. Franz 2002, SS. 310 – 311, ebd. S. 311 wird genau das auch als Erklärung für den Durchbruch der Thebaner bei Koroneia angeführt. Allgemein zur „Phalanxtiefe“ vgl. auch die Bemerkungen bei Schwartz 2009, SS. 167 – 171, speziell zu den Thebanern und auch zum Othismos vgl. auch ebd. SS. 183 – 200, Notwendigkeit des Zusammenhaltes der Phalanx (auch ermöglicht durch Tiefenstaffelung) s. ebd. SS. 195 – 198. 96 So auch Rusch 2011, S. 174. Schlachtfeldbeschreibungen vgl. weiter Hanson 2000, SS. 197 – 209. Als Vergleich zur Beschreibung des Blachfeldes in Xen. Ages. 2,14 – 15 kann man auf Xen. Hell. 4,4,12 verweisen, wo das Leichenfeld noch „bildhafter“ beschrieben wird: Getreide-, Holz- und Steinhaufen dienen als Vergleich, so seien auf engem Raum die Menschenleiber in Haufen zusammengelegen ! 97 Vgl. Sabin 2007b, S. 116; Rusch 2011, S. 174; Buckler 1996, S. 65. Zum „historiographischen Verhältnis” von Xenophon und Diodor, dem man bisweilen in der Darstellung mehr Glaubwürdigkeit zubilligt vgl. etwa Bringmann 1971, SS. 145 – 146. Zumindest einen der athenischen Toten der Schlacht von Koroneia kennt man mit Namen: IG II – III2 5222 (394/393 v. Chr.) verzeichnet zusammen mit 11 toten athenischen Reitern der Schlacht bei Korinth – darunter auch der bekannte Dexileos, dessen berühmte Grabstele IG II – III2 6217 ja ebenfalls erhalten ist – einen Neokleides, der ἐν Κορωνείαι gefallen ist: Németh 1994, SS. 100, 101. 98 S. etwa Hamilton 1979, S. 226; Sabin 2007b, S. 116 unter Verweis auf Krentz 1985, SS. 13 – 20 mit der genannten „Formel“. Siehe etwa auch ausführlich mit Tabellen und Vergleichen Dayton 2007, SS. 76 – 84. Shipley 1997, SS. 239 – 240 meint, auch das sei möglicherweise ein Grund, warum die Schlacht „indecisive“ gewesen sei ! Zu wenig Tote ! Todesraten (3 – 10 % beim Sieger, 10 – 20 % beim Verlierer): vgl. auch Schmitz 2009, S. 68. 99 Zur Schlacht vgl. den Überblick über Quellen, Zahlen und Ereignisse bei Sabin 2007b, SS. 111 – 114 und v. a. immer noch auch Pritchett 1969, SS. 73 – 84. Diodor ist bei den Verlusten expliziter als Xeno-

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1100 Tote für die spartanische Seite und 2800 für die Truppen der Gegner genannt. Wenn man zunächst die Truppenzahlen des Xenophon für die Nemea-Schlacht in den Hellenika zugrundelegt (Xen. Hell. 4,216 – 17: 25 550 Alliierte gegen 14 800 Spartaner) – genaue Verlustzahlen hat er ja ohnehin nicht –, wäre diese Schlacht unter Verwendung der ebengenannten „Formel“ im Verhältnis um einiges verlustreicher für die Spartaner gewesen, bei denen man rein rechnerisch „nur“ 740 Tote erwartet hätte. Demgegenüber sind 3577 „rechnerisch zu erwartende“ Gefallene für die Gegenseite deutlich höher als die überlieferte Zahl 2800 – das wäre dann noch „hinnehmbar“. Nimmt man aber überhaupt die von Xenophon abweichenden Angaben zur Truppenstärke zur Nemeabach-Schlacht von Diodor 14,83,1, passt die Formel sogar noch besser: 23 500 Spartaner und 1100 Tote: 5 % davon wären rechnerisch 1175 gewesen. Und 15 500 Koalitionäre und 2800 Verluste: 14 % der Truppen als Verlust wären rechnerisch 2 170 Tote. So in etwa wie bei den Verlustzahlenangaben bei Diodor für die Nemeabach-Schacht hätte man das dann auch für Koroneia „erwarten müssen“, wenn man die „Formel“ von Krentz (in Ermangelung eines besseren Instrumentes und falls man es für notwendig hält, Verluste hypothetisch gegeneinander abzuwägen) auf die nur zu schätzende Teilnehmerzahl der beiden Seiten und die bei Diodor überlieferten Zahlen für die Verluste zur Anwendung bringt. Eine „Gefallenenstatistik“ von 350 toten Spartanern zu 600 toten Alliierten wäre also, um es noch einmal zu sagen, eher ein Indiz für einen nicht ganz so deutlichen Ausgang der Schlacht. Dass Plutarch (Plut. Ages. 18,4)100 behauptet, die Thebaner hätten sich am Ende in guter Ordnung zurückgezogen (wir erinnern uns an das Lob Xenophons selbst über die Ordnung und den „Mut der Thebaner“, kurz vor dem ungestümen Gegenangriff des Agesilaos: Xen. Hell. 4,3,18) und seien in der Folge stolz darauf gewesen, „unbesiegt“ geblieben zu sein, spricht ebenfalls für eine gewissen Stimmigkeit dieser – im Vergleich zu Xenophons viel dramatischer wirkender Darstellung – dann insgesamt eher unspektakuläreren Bewertung bzw. „Bilanz“: Ein nachhaltiger Erfolg zur Schwächung eines Gegners, bzw. seiner „Ausschaltung“, ein kompletter militärischer Erfolg auf dem Schlachtfeld sieht anders aus !101 Wenn wir die geschätzten Teilnehmerzahlen102 für die Schlacht von Koroneia noch einmal in den Blick nehmen und uns hypothetisch auf 15 000 „Spartaner“ gegen 20 000 „Koalitionäre“ einigen, hätten das „normalerweise“ etwa folgende Zahlen sein müssen: 750 tote Kämpfer auf der Siegerseite, 2800 auf der Verliererseite, um es noch einmal konkret zu sagen !103

phon. S. a. Németh 1994, SS. 95 – 96, 98 der die Zahlen bei Diodor für wahrscheinlicher hält: Bei den angegebenen Zahlen der Kombattanten (Xen. Hell. 4,2, 16 – 17) liegen bei einer Gefallenenzahl von 2800 die Verluste der Alliierten bei mehr als 10 % (auf spartanischer Seite: bei etwas mehr als 7 %). 100 Zum „Durchbruch der Thebaner“ bei Plutarch s. a. Shipley 1997, SS. 233 – 234. 101 So auch Toalster 2011, SS. 110 – 111. 102 Siehe oben unsere Anm. 57. 103 Vgl. auch die Rechnung bei Shipley 1997, SS. 239 – 240: Die Verluste der beiden Seiten liegen dann mit 660 bzw. 350 Toten de facto bei zwischen 2,3 und 3 % !

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Xen. Hell. 4,3,21 und Xen. Ages. 2,15 – 16 schildern (erneut im wesentlichen wortgleich) den „Tag danach“ und einige dramatische Folgeereignisse (diese aber nur in Xen. Hell. 4,3,22 – 23): Zunächst erteilt Agesilaos (Xen. Hell. 4,3,21 und Xen. Ages. 2,15) am frühen Morgen nach dem Tag der Schlacht dem Kommandeur der mora, dem Polemarchen Gylis, den Befehl, das Heer in Schlachtordnung aufzustellen, ein Tropaion zu errichten,104 die Soldaten sich bekränzen zu lassen und alle Flötenspieler – die wir ja eingangs vermisst haben – blasen zu lassen. Bei Xenophon ist also der Sieg bereits an diesem Punkt mehr oder weniger gesichert (bei Plut. Ages. 19,2 eben nicht: Hier ist das beschriebene Prozedere ein „Test“ des Agesilaos – wie würden die Thebaner reagieren, würden sie eine neue Schlacht suchen; d. h. aber: Agesilaos war sich vielleicht selbst über den Ausgang unsicher ?: „… ἅμα δ᾽ ἡμέρα βουλόμενοϛ ἐξελέγξαι τοὺϛ Θηβαίουϛ ὁ ᾽Αγησίλαοϛ, εἰ διαμαχουνται …“): Das scheinbar formvollendete Ende der kriegerischen Aktionen und das geschilderte Szenario, das zugleich einmal mehr die Beachtung von religiösen Formen und „zwischenstaatlichen Regularien“ durch Agesilaos dokumentiert, mündet bei Xenophon in Verhandlungen. Unter Waffenstillstand bitten die Thebaner durch Herolde um die Auslieferung der Gefallenen, der Vertrag wird geschlossen – und, wie Plut. Ages. 19,3, wahrscheinlich richtig vermerkt und ergänzt, erst in diesem Stadium der Ereignisse konnte sich Agesilaos wirklich sicher sein, dass er den Sieg errungen hatte: Nur der, der die Kontrolle über das Schlachtfeld und die Gefallenen hatte und den Gegner dann zwingen konnte, um Waffenruhe zu bitten und um die Bergung der Toten, konnte den Sieg für seine Seite postulieren.105 ˘

104 Vgl. etwa Franz 2002, SS. 313 – 316 und v. a. Pritchett 1971 – 1992, II, SS. 246 – 275. 105 Beim Postulieren eines Sieges spielte ja offenbar auch die Anzahl der Toten eine Rolle. Wir erinnern uns: Xen. Ages. 2,15 waren am Abend der Schlacht die toten Thebaner in die spartanischen Reihen gezogen worden – um eine Bergung zu verhindern und damit gewissermaßen auch „Verhandlungen“ über den Sieg einzuleiten, die eben normalerweise auch mit der „Aufhebung“ der Toten in Verbindung standen (Sammlung der Toten: s. a. Plut. Ages. 19,1). In Polyain. 2,1,23 wird ein Strategem des Agesilaos „gegen die Boioter“ überliefert, wo genau das thematisiert wird: Das Ergebnis der Schlacht sei unklar gewesen, die Nacht habe den Kampf beendet (das könnte genauso für Koroneia gelten – s. oben, v. a. auch in Anbetracht der Version des Plutarch). Agesilaos habe dafür gesorgt, dass in der Nacht die toten Spartaner (die ja oben im Text gefehlt haben !) mit Erde bedeckt worden seien (auf dem Schlachtfeld offenbar): Am Morgen habe der Feind auf dem Schlachtfeld nur eigene Tote gesehen, zumindest wenige Spartaner, und habe deswegen den Mut verloren, weil sie glaubten, die Spartaner hätten eindeutig gewonnen. Zur Bergung und Bestattung der Toten vgl. z. B. Franz 2002, SS. 316 – 320 oder Toalster 2011, SS. 50, 54 – 55. Auch Shipley 1997, S. 236 verbindet übrigens die genannte Polyainos-Passage mit der Schlacht von Koroneia. Low 2006, S. 96 weist darauf hin, dass Spartaner – selbst bei siegreichen Schlachten – nicht gerne über die eigenen Verluste redeten (vgl. Thuk. 5,74,3 über die Schwierigkeit eines Historikers, die spartanischen Verluste nach einer Schlacht anzugeben; dazu s. a. Bichler 2016, S. 61: Spartas Hang zur Heimlichtuerei). Zu Plut. Ages. 19,2 und dem „Tropaion-Test“: Auch, dass beide Seiten einen Sieg postulierten und entsprechend ein Tropaion errichteten, kam vor, wie man bei Xenophon selbst nachlesen kann, nämlich in seiner eigenartig „zerfledderten“ Darstellung der zweiten Mantineia-Schlacht, in der ja auch sein Sohn Gryllos als einer der Reiter Athens fiel (Stoll 2010, SS. 21, 44) und mit deren Beschreibung die Hellenika enden: Xen. Hell. 7,5, 18 – 26. Die vermeintliche Entscheidungsschlacht (Xen. Hell. 7,5,26) endet un-

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Agesilaos reist danach dann nach Delphi (Xen. Hell. 4,3,21), um dort den Zehnten (aus seiner Kleinasien-Beute) zu weihen; nicht weniger als 100 Talente sollen das gewesen sein.106 Das erwähnt der Agesilaos an dieser Stelle erstaunlicherweise allerdings nicht, stattdessen beschließ er die Darstellung der Koroneia-Episode mit der Bemerkung, Agesilaos sei nach Abschluss des Vertrages mit den Thebanern nach Hause gefahren. Obwohl er die Option höchster Macht in Asien gehabt habe, sei er heimgekehrt, um zu herrschen und beherrscht zu werden, wie „das Gesetz es befiehlt“ – „… τὰ νόμιμα μὲν ἄρχειν, τὰ νόμιμα δὲ ἄρχεσθαι …“ ! Nur in den Hellenika findet sich dann noch das Folgende, der „letzte Befehl“ des Agesilaos und seine Umsetzung (Xen. Hell. 4,3,22 – 23): Der Polemarch Gylis, dem das Heer überlassen worden ist, findet im Anschluß in Lokris (letztlich bei Plünderungen und Raub in den Dörfern) mit einigen Spartiaten recht bald den Tod (Xen. Hell. 4,3,22 – 23). „Danach“ (Xen. Hell. 4,4,1) sei das übrige Heer entlassen worden, die Kontingente seien in ihre Städte zurückgekehrt und Agesilaos habe auf dem Seeweg die Heimfahrt angetreten.

gewiss – beide Seiten errichten Tropaia, als ob sie gesiegt hätten und keiner hinderte den anderen daran. Beide Seiten gaben – „wie Sieger“ heißt es bei Xenophon – unter der Bedingung eines Waffenstillstandes die Toten heraus und beide Seiten nahmen unter diesen Bedingungen ihre Toten „wie Besiegte“ entgegen. Beide behaupteten also, gesiegt zu haben, obwohl sich nichts wirklich entschieden oder verändert hatte. Unordnung und Verwirrung waren die Folge. 106 Vgl. auch Plut. Ages. 19, 3, auch dort ist die entsprechende Summe genannt. In Xen. Ages. 1,34 sind es 200 Talente, die er nach Delphi weiht. Die Motivation des „Beutemachens“ und der Umgang des Agesilaos mit „seiner Beute“ ist hier von Bedeutung. Wieder einmal mehr zeigt sich hier eine Parallele zur Anabasis, und speziell auch zum dort referierten Verhalten des Xenophon selbst: Xenophon stiftete ja aus seinem Beuteanteil ein Artemisheiligtum bei Skillus (sehr ausführlich: Xen. An. 5,3,7 – 13) und eben aber auch ein Anathem für Apollon, das im Schatzhaus der Athener in Delphi aufgestellt wurde (Xen. An. 5,3,5). Die im Krieg gemachte Beute gehörte in Sparta dem Staat, im Feld kam es zu Beuteverkäufen, bei denen sich, z. B. in Phrygien, Agesilaos (Xen. Ages. 1,18) geschickt und sachbezogen verhielt; ein Drittel des Erlöses erhielt der König: Güthling 1888, S. 14 (laut Schulz 1999, S. 292 allerdings nur „mindestens ein Zehntel“ – dann hätte Agesilaos sehr viel, vielleicht fast alles von seiner eigenen Beute nach Delphi geweiht !). Andere Erwähnungen von Beute: etwa Xen. Hell. 3,4,24 (Geld, Kamele, die Agesilaos nach Griechenland mitnimmt). Beute zur Finanzierung des Staates, letztlich zum Machterhalt in Sparta: vgl. die Hinweise bei Trundle 2004, SS. 65, 68. Beute für das geschwächte Sparta, als Einnahmequelle für den Staat, und die Rolle der Könige als „Söldnerführer“ dabei: vgl. Thommen 2003, SS. 176 – 180, zu Agesilaos ebd. SS. 176 – 177. Hier ließ sich das System aber auch aushöhlen: der Zwang zum Beutemachen, zu Plünderungszügen und ein ohne Zweifel häufiger zu beobachtendes Wirtschaften in die eigene Tasche aufseiten von Feldherrn und Harmosten, gehört offenbar zu den Krisenphänomenen Spartas im 4. Jh.: Schulz 1999, SS. 291, 292, 293; s. vor allem Hodkinson 1994, SS. 146 – 176, bes. SS. 151 – 154 und David 1981, SS. 43 – 77 zu den Veränderungen der Zeit in den sozioökonomischen Strukturen des Staates. Immer wieder liegt hier auch ein Vergleich mit Athen nahe: dazu vgl. Hamel 1998, SS. 44 – 50. Xenophon zählt unter die guten Eigenschaften des Agesilaos auch dessen Verhalten in „Gelddingen“: Xen. Ages. 4, 1 – 6. Beutelust als Motivation für die einzelnen Soldaten vgl. z. B. Whitby 2004, S. 224 mit Anm. 25, 26 und v. a. Trundle 2004, SS. 99 – 101; für die Kyreier vgl. auch Lee 2007, SS. 123 – 124.

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„Historiographie“ und „Enkomion“ im Vergleich: Xenophons Arbeit am historischen Geschehen – alles nur Literatur ! Gerade vom militärhistorischen Standpunkt aus betrachtet, war und ist die Rolle Xenophons als „participant-author“ bei der Interpretation seiner Werke (und bei der Interpretation dessen, was er schreibt und damit meint bzw. beabsichtigt) eine große Chance, aber auch eine Herausforderung, und das gilt nicht nur für seine Anabasis, bei der etwa Whitby107 zum Schluss gekommen ist, dass man ihn als „reasonable guide“ für das Funktionieren und die Erfolge jener Armee hernehmen könne. Für die Schlacht bei Sardis galt er Wylie108 als „first hand testimony“. Bei Pritchett109 gilt die Beschreibung von Koroneia als „one of his better narrative passages“; der oft wegen seiner Auslassungen gescholtene Historiker habe sich hier auf das beschränkt, wovon er genau Kenntnis gehabt habe, insgesamt sei das „a very detailed account“. Allgemein nennt man Xenophon gerne als Militärexperten von „optimal knowledge of military matters“ oder „first-hand knowledge“, aber auch als „Militärpädagogen“ und „Militärpsychologen“,110 der seinem Leser mit relativ knapper Faktensprache verlässlich berichtet, aber eben auch Fachwissen voraussetzt (für welches Publikum er schreibt, können wir hier nicht wirklich diskutieren). Und: Er will mit seinen Texten zugleich auch immer Paradigmatisches schaffen, Themen, die der Ausbildung und der Vermittlung speziellen (militärischen Fach- und Führungs-)Wissens dienen.111 Gerne werden eben auch historische Personen oder Begebenheiten paradigmatisch konstruiert, unter dem Gesichtspunkt exemplarischer Bedeutung, als exempla für das Funktionieren richtiger Führung etwa. Xenophon schreibt paradigmatische Geschichte mit einer persönlichen Mitteilungsabsicht, und das Bemühen um Vollständigkeit und Ausgewogenheit kann dann im Ernstfall auch zugunsten der exemplarischen Hervorhebung eher in den Hintergrund treten.112 Und so sind beispielsweise

107 Whitby 2004, SS. 216 – 217. 108 Wylie 1992, SS. 119, 129, 130 zur grundsätzlichen Glaubwürdigkeit der Darstellung zur Schlacht nach kritischer Würdigung der Überlieferung. 109 Pritchett 1969, S. 95. 110 Xenophon als „Militärexperte“: Kein Etikett findet sich häufiger, als dieses; hier seien nur wenige Hinweise genannt: Tejada 2004, S. 140 (daraus stammt das obige Zitat). Xenophon als „Militärpsychologe“ und „Militärpädagoge“ der Geschichtsschreibung vgl. Breitenbach 1950, SS. 87, 98, 144; Breitenbach 1966, SS. 1700, 1701, 1727; Wood 1964, SS. 39 – 40; Nickel 2016, S. 76; Nickel 1979, SS. 47, 117. 111 Vgl. etwa auch Stoll 2010, S. 14; Stoll 2012, SS. 250 – 257; Stevenson 2000, SS. 2 – 5. Klassiker in dieser Hinsicht: Anderson 1974, v. a. SS. 120 – 133 und vor allem auch klassisch: Wood 1964, SS. 33 – 66, v. a. SS. 48 – 62. Siehe auch die folgende beiden Anm. 112 Stoll 2013, SS. 285 – 286 mit Anm. 27; vgl. auch Nickel 1979, SS. 50, 51, 54 und Breitenbach 1966, SS. 1696, 1700 sowie Nickel 2016, SS. 81 – 82. In Xen. Hell. 4,8,1 gibt Xenophon auch offen zu, dass seine Methode in der Auswahl des für ihn Wichtigen begründet ist, das Unwichtige werde weggelassen. Vgl. auch Krafft 1967, SS. 144, 147. Paradigmatische Feldherrenporträts in den Hellenika s. Zimmermann 1992, S. 233, ebd. S. 235 zum Ideal des Herrschers im Agesilaos und gerade auch für König Agesilaos in den Hellenika vgl. Anderson 1974, S. 152: „his writings are largely concerned with

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nicht ganz selten die Hellenika und ihre Feldherrenporträts nicht unzutreffend als eine Art „Handbuch zur Feldherrnkunst“ gelesen worden113 oder aber man hat die philosophisch-pädagogische Tendenz des Werkes so deutlich gesehen, dass man auch schon daran gezweifelt hat, ob wir hier noch ein Werk der Historiographie vor uns haben !114

patterns of leadership …“ und auch Gray 1989 SS., 1 – 9, 73 – 78, 141 – 145 und speziell zur Darstellung des Agesilaos ebd. SS. 46 – 58, 150 – 153. Zur Fähigkeit des Xenophon, Personen zu charakterisieren, vgl. Flower 2012, SS. 103 – 106. Tejada 2004, SS. 141, 145: „didactic prose“; die Entstehung entsprechender Literatur und Fachliteratur und das Interesse an entsprechenden Fragestellungen ist auch bedingt durch die historische Entwicklung des Krieges und der Professionalisierung der Kriegführung am Ende des 5. und im 4. Jh. v. Chr. Vgl. auch Stevenson 2000, SS. 2 – 5 und auch besonders Breitenbach 1950, SS. 47 – 104 mit einer Vielzahl an Gedanken und Beispielpassagen zum guten Feldherrn bei Xenophon als Paradeigma. Vor allem Hutchinson 2000, SS. 100 – 179 präsentiert einen gut lesbaren Überblick über die „good practice“-Kommandeure des Xenophon in den Hellenika (Agesilaos, Archidamos, Teleutias, Iphikrates, Epameinondas) als Charakteristikum für dessen historische Methode („Xenophon shows selective approach to what he regards as good and bad practice“) und analysiert deren Verhalten bei Xenophon dann systematisch unter entsprechenden Gesichtspunkten: Kavallerie, Religiosität, Moral, Disziplin, Taktik etc.; ebd. SS. 180 – 223 folgte dann mit dem Abschnitt „The Ideal Commander“ eine entsprechende Analyse mit einem Fokus auf der „Kyrupädie“ und dem „Hipparchikos Logos“, den Schriften, in denen Xenophon am systematischsten die Rolle eines idealen Kommandeurs entworfen hat. Agesilaos als „the very model of a modern general“: s. Toalster 2011, etwa ebd. SS.. 87 – 100, 195 – 197 und s. Gray 2011, S. 30 („model for imitation“ – s. etwa Xen. Ages. 10,2 zu Agesilaos als Vorbild; seine „einzigartige und perfekte Vollendung“ wird ja aber auch schon in Xen. Ages. 1,1 angesprochen; vgl. weiter Gray 2011, S. 30 mit einer Liste an „Lob- und Bewunderungspassagen“ im Agesilaos). 113 Schmitz 2009, SS. 55 – 84, v. a. etwa ebd. SS. 63 – 65; Zimmermann 1992, S. 233. Auch in der Anabasis kann man diese Tendenz festmachen: Ich halte sie – neben autobiographischen und historischen Tendenzen – in erster Linie fast für ein „Lehrbuch“ über Feldherrnkunst, Führung, Taktik und Strategie sowie die „Formung“ einer Armee: Stoll 2002, SS. 123 – 183, v. a. SS. 132 f. und Stoll 2013, SS. 305 – 306 mit Anm. 90; vgl. aber auch Hutchinson 2000, passim. Auch in der Antike scheint man das „Paradigmatische“ oder Exemplarische der Xenophontischen Schriften tendenziell ebenfalls so empfunden zu haben: Ausbildungs- und Handlungsanweisung, sein Charakter als „sokratischer Philosoph“ unter den Historikern u. a. sind wichtige Aspekte bei der Lektüre gewesen. Für Dion Chrysostomos (Dion Chrys. 18, 14 – 17) etwa, war die Anabasis ein Paradigma für das Wirken eines rationalen, durchsetzungsfähigen und einfallsreichen militärischen Führers: Nur Xenophon biete alles, was man für ein öffentliches Amt benötige, man lerne unter anderem aus Xenophon, wie eine Armee zu kommandieren sei, ja, bei ihm lerne man am besten und am nützlichsten: Seine Ideen seien klar und einfach, sein Stil dem unmittelbaren Verständnis förderlich, lebensnah. Die Anabasis und ihre Reden und Beispiele werden geradezu zur Norm bei der Menschenführung erklärt. Wie man als Führungspersönlichkeit agiere, das sei dort wirkungsvoll und mitreißend, lehrreich und überzeugend niedergeschrieben ! In Ciceros Dialog „über den Redner“, in dem es im 2. Buch um die Geschichtsschreibung geht (Cic. de orat. 2,58; 3,139), wird der „berühmte Sokratiker Xenophon“ wegen seines Stiles gelobt, dann später, im dritten Buch geht es um universale Bildung als Voraussetzung für vollkommene Redekunst, hier wird ebenfalls Xenophon als „Lehrmeister“ bezeichnet (des Agesilaos in diesem Fall). Zur „Doppelstellung“ des Xenophon zwischen Philosophie und Geschichtsschreibung mit weiteren Hinweisen vgl. auch Breitenbach 1950, SS. 11 – 13. 114 Nickel 2016, S. 82, s. a. auch ebd. SS. 207 – 208. Zur philosophisch-pädagogischen Tendenz s. auch die vorh. Anm. mit den entsprechenden antiken Quellen. Überschreitung der Grenzen der historiographischen Gattung s. a. Krafft 1967, SS. 103 – 150.

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Wie schon gesagt, in Xen. An. 5,3,6, schreibt Xenophon jedenfalls eindeutig, er sei mit dem König Agesilaos auf dem Zug gegen die Boioter aus Asien weggezogen und nun bewertet eben Xenophon nicht nur als Zeitgenosse, sondern auch als Teilnehmer des Zuges (und vielleicht auch Teilnehmer an der Schlacht: Das behauptet etwa Plut. Ages. 18,1 – er, sc. Xenophon, sei dabei gewesen und habe auf der Seite des Königs gekämpft), auf jeden Fall aber als Freund des Königs Agesilaos (Nepos, Ages. 1,1; Diog. Laert. 2,51), die Schlacht von Koroneia in den Hellenika. Was können wir von unserem „wichtigste(n) uns erhaltene(n) Quellenwerk für die Zeit um 400 bis zum Ende der Hegemonie Spartas“, von einem Autor mit „persönliche(n) Beobachtungen und Erinnerungen … als Hauptquelle …“,115 von einem Freund Spartas und des Agesilaos für die Abfassung seines Werkes und die Beschreibung der Schlacht von Koroneia wirklich erwarten; kann man, wie Pritchett, von einem guten, „detailed account“ ausgehen ? In Xen. Hell. 4,3,16 (und auch im Xen. Ages. 2,9) heißt es „διηγήσομαι δὲ καὶ τὴν μάχην, καὶ πωϛ ἐγένετο οἵα ούκ ἄλλη των γ᾽ ἐφ᾽ ἡμων“ ! Worin die Einzigartigkeit der Schlacht besteht, wird allerdings nicht expliziert. Wenn für Xenophon, wie W. Schmitz einmal prägnant formuliert hat116 – und das stimmt vollkommen mit dem Xenophontischen Ideal seiner Feldherrenkunst und auch seiner von ihm entworfenen paradigmatischen Führungsfiguren im gesamten Oeuvre überein –, Krieg wie ein Schachspiel ist, Feldherrnkunst eine Art Handwerk, Sache des Fachwissens und der berechenbaren Taktik, dann ist Krieg „beherrschbar“, kann „klinisch sauber“ ausgeführt werden:117 Hier aber, in Koroneia, könnte die „Einzigartigkeit der Schlacht“ eigentlich im Problem des Autors mit ihr, in ihrem irrationalen Verlauf, dem Chaos und einem gewissen Kontrollverlust bestehen, einer Beschleunigung der Ereignisse, einem lange eher ungewissen Ausgang, einer „Unbeherrschbarkeit“, die Xenophon zu erklären, zu formen bzw. überformen (Verschweigen, Auslassen), zu deuten bzw. umzudeuten versucht und das dann auch noch in zwei verschiedenen literarischen Genera. Das Enkomion Agesilaos lässt beispielsweise eindeutig immer wieder „negative“ Ereignisstränge, spartanische Niederlagen, Ereignisse, die historisch wichtig waren, an denen der König aber nicht beteiligt war oder nicht ins Bild passendes Verhalten des „Helden Agesilaos“, weg (das missglückte Gefecht bei Daskyleion, das nicht geahndete Fehlverhalten des Herippidas in Kleinasien, die Schlacht am Nemeabach, das falsche „Siegesopfer“ für die spartanische Katastrophe von Knidos, der Umgang mit Gefangenen), auf dessen paradigmatische und ideale Gestaltung es über objek˘

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115 Wörtliche Zitate aus Binder 2008, S. 67. Zur spartafreundlichen Haltung in den Hellenika vgl. Nickel 2016, S. 38, weiter allgemein ebd. SS. 67 – 82. Zum „Memoirencharakter“ des Werkes und einer gewissen „Zufälligkeit seiner Informationsquellen“ vgl. Nickel 2016, S. 76, s. dann aber auch wieder etwas relativierend ebd. SS. 159, 161. 116 Schmitz 2009, SS. 65 – 66. 117 Schmitz 2009, S. 67.

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tive historische Genauigkeit hinweg hier „mit allen Mitteln“ ankommt.118 Die Schilderung des Geschehens wird durch die spezifische Wertewelt des Autors vorstrukturiert. Bisweilen spürt man Vorbilder für Erzählstrukturen der Schlachtbeschreibung bzw. die Bauweise der Erzählstränge und den Handlungsaufbau: Thukydides und „seine“ Schlacht von Mantineia (Sieg auf dem rechten Flügel, Zerreißen der Front, Zuwiderhandlung von Offizieren), die er als weitere Parallele (Thuk. 5,74) als „die größte … hellenische Schlacht“ bezeichnete, aber auch „Selbstzitate“, etwa Anklänge an Details der Xenophontischen Beschreibung der Schlacht von Kunaxa (vorschneller Siegestaumel, Sieg auf dem rechten Flügel, Zerreißen der Front, Zuwiderhandlung von Offizieren, Durchbruch des Feindes zum Tross, Frontenwechsel) aus der früheren Anabasis. Es gibt Dinge, bei denen man aus gutem Grund einen Tadel des Xenophon erwartet hätte. Etwa beim wiederholten Versagen des Herippidas (vor und bei Koroneia), das der verantwortliche Feldherr nicht sanktioniert, der damit aber auch riskiert, dass seine Angriffsfront eigentlich zweimal zerreißt, in einer frühen Phase der Schlacht nämlich (verursacht durch Herippidas) und am Ende (durch das Handeln des Königs selbst): Hier nützt das Verschweigen oder Nicht-Ansprechen des Kontrollverlustes dem Bild von Agesilaos, während die geschilderte Rolle des Herippidas diesen tendenziell zum Sündenbock macht. Mehrfach nimmt Xenophon seinen Helden in Schutz, argumentiert, vielleicht sogar ein ganz wenig „ironisch“, und damit letztlich doch auch kritisch, um dessen Handeln zu rechtfertigen, zum ersten Mal im Agesilaos mit Bezug auf die Truppenstärke und die Annahme der Schlacht (Xen. Ages. 2,7 – 8). Heftiger scheint die Kritik ungenannt gebliebener Literaten (Historiker) sich aber an einem späteren Detail festgebissen zu haben: Am Handeln und der Entscheidung des Agesilaos auf dem Schlachtfeld, als der König im entscheidenden Moment, als sein rechter Flügel Erfolg hat, die Thebaner aber auf dem linken Flügel gegen die Männer aus Orchomenos siegen und dann versuchen, sich mit dem Rest der eigenen Armee zu vereinen, diese – taktisch ziemlich unklug – nicht passieren lässt, um sie dann relativ einfach und bequem von hinten anzugreifen, sondern sich ihnen entgegenstellt. Dies bewertet Xenophon, wie I. G. Spence sicher zu Recht meint,119 ein weiteres Mal mit einer gewissen Ironie: Das „könne man nicht anders als mutig beschreiben, jedenfalls habe er nicht das gewählt, was am gefahrlosesten gewesen sei [und damit vielleicht eben aber auch das klügere …, O. S.]“ (Xen. Hell. 4,3,19 und wortgleich Xen. Ages. 2,12).120 Dass Plutarch, Ages. 18,2, deutlichere Kritik äußert, haben wir oben schon erwähnt: Die Leidenschaft und der Kampfeifer hätten den König „mitgerissen“, er habe den 118 Für eine andere Episode aus dem Leben des Agesilaos (die Thronbesteigung) beobachtet Gray 1989, S. 39 im Vergleich für die beiden Werke Xenophons Ähnliches: „he consciously distinguished between the genre of history and that of encomium …“. 119 Spence 2002, S. 109. 120 Buckler 1996, SS. 68 – 69 zur Frage, warum Xenophon hier Agesilaos und seinen offensichtlichen taktischen Fehler „deckt“, obwohl er das Öffnen der Reihen in ähnlichen Situationen durchaus empfiehlt bzw. als beispielhaft und richtig erörtert.

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Feind um jeden Preis niederzwingen wollen. Die sich entwickelnde „Schlacht in der Schlacht“ wurde frontal und mit großem Druck ausgekämpft – ist das die „Einzigartigkeit“ dieser Schlacht ? Nein, nicht allein. Die 50 jungen Spartaner seiner Leibwache etwa hatten das Ganze, den taktischen Fehler des Königs, seine Wut und Unüberlegtheit, die Xenophon gerade so verschleiern kann, mit ihrem Blut zu bezahlen (Plut. Ages. 18,3 – 4,121 nicht bei Xenophon !); sie hatten buchstäblich alle Hände voll zu tun, das Leben des Agesilaos zu verteidigen und erlitten dabei große Verluste und auch die Verluste insgesamt werden ja verschwiegen. Der Effekt seines Handelns und seiner Entscheidung als Kommandeur zum „Gewaltakt“ – wo Xenophon doch sonst Vorbereitung, Planung, Kontrolle beim Feldherrn lobt, hier aber ungestümes Verhalten zum Heldentum ummünzt –, ist dann auch nicht unbedingt umwerfend gewesen. Agesilaos wird, wie wir gesehen haben, verwundet (durch Schwerter und Speere sagt Plut. Ages. 18, 3), vielen der Thebaner gelingt der Durchbruch. Im Grunde ist das eine von seinem Freund Xenophon (der versteckt sogar ein Lob an die mutigen und geordnet vorrückenden Thebaner vergibt) verschwiegene oder zumindest umgedeutete „Niederlagensituation“: So vielen Thebanern gelang der Durchbruch – und implizit heißt das dann eben nämlich auch, dass dabei die spartanische Phalanx unter dem Kommando des Königs zerbrach, dem Druck der Feinde nicht standhielt –, dass diese sich als „unbesiegt“ ansahen (Plut. Ages. 18,4). Der nicht eindeutige Sieg, den Xenophon für den König in beiden Werken postuliert, wird am Ende eben mehr beansprucht und „in Szene gesetzt“ (Tropaion, Gefallene, Verhandlungen), als dass er von Ereignissen und Ergebnis her klar gewesen wäre – man vergleiche hier kritisch Diod. 14,84,2 und Plut. Ages. 19,2 – 3 ! Zwar ist der „Militärexperte Xenophon“ (wie zumeist) sparsam bei der Ortsbeschreibung und Lokalisierung des Schlachtfeldes – „Ebene von Koroneia“: kein Wort über die komplizierte Topographie mit vielen Baum- und Unterholzbestandenen Flussläufen (Kephisos, Herkyna, Phalaros, Kuraios), die Sicht und Bewegung nicht erleichtern, dazu einer großen Überland-Straße und Sumpfgebieten.122 Man hört auch nichts vom Anmarsch (Plut. Ages. 16,1 – 18,1 ist hier viel genauer), der Geschwindigkeit, den Überschreitungen, Behinderungen bzw. geländebedingten Verzögerungen. Zwar sagt er auch nicht, wie lange die Schlacht gedauert hat, und selbst bei der Beschreibung der genauen Schlachtaufstellung gibt es Probleme. Er nennt weder die Zahl der Beteiligten und er unterschlägt im Lauf der Darstellung auch die Rolle der Reiterei oder der Peltasten, so, als ob die Schlacht nur zwischen Hopliten und gegnerischen Phalangen stattgefunden habe. Das ist weit mehr als ein „Problem der Kombattanten, einen Schlachtverlauf zu erfassen“ und ein Problem der Quellen, also etwa einer Befragung von Teilnehmern, was Xenophon gewiss auch getan hat: Nein, das ist Absicht und hat Methode. Warum er „vergessen“ hat, in beiden Wer121 De Voto 1982, S. 123 Anm. 53 und Shipley 1997, SS. 222 – 223, 232. 122 Vgl. noch einmal Buckler und Beck 2008, S. 63 mit der wahrscheinlichsten Lokalisierung und weiteren Literaturhinweisen; Buckler 2003, SS. 90, 92.

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ken die Riten und die Religion zu erwähnen, die zur Kriegführung als essentieller Bestandteil der Schlachtschilderung dazugehören, bleibt ein Rätsel. Aber: Optische und akustische Eindrücke zur Schlacht werden vom Autor geliefert, und das ist eine Besonderheit. Erst die angebliche – und ganz und gar unglaubliche – Stille und das Schweigen beim Aufmarsch. Dann aber die Beschreibung zum Lärm des Schlachtgeschehens: Ein eigenartiger Geräuschpegel wie ihn nur Wutgeheul und Schlachtenlärm zusammen produzieren könnten (Xen. Ages. 2,10 und 12). Dies und die Schilderung des blutigen Anblickes auf dem Feld unterstützen den Eindruck der „Augen- und Ohrenzeugenschaft“ des Autors Xenophon und seiner entsprechenden Erfahrungen. Die detaillierte Beschreibung des Hoplitenkampfes und seiner Folgen ist insgesamt selten in der griechischen Historiographie,123 Xenophon beschreibt den Kampf und seine Folgen, das Aufeinanderprallen, Drängen, Töten (Xen. Hell. 4,3,19; Xen. Ages. 2,14 – 15), die blutgetränkte Erde, die Toten, zerschmetterten Schilde und Waffen (v. a. Xen. Ages. 2,14), recht explizit und bildhaft. Ganz vollständig ist der Eindruck aber dennoch nicht, denn erneut beschreibt Xenophon etwa nicht die Probleme der Bewegung geschlossener Formationen auf einem solchen blutgetränkten, mit Leichen und Verwundeten schwieriger gemachten Gelände.124 Zusammen mit den Geräuschen versucht der Autor aber doch insgesamt einen lebhaften Eindruck vom Geschehen zu erwecken. Dagegen verwundert allerdings immer wieder das Fehlen von Zahlen bei der Anzahl der Gefallenen oder Verwundeten, hier erfährt man nichts Konkretes. Wenn aber eben die oben bereits genauer angesprochene Version bei Diodor und Plutarch mit eher moderaten Verlustzahlen beim Gegner und einem eher „ausgeglichenen“ Verhältnis der Verluste insgesamt stimmen sollte, und auch die Nachricht Plut. Ages. 18,4 von der Einschätzung der Thebaner, sie seien bei dieser Schlacht unbesiegt geblieben, dann könnte Xenophon hier diese Zahlen bewusst verschwiegen haben, weil sie eben für jeden militärisch Gebildeten einfach zu lesen und einzuordnen gewesen wären: So einzigartig, wie Xenophon das wollte, wäre die Schlacht dann vielleicht auch in dieser Hinsicht nicht erschienen,125 die Zahlen wären kein Indiz für einen deutlichen Ausgang, eine deutliche Entscheidung gewesen ! Spence126 verbucht das Gefecht bei Koroneia als „technischen Sieg“ für Sparta, Hamilton127 nennt den Sieg „dubious“, es sei jedenfalls kein entscheidender Sieg gewesen, Agesilaos konnte ihn nicht nutzen und evakuierte Boiotien in der Folge. Diese Einschätzung wird allgemein geteilt. „The Spartans abandoned hope of subduing

123 Rusch 2011, S. 174. 124 Sehr eindrücklich schildert das dagegen etwa Polybios 15,14,1 – 4 (vgl. Liv. 30,34,9 – 13) für das Schlachtfeld von Zama. Die Probleme der Bewegung geschlossener Formationen auf dem „blutigen Feld“ werden dort überdeutlich ! 125 Ähnlich scheint das auch Shipley 1997, SS. 239 – 240 aufzufassen, der meint, Xenophon habe hier ein wenig die Wahrheit verschleiert, wegen der „indecisive nature of the battle“ und damit auch, um Agesilaos nicht mit einer „Negativbilanz“ zu belasten. 126 Spence 2002, S. 109. Ähnlich auch und Hamilton 1991, S. 108. 127 Hamilton 1979, S. 226.

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Boiotia“, heißt es etwa bei De Voto und ähnlich auch bei Hamilton oder auch bei Pritchett:128 Die spartanische Allianz habe zwar beim Nemeabach und in Koroneia das Feld behauptet, aber, „the encounters, however, were inconclusive and the chance to crush Boiotia had slipped from the Spartans’ grasp“. Der verwundete Agesilaos war am Ende gezwungen, sich in die Phokis zurückzuziehen und seine Armee aufzulösen; er selbst kehrte dann in die Heimat zurück (Xen. Hell. 4,4,1), wie wir ja gehört haben. S. M. Rusch pflichtet hier bei, nennt Koroneia einen Sieg, aber „a fruitless one“; „indecisive“129 sei die Schlacht gewesen, genauso wie die beim Nemeabach: Das etwas „irrational“ wirkende Handeln des Agesilaos auf dem Schlachtfeld sei ein schneller Entschluss gewesen, der Versuch, mit allen Mitteln eine Entscheidung gegen die Thebaner herbeizuführen und sie empfindlich zu treffen. Hätte er sie entscheidend schlagen können, hätte er auf einen Zusammenbruch des Boiotischen Bundes hoffen können und auf ein einfacheres Vorstoßen auf Attika. J. Buckler erachtet Koroneia gar in der Summe als taktischen und strategischen Sieg der Thebaner,130 das Erreichen einer Entscheidung sei Agesilaos jedenfalls versagt geblieben. Und das ist nach dem oben Gesagten ein Standpunkt, der mir am Ende vielleicht gar nicht mehr so abwegig erscheint. Strauss und Ober nennen den König Agesilaos sogar in der Summe einen „tragischen Helden“,131 auch das scheint letztlich nicht so falsch ! Eine Schlacht wie keine andere ? Vielleicht eben doch nur bei und für Xenophon ! In jedem Fall ist, ob in den Hellenika oder im Agesilaos, der Spartanerkönig Agesilaos der „ideale und siegreiche Feldherr“ des Autors Xenophon. In den Hellenika ist der Blick auf die Schlacht und das Verhalten des Königs im Vergleich kritischer. Allerdings verbirgt sich diese insgesamt dennoch gelinde Kritik – an einem „Helden“, der strategische und taktische Fehler gemacht hatte und vielleicht verantwortlich ist „for having lost perhaps the best Spartan chance of winning the Corinthian War at its outset“, „instead of a decisive blow he found himself wounded and his army in retreat“132 – in beiden Werken hinter ironischen Bemerkungen, nicht erklärten Ungereimtheiten, Weglassungen bzw. Verschweigen und Umdeutungen (Niederlage von Knidos, Zahlen/Verluste, taktische Fehler des Feldherren, Ungehorsam der Truppe bzw. Versagen einzelner Offiziere). Am Ende entzieht sich Xenophon als Historiker auch der Aufgabe einer unmittelbaren Bewertung von Wirkungen und Perspektiven zu diesem vermeintlichen und postulierten spartanischen Sieg (der viel128 De Voto 1982, SS. 123 – 124; Hamilton 1979, S. 226; Pritchett 1969, S. 94, vgl. aber auch Buckler 1996, S. 67. 129 Genauso auch Hamilton 1997, S. 52: „indecisive“ für die Schlachten von Koroneia und am Nemeabach. 130 Rusch 2011, SS.v174 – 175; ähnlich auch und Hamilton 1991, S. 108. Buckler 1996, S. 67 zu Koroneia als „taktischem und strategischem Sieg“ der Thebaner und s. dazu auch Buckler und Beck 2008, SS. 67 – 70 sowie Buckler 2003, S. 95; vgl. ferner auch Toalster 2011, S. 110. 131 Strauss und Ober 1990, S. 91. 132 So die sehr gute abschließende Beurteilung von Buckler und Beck 2008, SS. 69 – 70 und s. a. ebd. S. 70: „When Xenophon claims that Agesilaus won the battle, he was simply covering over unpleasant facts for the sake of an old friend“. Vgl. auch Buckler 2003, S. 95.

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leicht sogar eher doch eine Niederlage gewesen ist) und anderen Ereignissen, die sein (auch ein wenig tragischer) „Held“ mitgestaltet hat; vielleicht war die Bilanz, aus der der Autor Xenophon versucht hat, das Beste zu machen, insgesamt einfach zu mager. „Eine Schlacht wie keine andere (und ein Held wie kein anderer)“ ? Am Ende ist eben doch alles nur Literatur !

Basisbibliographie zum Beitrag und verwendete Kurztitel Anderson, J. K. 1970. Military Theory and Practice in the Age of Xenophon. Berkeley und Los Angeles: University of California Press. Anderson, J. K. 1974. Xenophon. London: Duckworth. Baltrusch, E. 52016. Sparta. Geschichte, Gesellschaft, Kultur. München: Beck. Behrwald, R. (ed.) 2005. Hellenika von Oxyrhynchos. Herausgegeben, übersetzt und kommentiert von Ralf Behrwald. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Bichler, R. 2016. Probleme und Grenzen der Rekonstruktion von Ereignissen am Beispiel antiker Schlachtenbeschreibungen. In Reinhold Bichler. Historiographie – Ethnographie – Utopie. Gesammelte Schriften, Teil 4: Studien zur griechischen Historiographie, R. Rollinger und K. Ruffing eds, 43 – 66. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Binder, C. 2008. Plutarchs Vita des Artaxerxes. Ein historischer Kommentar. Berlin und New York: De Gruyter. Bleckmann, C. 1998. Athens Weg in die Niederlage. Die letzten Jahre des Peloponnesischen Kriegs. Stuttgart und Leipzig: Teubner. Breitenbach, H. R. 1950. Historiographische Anschauungsformen Xenophons (Diss. Basel 1950). Freiburg: Paulusdruckerei. Breitenbach, H. R. 1966. Xenophon von Athen. Stuttgart: Druckenmüller. Bringmann, K. 1971. Xenophons Hellenika und Agesilaos. Zu ihrer Entstehungsweise und Datierung. Gymnasium 78: 224 – 241. Buckler, J. 1996. The Battle of Koroneia and its Historiographical Legacy. In Boeotia Antiqua VI. Proceedings of the 8th International Conference on Boeotian Antiquities (Loyola University of Chicago, 24 – 26 May 1995), J. M. Fossey ed., 59 – 72. Amsterdam: Gieben. Buckler, J. 2003. Aegean Greece in the Fourth Century BC. Leiden und Boston: Brill. Buckler, J. 2004. The Incident at Mount Parnassus, 395 BC. In Tuplin 2004, 397 – 411. Buckler, J und Beck, H. 2008. Central Greece and the Politics of Power in the Fourth Century BC. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cartledge, P. 1987. Agesilaos and the Crisis of Sparta. London: Duckworth. von Clausewitz, C. 172009 Vom Kriege. Als Handbuch bearbeitet und mit einem Essay ‚Zum Verständnis des Werkes‘. W. Pickert und W. Ritter von Schramm eds. Hamburg: Rowohlt. David, E. 1981. Sparta between Empire and Revolution (404 – 243 B. C.). Internal Problems and their Impact on Contemporary Greek Consciousness. New York: Ayer.

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Dayton, J. 2007. „The Athletes of War”. An evaluation of the agonistic elements in Greek warfare. American Journal of Ancient History N. S. 2,2, 2003 [2007], 17 – 97. De Voto, J. G. 1982. Agesilaos II and the Politics of Sparta, 404 – 377 B. C. Chicago: Loyola University Press. Dillery, J. 1995. Xenophon and the History of his Times. London: Routledge. Flower, M. A. 2012. Xenophon’s Anabasis, or: The Expedition of Cyrus. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Franz, J. P. 2002. Krieger, Bauern, Bürger. Untersuchungen zu den Hopliten der archaischen und klassischen Zeit. Frankfurt: Lang. Gray, V. 1989. The Character of Xenophon’s Hellenica. London: Duckworth. Gray, V. 2011. Xenophon’s Mirror of Princes. Reading the Reflections. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Güthling, O. 1888. Xenophons Agesilaos. Für den Schulgebrauch erklärt. Leipzig: Teubner. Hamel, D. 1998. Athenian Generals. Military Authority in the Classical Period. Leiden et al.: Brill. Hamilton, C. D. 1979. Sparta’s Bitter Victories. Politics and Diplomacy in the Corinthian War. Ithaca und London: Cornell University Press. Hamilton, C. D. 1991. Agesilaus and the Failure of Spartan Hegemony. Ithaca und London: Cornell University Press. Hamilton, C. D. 1997. Sparta. In The Greek World in the Fourth Century. From the Fall of the Athenian Empire to the Successors of Alexander, L. Tritle ed., 41 – 65. London und New York: Routledge. Hanson, V. D. 1991. ed. Hoplites. The Classical Greek Battle Experience. London und New York: Routledge. Hanson, V. D. 22000. The Western Way of War. Infantry Battle in Classical Greece. (Berkeley und Los Angeles: University of California Press. Hirsch, S. W. 1985. The friendship of the barbarians. Xenophon and the Persian empire. Hanover NH und London: Tufts. Hodkinson, S. 1994. Warfare, Wealth, and the Crisis of Spartiate Society. In War and Society in the Greek World, J. Rich und G. Shipley eds, 146 – 176. London und New York: Routledge. Hodkinson, S. und Powell, A. 2006. eds. Sparta and War. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Hutchinson, G. 2000. Xenophon and the Art of Command. London: Greenhill. Jameson, M. H. 1991. Sacrifice before Battle. In Hanson 1991, 197 – 227. Jehne, M. 2004. Überlegungen zu den Auslassungen in Xenophons Hellenika am Beispiel der Gründung des Zweiten Athenischen Seebunds. In Tuplin 2004, 463 – 480. Krafft P. 1967. Vier Beispiele des Xenophontischen in Xenophons Hellenica. Rheinisches Museum 110: 103 – 150. Krentz, P. 1985. Casualties in hoplite battles. Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 26.1: 13 – 20.

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Parody as a Sign of Generic Consciousness: Battle Descriptions in the Pseudo-Homeric Batrachomyomachia Martin M. Bauer

Within the field of literary battle descriptions, parodistic battle descriptions form a distinct sub-group. Traditionally, parody was described as a genre characterised by incongruity between form and content, thus undermining the seriousness of its hypotext.1 This view was first challenged by Russian formalism. In several essays, most notably in his treatment of Tristram Shandy, Viktor Shklovsky has argued that “it is the consciousness of form through its violation” that lies at the heart of parody.2 In his view, parody ‘lays bare’ the literary devices of literature and emphasizes (or even deconstructs) its fictionality and ‘literariness’. Apart from its “comic refunctioning” of a hypotext,3 parody can indicate an awareness of narrative structures and characteristic devices of a particular genre. Consequently, Shklovsky claims that “Tristram Shandy is the most typical novel in world literature”.4 Looking at the parodistic battle descriptions of the Batrachomyomachia, the only surviving epic parody of Greek antiquity and termed “the most typical epic” in reference to Shklovsky,5 could therefore enable us to determine which elements of epic battle descriptions were deemed indispensable for the genre by an ancient writer.6 The Batrachomyomachia, ‘Battle of Frogs and Mice’, is a short Greek hexametric poem consisting of around 300 verses, depending on recension and edition. It was

1

2

3 4 5 6

Cf. e. g. Lehmann 1922, pp. 11 – 15, esp. p. 13; Grellmann 1928, esp. coll. 630 – 633; for a critical view of the traditional definition (with further examples) see Rau 1967, pp. 10 – 12; Wölke 1978, p. 179 n. 5; Most 1993, p. 31. Shklovsky 1990, p. 149. A concise overview of modern theories of parody can be found in Rose 1993, pp. 103 – 192; with regard to classical philology and the Batrachomyomachia see also Most 1993, pp. 27 – 35. Rose 1993, p. 114. Shklovsky 1990, p. 170. Most 1993, p. 40. On the Batrachomyomachia in general and as an example of Hellenistic epic parody, see also Wölke 1978; Glei 1984, pp. 18 – 36; Sens 2006. Cf. also Glei 1984, p. 20.

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_8

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ascribed to Homer since Roman times,7 but is now generally accepted to have been written in late Hellenistic Alexandria because of allusions to Callimachus and Moschus.8 As a whole, the poem belongs to the genre of epic parody, which according to Aristotle was invented by Hegemon of Thasos in the fifth century BC and flourished in Hellenistic times.9 This Hegemon wrote a parodistic “Gigantomachia”, and, several decades ago, a papyrus was found, dating from the second century BC and containing fragments of a Galeomyomachia, a ‘Battle between Weasels and Mice’.10 Both topics are alluded to in the prooimion of the Batrachomyomachia.11 But apart from a few fragments, this tradition of epic parody has been entirely lost in transmission. Only the Batrachomyomachia enjoyed a huge popularity in Byzantine schools and has thus been preserved.12 The topic of the poem is a one-day battle between frogs and mice arising from a fatal accident, the unintended drowning of the mouse Psicharpax. This cause of war already bears a striking resemblance to the cause of the Trojan War: Like Helen, who follows Paris across the sea to Troy, Psicharpax agrees to accompany the frog prince Physignathus to his watery home. The link to abduction myths is further strengthened by a simile involving Europa riding the bull. More than two thirds of the poem deal with preliminary events to the battle, such as the cause of war, assemblies of the two armies and of the gods, and arming scenes. Only the last 100 verses contain an actual battle description. Unfortunately, it is this passage which has suffered most in the course of transmission and is riddled with textual problems. In the manuscripts, we can find at least two different versions, or recensions, of the Batrachomyomachia, only 116 verses of which are completely identical.13 The majority of differences concern their depiction of the battle. One of them (l) is clearly a Byzantine revision, as can be inferred from metrical inconsistencies and mistakes typical for Medieval Greek poets. The other recension (a) might be closer to the Hellenistic original, but nonetheless seems to have been interpolated in Byzantine times. In particular, the central battle scene is very lacunose and lacks coherence in both recensions.14 A third group of manuscripts presents a mixed text which contains lines of both recensions in order to provide a more extensive narration. Although this group is clearly derivative, most modern scholars have taken it as the basis for their editions.15

7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Cf. Mart. 14.183; Stat. Silv. 1 praef. Cf. Wölke 1978, pp. 58 – 61; 114 – 119; Glei 1984, 22; Sens 2006, pp. 216 – 217. Arist. Poet. 1448a12. Cf. Schibli 1983; for text and translation see also West 2003, pp. 258 – 263. Batr. 7 and 9, respectively. Cf. Carpinato 1988. Cf. Glei 1984, p. 67. On the two recensions see Glei 1984, pp. 37 – 67. E. g. Ludwich 1896; Allen 1912, pp. 168 – 183; Ahlborn 1968, pp. 18 – 41; West 2003, pp. 264 – 293. A notable exception is Glei 1984, a synoptic edition of the two distinct recensions, which is used in the following analysis.

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However, the editorial decision to harmonize very different textual traditions poses some problems for the study of narrative structures — even more so in the central battle scene, where the manuscripts diverge strongly. I will therefore make a clear distinction between the two main recensions and analyse them separately. This approach does not necessarily contribute to reconstructing the original Batrachomyomachia, but will show clearly that the type of epic parody employed in the surviving variants required a profound understanding of narrative patterns in traditional battle descriptions. Moreover, the influence of Hellenistic literary scholarship on the Homeric epics and of Hellenistic discussions of genre and poetics can be traced in the battle scenes (and, in fact, throughout the entire poem),16 thus further accentuating the ‘literariness’ of the text. In order to pinpoint what I would like to call the ‘generic consciousness’ of parody,17 let us look first at some typical features of epic battle descriptions. They were collected and analysed in detail by Bernard Fenik in a still valuable monograph. In the Iliad, battle scenes “consist largely of individual encounters related one after the other, whereas general or mass scenes of the armies as a whole are relatively rare.”18 Of the patterns the poet uses for organizing sequences of single combat, two stand out as markedly contrasting: (1) “[T]he ‘chain-reaction’ fight, in which Greek and Trojans slay each other alternately, each man avenging himself, or trying to avenge himself, on the slayer of the previous victim.”19 (2) “[A] series of uninterrupted, easy slayings by one side” without intermitting successes by the other side.20 A related but special case is the aristeia, where this series of victories is achieved by a single hero displaying his excellence in combat.

Both these patterns also occur in the Batrachomyomachia: In recension a (see Appendix), the battle begins with three unrelated single combats, Hypsiboas against Leichenor, Troglodytes against Peleion, and Embasichytros against Seutlaios, which result in one victory for the frogs and two victories for the mice (vv. 202 – 209). The first series of connected fights is the aristeia of the frog Okimides, who slays three mice before disappearing from the narrative (vv. 213 – 223). Three unrelated single combats follow, again one victory for the frogs and two victories for the mice (vv. 224 – 231). Until now the pairings and results were arranged symmetrically. Now (vv. 232 – 249) a typical example of a ‘chain-reaction fight’ can be found:

16 17 18 19 20

Cf. Most 1993, pp. 37 – 38; Sens 2006, pp. 224 – 227; Kelly 2009; Kelly 2014; Sticker 2017. See also Sens 2006, p. 218. Fenik 1968, p. 19. Fenik 1968, p. 10. Fenik 1968, p. 10.

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Πρασσεῖος δ’ ἐσιδὼν ποδὸς εἵλκυσε νεκρὸν ἐόντα, ἐν λίμνῃ δ’ ἀπέπνιξε κρατήσας χειρὶ τένοντα. Ψιχάρπαξ δ’ ἤμυν’ ἑτάρων περὶ τεθνειώτων καὶ βάλε Πρασσεῖον μήπω γαίης ἐπιβάντα· πῖπτε δὲ οἱ προπάροιθε, ψυχὴ δ’ Ἀϊδόσδε βεβήκει. Κραμβοβάτης δ’ ἐσιδὼν πηλοῦ δράκα ῥίψεν ἐπ’ αὐτόν, καὶ τὸ μέτωπον ἔχρισε καὶ ἐξετύφλου παρὰ μικρόν. ὀργισθεὶς δ’ ἄρ’ ἐκεῖνος, ἑλὼν δέ γε χειρὶ παχείῃ κείμενον ἐν δαπέδῳ λίθον ὄβριμον, ἄχθος ἀρούρης, τῷ βάλε Κραμβοβάτην ὑπὸ γούνατα· πᾶσα δ’ ἐκλάσθη κνήμη δεξιτερή, πέσε δ’ ὕπτιος ἐν κονίῃσι. Κραυγασίδης δ’ ἤμυνε καὶ αὖθις βαῖνεν ἐπ’ αὐτόν, τύψε δὲ οἱ μέσσην κατὰ γαστέρα· πᾶσα δ᾿ οἱ εἴσω ὀξύσχοινος ἔδυνε, χαμαὶ δ’ ἔκχυντο ἅπαντα ἔγκατ’ ἐφελκομένῳ ὑπὸ δούρατι χειρὶ παχείῃ. Τρωγλοδύτης δ᾿ ὡς εἶδεν ἐπ᾿ ὄχθῃσιν ποταμοῖο σκάζων ἐκ πολέμου ἀνεχάζετο, τείρετο δ᾿ αἰνῶς· ἤλατο δ᾿ ἐς τάφρους, ὅππως φύγοι αἰπὺν ὄλεθρον. “On seeing this, Prasseios dragged the dead mouse away by the foot / and drowned him in the pool, holding on to his ankle. / Psicharpax came to the defence of his dead comrades, / and hit Prasseios before he had got back on land: / he fell before him, and his soul departed to Hades. / On seeing this, Krambobates hurled a handful of mud at him, / which smeared his forehead and nearly blinded him. / He was enraged, and taking in his stout hand / a formidable stone that was lying on the ground, a burden on the soil, / he hit Krambobates with it below the knee; his whole right shank / was smashed, and he fell on his back in the dust. / Kraugasides came to the defence and went straight for him. / He struck him square in the belly: his needle reed / went right inside, and all his entrails / dropped out on the ground as he withdrew the spear with his stout hand. / When Troglodytes saw this on the river bank, / he withdrew limping from the battle, in sore distress. / He leapt into the ditches to escape sheer destruction.”21

So the frog Prasseios drags the dead Leichopinax away in order to drown the body (sic !) and is seen by Psicharpax — the mouse whose drowning provoked the battle in the first place—, who instantly kills him. This in turn is seen by Krambobates, who wants to avenge his friend and attacks Psicharpax by throwing a handful of mud at him, almost blinding him. This enrages Psicharpax even more, and he strikes Krambobates with a rock, but is killed himself by Kraugasides. The last protagonist in this chain of events is the mouse Troglodytes, who was himself already slain during

21 Translation revised by M. M. B. after West 2003, pp. 285 – 287.

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the aristeia of Okimides, but nevertheless decides to flee after seeing the death of Psicharpax. Apart from being a ‘chain-reaction’ fight, this central passage also features three other typical elements of epic battle scenes: (1) The fight over a dead body, in which the warrior who tries to drag away the body is slain. “Such slayings are among the most common of all occurrences in the Iliad’s battle scenes.”22 (2) The throwing of rocks also occurs very often in Iliadic battle scenes, most famously in the combat between Hector and Aias, to which the author of the Batrachomyomachia specifically alludes.23 (3) Dead warriors fighting again and similar inconsistencies. This aspect of epic battle descriptions shall be discussed later.

There seems to be a second ‘chain-reaction fight’, perhaps even a second aristeia, in the following verses (vv. 250 – 259), focusing on the mouse Troxartes, but the text is too damaged for the structure of the passage to be recognisable. Finally, the mouse hero Meridarpax appears and drives the frogs back to their pool (vv. 260 – 267): ἦν δέ τις ἐν μύεσσιν Μεριδάρπαξ ἔξοχος ἄλλων, Κναίσσωνος φίλος υἱὸς ἀμύμονος ἀρτεπιβούλου· οἴκαδ’ ἰών πολέμοιο μετασχεῖν παῖδ’ ἐκέλευεν. αὐτὸς δ’ ἑστήκει γαυριούμενος κατὰ λίμνην. οὗτος ἀναρπάξαι βατράχων γένος ἐπαπείλει, καὶ ῥήξας καρύου μέσην ῥάχιν εἰς δύο μοίρας φράγδην ἀμφοτέροισι †καὶ ἐν ὄμμασι† χεῖρας ἔθηκεν. οἱ δὲ τάχος δείσαντες ἔβαν πάντες κατὰ λίμνην. “There was among the mice one Meridarpax, outstanding above the rest, / the dear son of worthy Knaisson, targeter of bread. / As he went home, he urged his son to take part in the fighting. / He stood proudly by the pool / threatening he would take the frog race by storm, / and breaking a walnut along its central ridge in two halves, / he put his paws into both cavities for protection. / They quickly became afraid and all went into the pool.”24

The imminent victory of the mice causes Zeus to intervene on the side of the frogs. The battle ends in a draw, and night falls on the scene. In recension l (see Appendix) the arrangement of the battle scenes differs conspicuously from recension a in that most of the single combats are unrelated and strictly 22 Fenik 1968, p. 174; cf. Il. 4.467 – 469; 11.257 – 261; 14.476 – 477; 16.577 – 580; 17.288 – 303. 23 Il. 7.263 – 272; cf. Wölke 1978, pp. 158 – 159; Glei 1984, pp. 191 – 192; see also e. g. Il. 5.302 – 310; 5.580 – 586; Fenik 1968, pp. 64 – 65. 24 Translation revised by M. M. B. after West 2003, p. 289.

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alternating between a victory for the frogs and one for the mice. Several subjects and object are interchanged in comparison with recension a in order to arrive at the desired sequence, some verses are added, others left out. Even the aristeia of Okimides is sacrificed for this change of structure, though what replaces it might have been conceived as a short, somewhat garbled ‘chain-reaction fight’ (vv. 212 – 221): Λιμνόχαρις δ᾿ ὡς εἶδεν ἀπολλύμενον Πολύφωνον, Τρωγλοδύτην ἁπαλοῖο δι᾿ αὐχένος τρῶσεν ἐπιφθὰς πέτρῳ μυλοειδέι· τὸν δὲ σκότος ὄσσε κάλυψε. Λειχήνωρ δ᾿ αὐτοῖο τιτύσκετο δουρὶ φαεινῷ καὶ βάλεν οὐδ᾿ ἀφάμαρτε καθ᾿ ἧπαρ· ὡς δ᾿ ἐνόησε Κραμβοφάγος φεύγων, βαθείαις ἔμπεσεν ὄχθαις. ἀλλ᾿ οὐδ᾿ ὣς ἀπέληγεν ἐν ὕδασιν, ἤλασε δ᾿ αὐτόν. κάππεσε δ᾿, οὐκ ἀνένευσεν, ἐβάπτετο δ᾿ αἵματι λίμνη πορφυρέῳ· αὐτὸς δὲ παρ᾿ ἠϊόν᾿ ἐξετανύσθη. “When Limnocharis saw that Polyphonos had been killed, / he wounded Troglodytes by throwing / a rock like a millstone through his tender neck; and darkness covered his eyes. / And Leichenor aimed his radiant spear at him / and shot and did not miss him at the liver, when he saw / Krambophagos fleeing: he had fallen down the steep banks. / But he kept going even in the water, and he struck him. / And he fell down, he did not swim up again, and the pool was tinged with his crimson blood, / while he himself was stretched out on the strand.”25

Notwithstanding those changes, the central ‘chain-reaction fight’ focusing on Psicharpax is mostly retained in l, and the probable aristeia of Troxartes as well as the appearance of Meridarpax are at least partly preserved. Despite the considerable transformation of the overall combat structure, recension l also keeps the fight over a dead body, the throwing of rocks and the recurrence of already dead warriors, the last element even being transferred to another character (Leichenor instead of Troglodytes). We can thus assume that these features, together with the basic patterns of the ‘chain-reaction fight’ and the aristeia, were considered essential by both redactors. Besides the sequential arrangement of the combats, the epic poet often uses a characteristic tripartite pattern within the description of a single combat, similar to a catalogue entry. The first part gives the ‘basic information’, i. e. who fights against whom. After that, the middle part, the ‘anecdote’, provides further information on the persons, their families, and their past. Finally the third part, the ‘contextual information’ narrates all the details of the combat.26 Sometimes the pattern can also be varied 25 Translation revised by M. M. B. after West 2003, p. 289. 26 Cf. Beye 1964 with examples; see also Fenik 1968, pp. 16 – 17; Wölke 1978, pp. 153 – 155.

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by interchanging parts 2 and 3, and, in the case of minor warriors, the ‘anecdote’ may be omitted or abbreviated.27 But contrary to Iliadic custom, the battle description of the Batrachomyomachia is almost completely devoid of additional information on the characters. Even patronymics are missing, so that a certain degree of individuality for the animal warriors is only achieved through their telling names.28 The only exception is the mouse hero Meridarpax, whose appearance is introduced by a genealogical digression and an additional short arming scene. So far it has not been sufficiently explained what the author of the Batrachomyomachia tried to achieve by abstaining from giving detailed information on his protagonists. In the light of Shklovsky’s definition of parody, however, it becomes apparent that the superficial simplicity of the text emphasizes the mechanisms behind it. By confining himself to the absolutely essential, the poet ‘lays bare’ some of the patterns and literary devices of traditional epic battle description, which in the Iliad tend to be concealed by the exuberant narrative. The succinct text allows for an easy overview of the whole structure, which could be seen as a possible pedagogical explanation for the poem’s popularity in late antique and medieval classrooms. But, more importantly, the condensed narrative also serves to enhance the comical effect of the parody. This becomes most clearly apparent when we finally look at the above-mentioned inconsistencies in the battle description: Already dead warriors fight again, a corpse gets drowned, and tactics are developed (Batr. 152 – 159) but never used. Similar inconsistencies occur in the Iliad. The most famous example, which already baffled Hellenistic scholars, might be the Paphlagonian king Pylaimenes, who is killed by Menelaos in the fifth book of the Iliad, but laments his dead son in book 13.29 In this prominent case, there can be no doubt that he is meant to be the same person. Less disturbing cases of homonyms are even more frequent: A Trojan named Ormenos is killed both by Teukros at 8.274 and by Polypoites at 12.187, a Trojan called Ophelestes is slain by Teukros at 8.274 and by Achilleus at 21.210, and so on, but in these cases, the victims could be conceived as namesakes and possibly relatives. Still more confusing may be the fact that there are at least five different characters named Chromios in the Iliad, both on the Greek and Trojan side.30 We can still trace the ancient scholarly discussion about Homeric homonyms in the scholia.31 There can be little doubt that the author of the Batrachomyomachia was familiar with this debate and ridiculed it in his poem. But whereas in the Iliad the reappearances of slain warriors happen several books after the initial killing and might not even be noticed by the audience, in the short Batrachomyomachia it takes only a few verses to revive a dead character, and additionally, such mock-inadvertent resurrections happily occur several times

27 28 29 30 31

Cf. e. g. Il. 4.457 – 472; see also Fenik 1968, p. 17. Cf. Glei 1984, p. 178; see also Wölke 1978, pp. 154 – 155. Il. 5.576 – 586; 13.658; cf. Most 1993, p. 37; Kelly 2009; pace Glei 1984, p. 191. Il. 4.295; 5.160; 5.677; 17.218; 17.494 and 534; cf. Kelly 2009, pp. 47 – 48. Cf. Σ in Il. 13.643a.

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in quick succession. It is precisely this combination of hyperbole and brevity which makes the parody funny. By analysing the battle scenes of the Batrachomyomachia, it has been demonstrated that both surviving redactions, despite their significant differences, have selected the same set of indispensable elements from the epic tradition in order to construct their parodistic narrative. This enables us to get an idea of the poets’ (or redactors’) ‘generic consciousness’. According to them, the most characteristic elements of a Homeric battle description — and therefore easiest to mock — were the two patterns of ‘chain-reaction fight’ and aristeia in conjunction with the fight over a dead body, the throwing of rocks, and the reappearance of dead characters. The text’s terseness should not be seen as a drawback or as the hallmark of a mediocre poet; on the contrary, to a considerable extent the humour of the piece relies on its condensed narrative, exposing the bare bones of its structure. Thus we may conclude that the Batrachomyomachia is not only ‘the most typical epic’, but also contains the most typical battle description.

Appendix: The structure of the Battle Scene of the Batrachomyomachia in recensions a and l (vv. 202 – 267)32 Batrachomyomachia 202 – 267 (recension a) πρῶτος δ’ Ὑψιβόας Λειχήνορα οὔτασε δουρὶ ἑσταότ’ ἐν προμάχοις κατὰ γαστέρος ἐς μέσον ἧπαρ· κὰδ δ’ ἔπεσε πρηνής, ἁπαλὰς δ’ ἐκόνισεν ἐθείρας. Τρωγλήτης δὲ μετ’ αὐτὸν ἀκόντισε Πηλείωνα, πῆξεν δ’ ἐν στέρνῳ στιβαρὸν δόρυ· τὸν δὲ πεσόντα εἷλε μέλας θάνατος, ψυχὴ δ’ ἐκ σώματος ἔπτη. Σευτλαῖον δ’ ἂρ ἔπεφνε βαλὼν κέαρ Ἐμβασίχυτρος. Ὠκιμίδην δ᾿ ἄχος εἷλε, καὶ ἤλασεν ὀξέι σχοίνῳ Τρωγλοδύτην ἁπαλοῖο δι᾿ αὐχένος, ἤριπε δ᾿ εὐθύς. ὁ δ᾿ ἐξέσπασεν ἔγχος ἐναντίον· ὡς δ᾿ ἐνόησε Κουστοφάγον φεύγοντα, βαθείαις ἔμπεσεν ὄχθαις. ἀλλ᾿ οὐδ᾿ ὣς ἀπέληγεν ἐν ὕδασιν, ἤλασε δ᾿ αὐτόν. κάππεσε δ᾿, οὐκ ἀνέπνευσεν, ἐβάπτετο δ᾿ αἵματι λίμνη πορφυρέῳ· αὐτὸς δὲ παρ᾿ ἠϊόν᾿ ἐξετανύσθη, χορδῇσιν λιπαρῇσι †τ᾿ ἐπορνυμένου† λαγόνεσσι, Τυροφάγον δ’ αὐτῇσιν ἐπ’ ὄχθαις ἐξενάριξεν. Πτερνογλύφον δ’ ἐσιδὼν Καλαμίνθιος ἐς φόβον ἦλθεν, ἥλατο δ’ ἐς λίμνην, φεύγων τὴν ἀσπίδα ῥίψας. †Λιτραῖον δ’ ἀρ’ ἔπεφνεν ἀμύμων Ἐμβασίχυτρος, 32 Cf. Glei 1983, pp. 92 – 103; 175 – 183.

Hypsiboas (F1) kills Leichenor (M1) Trogletes (M2) kills Peleion (F2)

Embasichytros (M3) kills Seutlaios (F3) Okimides (F4) kills Troglodytes (M4/M2 ?) Okimides (F4) kills Koustophagos (M5)

Okimides (F4) kills Tyrophagos (M6) Pternoglyphos (M7) routs Kalaminthios (F5) Embasichytros (M3) kills

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χερμαδίῳ πλήξας κατὰ βρέγματος· ἐγκέφαλος δὲ ἐκ ῥινῶν ἔσταξε. παλάσσετο δ’ αἵματι γαῖα. Λειχοπίνακα δ’ ἔπεφνεν ἀμύμων Βορβοροκοίτης, ἔγχει ἐπαΐξας· τὸν δὲ σκότος ὄσσε κάλυψε. Πρασσεῖος δ’ ἐσιδὼν ποδὸς εἵλκυσε νεκρὸν ἐόντα, ἐν λίμνῃ δ’ ἀπέπνιξε κρατήσας χειρὶ τένοντα. Ψιχάρπαξ δ’ ἤμυν’ ἑτάρων περὶ τεθνειώτων καὶ βάλε Πρασσεῖον μήπω γαίης ἐπιβάντα· πῖπτε δὲ οἱ προπάροιθε, ψυχὴ δ’ Ἀϊδόσδε βεβήκει. Κραμβοβάτης δ’ ἐσιδὼν πηλοῦ δράκα ῥίψεν ἐπ’ αὐτόν, καὶ τὸ μέτωπον ἔχρισε καὶ ἐξετύφλου παρὰ μικρόν. ὀργισθεὶς δ’ ἄρ’ ἐκεῖνος, ἑλὼν δέ γε χειρὶ παχείῃ κείμενον ἐν δαπέδῳ λίθον ὄβριμον, ἄχθος ἀρούρης, τῷ βάλε Κραμβοβάτην ὑπὸ γούνατα· πᾶσα δ’ ἐκλάσθη κνήμη δεξιτερή, πέσε δ’ ὕπτιος ἐν κονίῃσι. Κραυγασίδης δ’ ἤμυνε καὶ αὖθις βαῖνεν ἐπ’ αὐτόν, τύψε δὲ οἱ μέσσην κατὰ γαστέρα· πᾶσα δ᾿ οἱ εἴσω ὀξύσχοινος ἔδυνε, χαμαὶ δ’ ἔκχυντο ἅπαντα ἔγκατ’ ἐφελκομένῳ ὑπὸ δούρατι χειρὶ παχείῃ. Τρωγλοδύτης δ᾿ ὡς εἶδεν ἐπ᾿ ὄχθῃσιν ποταμοῖο σκάζων ἐκ πολέμου ἀνεχάζετο, τείρετο δ᾿ αἰνῶς· ἤλατο δ᾿ ἐς τάφρους, ὅππως φύγοι αἰπὺν ὄλεθρον. Τρωξάρτης δ’ ἔβαλεν Φυσίγναθον ἐς ποδὸς ἄκρον· ἔσχατος δ’ ἐκ λίμνης ἀνεδύσετο, τείρετο δ’ αἰνῶς. Πρασσαῖος δ’ ὡς εἶδεν ἔθ’ ἡμίπνουν προπεσόντα, ἦλθε διὰ προμάχων καὶ ἀκόντισεν ὀξύσχοινον· οὐδ’ ἔρρηξε σάκος, σχέτο δ’ αὐτοῦ δουρὸς ἀκωκή· οὐδ’ ἔβαλε τρυφάλειαν ἀμύμονα καὶ τετράχυτρον δῖος Ὀριγανίων, μιμούμενος αὐτὸν Ἄρηα, ὃς μόνος ἐν βατράχοισιν ἀρίστευεν καθ’ ὅμιλον· *** ὥρμησεν δ’ ἄρ’ ἐπ’ αὐτόν· ὁ δ’ ὡς ἴδεν, οὐχ ὑπέμεινεν ἥρωας κρατερούς, ἀλλ’ ἔδυνε βένθεσι λίμνης. ἦν δέ τις ἐν μύεσσιν Μεριδάρπαξ ἔξοχος ἄλλων, Κναίσσωνος φίλος υἱὸς ἀμύμονος ἀρτεπιβούλου· οἴκαδ’ ἰών πολέμοιο μετασχεῖν παῖδ’ ἐκέλευεν. αὐτὸς δ’ ἑστήκει γαυριούμενος κατὰ λίμνην. οὗτος ἀναρπάξαι βατράχων γένος ἐπαπείλει, καὶ ῥήξας καρύου μέσην ῥάχιν εἰς δύο μοίρας φράγδην ἀμφοτέροισι †καὶ ἐν ὄμμασι† χεῖρας ἔθηκεν. οἱ δὲ τάχος δείσαντες ἔβαν πάντες κατὰ λίμνην.

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Litraios (F6) Borborokoites (F7) kills Leichopinax (M8) Prasseios (F8) drags Leichopinax (M8) away Psicharpax (M9) kills Prasseios (F8) Krambobates (F9) attacks Psicharpax (M9)

Psicharpax (M9) strikes Krambobates (F9) Kraugasides (F10) kills Psicharpax (M9)

Troglodytes (M4/M2 ?) flees

Troxartes (M10) wounds Physignathos (F11) Prassaios (F12/F8 ?) attacks Troxartes (M10) Origanion (F13) attacks Troxartes (M10)

A frog (Origanion ?) flees Meridarpax (M11) routs the frogs

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“First Hypsiboas hit Leichenor with his spear / as he stood in the front line, getting him in the belly, right in the liver, / and he fell headlong, defiling his gentle whiskers in the dust. / After him, Trogletes aimed a lance at Peleion, / and fixed his stout spear in his chest: he fell, / the darkness of death seized him, and his soul flew forth from his body. / And Seutlaios was hit in the heart and killed by Embasichytros. / Grief seized Okimides and with his sharp reed he struck / Troglodytes through his tender neck, and he collapsed at once. / He had not pulled his spear out again, when he saw / Koustophagos fleeing: he had fallen down the steep banks. / But he kept going even in the water, and he struck him. / And he fell down, he did not swim up again, and the pool was tinged with his crimson blood, / while he himself was stretched out on the strand / with shiny guts †risen against† and flanks. / But Tyrophagos he slew on the bank itself. / On seeing Pternoglyphos, Kalaminthios became afraid, / and leapt into the pool, on the flight throwing down his shield. / But worthy Embasichytros slew Litraios, / hitting him on the pate with a boulder; his brain / ran out through his nostrils, and the earth was spattered with blood. / Worthy Borborokoites slew Leichopinax, / charging at him with his spear; and darkness covered his eyes. / On seeing this, Prasseios dragged the dead mouse away by the foot / and drowned him in the pool, holding on to his ankle. / Psicharpax came to the defence of his dead comrades, / and hit Prasseios before he had got back on land: / he fell before him, and his soul departed to Hades. / On seeing this, Krambobates hurled a handful of mud at him, / which smeared his forehead and nearly blinded him. / He was enraged, and taking in his stout hand / a formidable stone that was lying on the ground, a burden on the soil, / he hit Krambobates with it below the knee; his whole right shank / was smashed, and he fell on his back in the dust. / Kraugasides came to the defence and went straight for him. / He struck him square in the belly: his needle reed / went right inside, and all his entrails / dropped out on the ground as he withdrew the spear with his stout hand. / When Troglodytes saw this on the river bank, / he withdrew limping from the battle, in sore distress. / He leapt into the ditches to escape sheer destruction. / Troxartes hit Physignathos on the tip of his foot; / he was the last to come up out of the pool, in sore distress. / When Prassaios saw him still advancing half alive, / he came through the front line and hurled his needle-reed, / but did not break his shield; the spearpoint was held there. / And noble Origanion did not strike his good four-pot helmet, / emulating the very War god; / he alone among the frogs was triumphing amid the throng … / And they went for him. When he saw them, he did not stand / against the doughty heroes, but dived into the depths of the pool. / There was among the mice one Meridarpax, outstanding above the rest, / the dear son of worthy Knaisson, targeter of bread. / As he went home, he urged his son to take part in the fighting. / He stood proudly by the pool / threatening he would take the frog race by storm, / and breaking a walnut along its central ridge in two halves, / he put his paws into both cavities for protection. / They quickly became afraid and all went into the pool.”33

33 Translation revised by M. M. B. after West 2003, pp. 283 – 289.

Parody as a Sign of Generic Consciousness

Batrachomyomachia 202 – 267 (recension l) πρῶτος δ᾿ Ὑψιβόας Λειχήνορα οὔτασε δουρὶ ἑσταότ᾿ ἐν προμάχοις κατὰ γαστέρα εἰς μέσον ἧπαρ, κὰδ δ᾿ ἔπεσε πρηνής, ἁπαλὰς δ᾿ ἐκόνισεν ἐθείρας· δούπησεν δὲ πεσών, ἀράβησε δὲ τεύχε᾿ ἐπ᾿ αὐτῷ. Τρωγλοδύτης δὲ μετ᾿ αὐτὸν ἀκόντισε Πηλείωνος, πῆξεν δ᾿ ἐν στέρνῳ στιβαρὸν δόρυ, τὸν δὲ πεσόντα εἷλε μέλας θάνατος, ψυχὴ δ᾿ ἐκ σώματος ἔπτη. Σευτλαῖος δ᾿ ἄρ᾿ ἔπεφνε βαλὼν κέαρ Ἐμβασίχυτρον, Ἀρτοφάγος δὲ Πολύφωνον κατὰ γαστέρα τύψεν, ἤριπε δὲ πρηνής, ψυχὴ δὲ μελέων ἐξέπτη. Λιμνόχαρις δ᾿ ὡς εἶδεν ἀπολλύμενον Πολύφωνον, Τρωγλοδύτην ἁπαλοῖο δι᾿ αὐχένος τρῶσεν ἐπιφθὰς πέτρῳ μυλοειδέι· τὸν δὲ σκότος ὄσσε κάλυψε. Λειχήνωρ δ᾿ αὐτοῖο τιτύσκετο δουρὶ φαεινῷ καὶ βάλεν οὐδ᾿ ἀφάμαρτε καθ᾿ ἧπαρ· ὡς δ᾿ ἐνόησε Κραμβοφάγος φεύγων, βαθείαις ἔμπεσεν ὄχθαις. ἀλλ᾿ οὐδ᾿ ὣς ἀπέληγεν ἐν ὕδασιν, ἤλασε δ᾿ αὐτόν. κάππεσε δ᾿, οὐκ ἀνένευσεν, ἐβάπτετο δ᾿ αἵματι λίμνη πορφυρέῳ· αὐτὸς δὲ παρ᾿ ἠϊόν᾿ ἐξετανύσθη. Τυρογλύφον δ᾿ ἐπ᾿ ὄχθαις Λιμνήσιος ἐξενάριξε. Πτερνογλύφον δὲ ἰδὼν Καλαμίνθιος εἰς φόβον ἦλθεν, ἤλατο δ᾿ ἐς λίμνην φεύγων τὴν ἀσπίδα ῥίψας. Ὑδρόχαρις δ᾿ ἔπεφνε Πτερνοφάγον βασιλῆα χερμαδίῳ πλήξας κατὰ βρέχματος, ἐγκέφαλος δὲ ἐκ ῥινῶν ἔσταξε, παλάσσετο δ᾿ αἵματι γαῖα. Λειχοπίναξ δ᾿ ἔκτεινεν ἀμύμονα Βορβοροκοίτην ἔγχει ἐπαΐξας, τὸν δὲ σκότος ὄσσε κάλυψε. Πρασσοφάγος δ᾿ ἐσιδὼν ποδὸς εἵλκυσε νεκρὸν ἐόντα, ἐν λίμνῃ δ᾿ ἀπέθηκε κρατήσας χειρὶ τένοντα. Ψιχάρπαξ δ᾿ ἤμυν᾿ ἑτάρων πέρι τεθνειώτων καὶ βάλε Πηλούσιον κατὰ νηδύος εἰς μέσον ἧπαρ· πίπτε δέ οἱ πρόσθεν, ἦτορ δ᾿ ἔκτοσθε βεβήκει. Πηλοβάτης δ᾿ ἐσιδὼν πηλοῦ δράκα ῥίψεν ἐπ᾿ αὐτὸν καὶ τὸ μέτωπον ἔχρισε καὶ ἐξετύφλου παρὰ μικρόν. †ουνώθη δ᾿ ἄρα κεῖνος, ἑλὼν δὲ χειρὶ παχείῃ κείμενον ἐν γαίῃ λίθον ὄμβριμον, ἄχθος ἀρούρης, τῷ βάλε Πηλοβάτην ὑπὸ γούνατα· πᾶσα δ᾿ ἐκλάσθη κνήμη δεξιτερή, πέσε δ᾿ ὕπτιος ἐν κονίῃσι. Κραυγασίδης δ᾿ ἤμυνε καὶ αὖθις βαῖνεν ἐπ᾿ αὐτόν, τύψε δέ οἱ μέσσην κατὰ γαστέρα, πᾶς δέ οἱ εἴσω ὀξύσχοινος δῦνε, χαμαὶ δ᾿ ἔκχυντο ἅπαντα

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Hypsiboas (F1) kills Leichenor (M1)

Troglodytes (M2) kills Peleion (F2) Seutlaios (F3) kills Embasichytros (M3) Artophagos (M4) kills Polyphonos (F4) Limnocharis (F5) kills Troglodytes (M2) Leichenor (M1) kills a frog (Limnocharis ?) Krambophagos (F6) kills a mouse (Leichenor ?) Limnesios (F7) kills Tyroglyphos (M5) Pternoglyphos (M6) routs Kalaminthios (F8) Hydrocharis (F9) kills Pternophagos (M7) Leichopinax (M8) kills Borborokoites (F10) Prassophagos (F11) drags the body (Borborokoites ?) away Psicharpax (M9) kills Pelousios (F12) Pelobates (F13) attacks Psicharpax (M9)

Psicharpax (M9) strikes Pelobates (F13) Kraugasides (F14) kills Psicharpax (M9)

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ἔγκατ᾿ ἐφειλκυσμένῳ ὑπὸ δούρατι χείρεσσι. Σιτοφάγος δ᾿ ὡς εἶδεν ἐπ᾿ ὄχθῃσιν ποταμοῖο σκάζων ἐκ πολέμου ανεχάζετο, τείρετο δ᾿ αἰνῶς· ἥλατο δ᾿ ἐς τάφρον, ὅππως φύγῃ αἰπὺν ὄλεθρον. Τρωξάρτης δ᾿ ἔβαλεν Φυσίγναθον ἐς πόδα ἄκρον, ὦκα δὲ λίμνην ἥλατο τειρόμενός περ δεινῶς. Τρωξάρτης δ᾿ ὡς εἶδεν ἔθ᾿ ἡμίπνουν προπεσόντα, καί οἱ ἐπέδραμεν αὖθις ἀποκτάμεναι μενεαίνων. ἦν δέ τις ἐν μύεσσι νέος παῖς ἔξοχος ἄλλων ἐγχέμαχος, φίλος υἱὸς ἀμύμονος Ἀρτεπιβούλου, Μεριδάρπαξ ὄρχαμος μιμούμενος αὐτὸν Ἄρεα, ὃς μόνος ἐν μύεσσιν ἀρίστευεν καθ᾿ ὅμιλον. αὐτοῦ δ᾿ ἕστηκεν γαυρούμενος κατὰ λίμνην.

Martin M. Bauer

Sitophagos (M10) flees

Troxartes (M11) wounds Physignathos (F15) Troxartes (M11) attacks Physignathos (F15) again A new mouse hero, Meridarpax (M12) appears

“First Hypsiboas hit Leichenor with his spear / as he stood in the front line, getting him in the belly, right in the liver, / and he fell headlong, defiling his gentle whiskers in the dust, / and he resounded heavily as he fell, and his armour clanged upon him. / After him, Troglodytes aimed a lance at Peleion, / and fixed his stout spear in his chest: he fell, / the darkness of death seized him, and his soul flew forth from his body. / And Seutlaios hit Embasichytros in the heart and killed him. / But Artophagos struck Polyphonos in the belly, / he fell headlong, and his soul flew forth from his limbs. / When Limnocharis saw that Polyphonos had been killed, / he wounded Troglodytes by throwing / a rock like a millstone through his tender neck; and darkness covered his eyes. / And Leichenor aimed his radiant spear at him / and shot and did not miss him at the liver, when he saw / Krambophagos fleeing: he had fallen down the steep banks. / But he kept going even in the water, and he struck him. / And he fell down, he did not swim up again, and the pool was tinged with his crimson blood, / while he himself was stretched out on the strand. / But Limnesios slew Tyrophagos on the bank. / On seeing Pternoglyphos, Kalaminthios became afraid, / and leapt into the pool, on the flight throwing down his shield. / But Hydrocharis slew king Pternophagos, / hitting him on the pate with a boulder; his brain / ran out through his nostrils, and the earth was spattered with blood. / Leichopinax killed worthy Borborokoites, / charging at him with his spear; and darkness covered his eyes. / On seeing this, Prassophagos dragged the dead frog away by the foot / and kept him in the pool, holding on to his ankle. / Psicharpax came to the defence of his dead comrades, / and hit Pelousios in the belly, right into the liver: / he fell before him, and his life went out of him. / On seeing this, Pelobates hurled a handful of mud at him, / which smeared his forehead and nearly blinded him. / He got angry, and taking in his stout hand / a formidable stone that was lying on the earth, a burden on the soil, / he hit Pelobates with it below the knee; his whole right shank / was smashed, and he fell on his back in the dust. / Kraugasides came to the defence and went straight for him. / He struck him square in the belly: his needle reed / went right inside, and all his entrails / dropped out on the ground as he withdrew the spear with his hands. / When Sitophagos saw this on the river bank, / he withdrew limping from the battle, in sore distress. / He leapt into the ditch to escape sheer destruction. /

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Troxartes hit Physignathos on the tip of his foot; / and quickly he leapt into the pool, being heavily distressed. / When Troxartes saw him still advancing half alive, / he went after him again and eagerly desired to kill him. / There was among the mice a youth, outstanding above the rest, / fighting with the spear, the dear son of worthy Artepiboulos, / the leader Meridarpax, emulating the very War god, / who alone among the mice was triumphing amid the throng. / He stood proudly by the pool.”34

Bibliography Ahlborn, Helmut ed. and tr. 1968. Pseudo-Homer. Der Froschmäusekrieg. Theodoros Prodromos. Der Katzenmäusekrieg. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag. Allen, T. W. ed. 1912. Homeri Opera. Tomus V Hymnos, Cyclum, Fragmenta, Margiten, Batrachomyomachiam, Vitas continens. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Beye, Charles R. 1964. Homeric Battle Narrative and Catalogues. Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 68: 345 – 373. Carpinato, Caterina. 1988. La fortuna della Batrachomyomachia dal IX al XVI secolo: da testo scolastico a testo “politico”. In La Battaglia delle rane e dei topi. Batrachomyomachia, M. Fusillo ed., 137 – 148. Milano: Guerini. Fenik, Bernard. 1968. Typical Battle Scenes in the Iliad. Studies in the Narrative Techniques of Homeric Battle Description. Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner. Glei, Reinhold. 1984. Die Batrachomyomachie. Synoptische Edition und Kommentar. Frankfurt a. M. et al.: Peter Lang. Grellmann, Hans. 1928. Parodie. In Reallexikon der deutschen Literaturgeschichte. Band 2, P. Merker and W. Stammler eds, coll. 630 – 653. Berlin: De Gruyter. Kelly, Adrian. 2009. Parodic Inconsistency: Some Problems in the “Batrakhomyomakhia”. Journal of Hellenic Studies 129: 45 – 51. Kelly, Adrian. 2014. Hellenistic Arming in the Batrachomyomachia. Classical Quarterly 64: 410 – 413. Lehmann, Paul. 1922. Die Parodie im Mittelalter. München: Drei Masken. Ludwich, Arthur ed. 1896. Die homerische Batrachomachia des Karers Pigres nebst Scholien und Paraphrase. Leipzig: Teubner. Most, Glenn W. 1993. Die Batrachomyomachia als ernste Parodie. In Literaturparodie in Antike und Mittelalter, W. Ax and R. F. Glei eds, 27 – 40. Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag. Rau, Peter. 1967. Paratragodia. Untersuchung einer komischen Form des Aristophanes. München: C. H. Beck. Rose, Margaret A. 1993. Parody: Ancient, Modern, and Post-modern. Cambridge et al.: Cambridge University Press.

34 Translation revised by M. M. B. after West 2003, pp. 283 – 289.

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Schibli, Hermann S. 1983. Fragments of a Weasel and Mouse War. Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 53: 1 – 25. Sens, Alexander. 2006. “TIΠTE ΓENOΣ TOYMON ZHTEIΣ;”: The Batrachomyomachia, Hellenistic epic parody, and early epic. Entretiens sur l’Antiquité classique 52: 215 – 248. Shklovsky, Viktor B. 1990. Theory of Prose, tr. Benjamin Sher. Normal, IL: Dalkey Archive Press. Sticker, Iris. 2017. Die Rüstungsszenen in der Batrachomyomachia. Philologus 161: 329 – 336. West, Martin L. ed. and tr. 2003. Homeric Hymns. Homeric Apocrypha. Lives of Homer, Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press. Wölke, Hansjörg. 1978. Untersuchungen zur Batrachomyomachie, Meisenheim am Glan: Anton Hain.

The Battle of Gaugamela A Case Study and Some General Methodological Considerations

Reinhold Bichler (Translation by Franz Pramhaas)

I

Preface

The Battle at Gaugamela,1 in which the Macedonian King Alexander III defeated the Persian Great King Darius III on 1 October 331 B. C. ranks among the great decisive battles in history. Written historical accounts of a more general nature — no matter whether the issue is specifically related to Alexander, to Greek history, the Persian Empire or the history of warfare and battles in general — contain descriptions of the battle which may show variation, may or may not, in different ways, refer to open questions and source problems, but grosso modo appear to be standardised. The same applies to the graphical visualisation of the battle formations and the major phases of the battle’s progression. In this way, a fairly high degree of reliable knowledge is suggested. To what extent is this justified ? Paradoxically — or understandably ? — the very fact that we are faced with the task of evaluating several reports on this battle presents us with some considerable problems. This is because these sources, in some instances, vary substantially. I am not referring here to those aspects of historiographical battle descriptions which, corresponding with the customs of the genre, were open to the author’s individual scope for elaboration: speech scenes or generals’ addresses before the battle, epilogues and critical deliberations on the part of the author, the ascription of meaning to certain episodes or the placement of events into a wider context, etc. What is in question is the so-called ‘hard facts’, the reconstruction of the key stages in the course of the historical battle. It is an issue that scholarship is, of course, well aware of. But it does no 1

In some ancient sources as well as in parts of modern literature, the battle is named after the more distant city of Arbela and not after the small village of Gaugamela. The geographer Strabo already dealt with this issue (16.1.3). On the location of the battlefield cf. Bosworth 1988, p. 77 with map 5; Schachermeyr 1973, p. 268 with sketch map 4.

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_9

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harm to scrutinise it with ‘a systematic eye’ and to bring its methodological significance to mind. It will soon become evident that the notorious problems of source analysis cannot be solved in a simple way. The preferred choice of the source generally judged most reliable [Arrian] works only to a certain extent. Selectively, the historical tradition considered less trustworthy by common consent [‘Vulgate’] must be used. The result is a pasticcio that does not follow either of the sources used without interventions. This already becomes apparent in the attempt to reconstruct the initial situation at the outset of the battle, but the main focus of my presentation will lie on the problems which arise from the reconstruction of the development of the battle proper. In the process, we will see that in historical research the selection, or correction, of sources is made from quite a variety of perspectives. Mere recourse to general military historical knowledge of warfare on the side of the Macedonians, or Persians, respectively, will not suffice here. Instead, the mere endeavour to provide a reconstruction of just the major phases of this battle confronts us with the full complexity of Alexander research. Raising awareness of this will be the concern of this presentation. It is primarily aimed at an audience interested in history or military history. Specialists will come across plenty of information already known. A clear, systematic exposition of the major methodological problems involved in reconstructing the course of the battle could perhaps be of interest even to them.

I 1)

A short introduction to the problematic nature of the sources

All early written accounts of the battle are lost. Our knowledge is based on texts of later periods whose authors had access to some of these ‘primary sources’. In this context, the focus is primarily on four works. The oldest extant coherent description of Alexander’s campaign, including the battle, can be found in Book XVII of a 40-volume universal history with an emphasis on Greeks and Romans. Its author, a Greek from Sicily by the name of Diodorus, lived in Rome at the time of Julius Caesar. — In the imperial period, probably in the 1st century A. D., Q. Curtius wrote a Latin history of Alexander the Great in ten volumes (Books I and II are missing, though). Writing presumably later than Curtius, around the turn of the second century, the Greek scholar Plutarch authored a biography of Alexander, pairing it off with a biography of Caesar. The three authors Diodorus, Curtius and Plutarch, had their own agendas and developed different literary techniques, but they used a sample of sources which had much in common, the so-called ‘vulgate’. A primary source especially mentioned by Plutarch in his account of the battle of Gaugamela is Callisthenes (Plut. Al. 33.1,6). He was Alexander’s ‘official’ historian, who later fell in disgrace and was sentenced to death in 327 B. C.2 2

The Battle of Gaugamela is the last event in Alexander history verifiably covered by Callisthenes; yet,

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A different lineage of sources left its mark on Arrian’s Anabasis, a history of Alexander’s campaign in seven books. Its author, a philosophically educated Greek from Asia Minor, had embarked on a military-political career at the time of Trajan and Hadrian but particularly distinguished himself as a man of letters. His portrayal of Alexander has a markedly idealising quality. The works of two participants in the campaigns, Ptolemy and Aristobulus, served as his basic sources.3 Arrian also cites the latter as the source for his detailed description of Darius’ forces at Gaugamela (3.11.3).4 Aristobulus’ work was clearly composed in the period after 301 B. C.5 The date at which Ptolemy, the later king of Egypt, published his campaign history is, however, a matter of dispute. Today, Ptolemy is generally considered the basic source for Arrian’s report of military operations. And this general acceptance of Arrian as the most reliable source for the reconstruction of Alexander’s great battles is based on Ptolemy’s qualities as an experienced commander. However, in the case of the Battle of Gaugamela, the question as to Arrian’s sources is not altogether unproblematic. Ptolemy is mentioned by him neither as a source for, nor an actor in the event.6 In all probability, Ptolemy fought in the cavalry of Alexander’s companions at the time. However, did his eyewitness account serve as a source for Arrian ? This is frequently assumed to be the case and often asserted vehemently. But even if this was the case, to what extent was the literary retrospective of this eyewitness coloured by his personal experience and his political interests ? Let me quote from a ‘classical’ study on the battle issued by A. R. Burn in 1952: “Ptolemy’s story, as we have it from Arrian, is a plain, unvarnished, eye-witness’s narrative […] But it is purely a personal narrative”.7 At any rate, we are facing here the fundamental problem of an eyewitness account whose author pursued his own political agenda. The problematic source situation is rendered even more complex by the fact that this battle had already been described by Callisthenes. Plutarch’s quotations are clear evidence of this. Since, as will be shown below, Callisthenes’ account of the battle at Issus in 333 B. C. has left its mark on Arrian’s presentation, it is quite probable that this can also be assumed for Gaugamela. There are consequences to this. To quote another classical study on the battle, this time penned by A. M. Devine, published in 1986: “Callisthenes, as Alexander’s official historian, is a more probable primary source [than Ptolemy]. With his attention focused on the actions of Alexander himself, Callisthenes may not have formed a very clear idea of what was going on elsewhere on the field — the coverage of the proceedings on the Macedonian left is certainly far from comprehensive — but

3 4 5 6 7

there is much evidence that he still dealt with a number of further events. He presumably published reports in relatively quick succession to the big events. Cf. on this Zahrnt 2006 with further literature. Cf. generally Baynham 2010. Cf. Bosworth 1980, p. 297; see also below 162. See below 182 – 183 with fn. 88. Cf. Heckel 2006, pp. 235 – 236. Burn 1952, p. 87.

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it appears to be only thanks to him (and to Ptolemy and Arrian, who preserved his account, at least in outline) that a full coherent reconstruction of Alexander’s oblique order tactics …can be made”.8 Here we have arrived at a core problem in the reconstruction of (not only) this battle: From their own personal experience, both Callisthenes and Ptolemy were able to develop a sufficiently clear picture of, at best, only certain phases of the battle’s progression. In order to retrospectively assemble a coherent picture of events, a conscious creative purpose is needed. Robin Lane Fox was brief and concise in the given context: “The more the historian is removed from the facts, the more he imposes a pattern on their disorder”.9 This already applies to the so-called primary sources, but particularly to authors who many centuries later seek to obtain the clearest possible general picture of the battle’s course — on the basis of such primary sources, but viewed from their own contemporary perspective. It is undisputed that Arrian’s presentation, compared to other extant depictions of the battle, stands out due to a high degree of consistency. Therefore all endeavours to reconstruct the battle as satisfactorily as possible primarily rest on Arrian. This is not attainable, however, without at least some restrictions and without recourse to authors associated with the ‘vulgate’. The details provided about the formation and strength of the two opposing armies already bear this out.

I 2)

Troop numbers

Arrian numbers Alexander’s forces at Gaugamela at 40,000 infantry and 7,000 cavalry (3.8.6). These figures are widely accepted in historical research.10 For the assessment of his opponent’s troop strength, things are different. Here the estimates of modern authors differ drastically. Their common ground is only that the excessively high numbers given in the ancient sources are of no use. Remarkably enough, it is Arrian who—alongside Plutarch—tops the list, while Curtius appears at the low end of the scale, as is indicated in the table below.

8 Devine 1986, p. 105. 9 Lane Fox 1974, pp. 236 – 237. 10 Cf. Bosworth 1980, p. 300: “This is the longest and most detailed description of the Macedonian army to be found in Arrian, and it is rightly taken as one of the principal bases for modern reconstructions”.

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Darius’ army (approx.)11 Diodorus 800,000 infantry — 200,000 cavalry Justin 500,000 infantry — 100,000 cavalry Curtius 200,000 infantry — 45,000 cavalry Plutarch 1,000,000 men Arrian 1,000,000 infantry — 40,000 cavalry — 200 scythed chariots — 15 elephants The most likely origin of the colossal rounded figure of one million is Callisthenes. But more on this later. Needless to say that modern research disregards all these figures, with one exception. Occasionally, a certain dependence on the numbers provided by Curtius and the implied Persian superiority ratio of about five to one is still to be found. On the whole, however, estimates are lower. The radical criticism of the ancient troop numbers which H. Delbrück had once voiced in his Geschichte der Kriegskunst in an exemplary way has not been able to assert itself, as is demonstrated by Walther Judeich’s contribution to the renowned standard work Antike Schlachtfelder, published by J. Kromayer and G. Veith. Yet, a tendency towards greater restraint has been developing in the course of time. The variance in the estimates observed, however, is still considerable. An overview of a broad selection of relevant literature is provided in the annex (Table 1). Whereas Arrian’s figures for Alexander’s forces are considered to be realistic, this is certainly not the case with regard to Darius’ army. There is also a similar disparity in his data on losses suffered. He states that about 300,000 Persians were killed and an even greater number taken prisoners, while only about 100 Macedonians were recorded slain (3.15.6). — Diodorus paints a different picture here: The more than 90,000 soldiers who fell on the Persian side are contrasted with at least 500 Macedonian losses (17.6.3). Even if we do not consider these figures authentic, it should be noted that they convey a far more realistic picture than the, on the one hand, grossly exaggerated and, on the other hand, evidently embellished data in Arrian.12

I 3)

Dispositions of the armies

In most cases, modern accounts of the battle are supplemented by charts and maps illustrating the dispositions of the armies with Arrian’s help (and amended by Curtius and/or Diodorus). This requires, however, a thorough redimensioning of the traditional figures for the Persian forces. Even with a ratio of not quite 5:1 (245,000 troops against 47,000, as Curtius reports), lack of space in book publications would render it impossible to draw up charts true to scale but with details still discernible. So it is not 11 Diod. 17.53.3; Just. 11.12.5; Curt. 4.12.13; Plut. Al. 31.1; Arr. An. 3.8.6. 12 Cf. Atkinson 1980, p. 453: “The casualty figures are a warning against blind acceptance of Arrian whenever the sources disagree.”

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infrequent that the usual charts create the impression of only a slight predominance of the opponent (less than 2:1) although the descriptions of the battle assume a (partly much) greater numerical superiority. Similar to Arrian’s troop numbers, there is hardly any dispute as to his detailed information on the disposition of Alexander’s troops, which is also of relevance for the respective charts. We do not need to enter into these details at this point (3.11.8 – 12.5). It will suffice to outline the main points for a consideration of the battle’s proceedings. The phalanx of infantry was deployed in the centre, organised into seven units and flanked on both sides by cavalry. The right wing was formed by the Companions, with them also Alexander himself. The left side was under the command of Parmenion. Light infantry and archers were stationed in front of the cavalry units on the flanks. Both flanks were covered by additional cavalry, supported by light infantry as well as archers and javelin throwers. Furthermore, Alexander set up a second line of infantry as a rear guard. In view of the Persian superiority, particularly in cavalry, it was of utmost importance to fend off attacks on the flanks and prevent an encircling movement. — In essence, also the scantier, though on specific points more accurate, information in Diodorus (17.57) corresponds to the account provided by Arrian. Except for certain discrepancies, the same is true for Curtius’ comprehensive presentation (4.13.26 – 38).13 A specific divergence in Diodorus and Curtius as opposed to Arrian — it relates to the commander of one of the phalanx units — will be reconsidered later.14 The reconstruction of the Persian battle array is less straightforward. At any rate, there is agreement in historical tradition that Darius arranged his contingents according to ethnicity and branch of service, placed the cavalry on the flanks, the scythearmed chariots in front and the infantry behind them. Arrian (3.11.3 – 7) and Curtius (4.12.1 – 13) each offer a detailed catalogue of the enemy forces. Here the deviations are greater. Arrian again stands out due to his more systematic approach. He refers to Aristobulus, according to whom a document for the Persian battle order was found in Darius’ captured camp (3.11.3). This is generally viewed as credible. A. B. Bosworth at least concedes that “there may be some grounds for scepticism”.15 Aeschylus and Herodotus already illustrated the enormous size of Persian armies impressively by listing the ethnic and geographical provenance of the various units and their commanders. Such catalogues set a precedent.16 It fits in the picture that Curtius, too, provides a troop catalogue of this kind, whose details, however, diverge from Arrian’s account in some points. Remarkably enough, Arrian, except for the king, does not give the names of any commanders on the Persian side. The same applies to the battle account proper. For all the differences in narrative strategy, there is a characteristic 13 Cf. Bosworth 1980, p. 300: “These accounts complement Arrian, and add valuable details about the territorial origins of the phalanx battalions and the allied cavalry”. 14 See below 173 – 174. 15 Bosworth 1980, p. 297. 16 Cf. Bichler 2020 (forthcoming).

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point that Arrian and Curtius agree on. In their depictions of the course of the battle, only about one fifth of the units previously listed in detail get another mention. It is almost exclusively the cavalry that is taken account of.17 This emphasises the fact that the decision on victory and defeat lay with the cavalry. If Arrian moreover refrains from addressing the roles of the Persian commanders Bessus and Mazaeus in the battle’s proceedings and also fails to mention them in his description of the battle array, this serves the purpose of focusing the attention to Darius as the primary objective of Alexander’s hope to beat the overwhelming enemy. In this context, the question arises as to where the authors see Darius’ position in the encounter.

I 4)

The position of the Great King

Diodorus and Curtius assign Darius his command position on his left wing (Diod. 17.59.2; Curt. 4.14.8; 15.1). Although this can be interpreted as a vague way of expressing it,18 one effect should not be overlooked. The fact that Darius is not explicitly placed in the centre of his enormously wide battle line, but figures vaguely as commander on the left wing, facilitates bringing the two kings up vis à vis each other.19 Plutarch and Arrian are different in this respect. Both writers not only give the colossal figure of one million for Darius’ forces but also point out that the king placed himself in the centre (Arr. An. 3.11.5; Plut. Al. 33.3). Arrian expressly states that Darius’ front line outflanked Alexander’s by far, so that at the beginning of the battle the two kings were just about opposite each other, Darius in the centre of his men, Alexander on his right wing. Then, however, Alexander shifted his front line further and further to the right (3.13.1). According to Arrian, Darius had also positioned himself in the centre at the battle of Issus (2.8.11), whereas in Curtius he stood on the left wing (3.9.3 – 4). Interestingly enough, Arrian substantiated his respective information by referring to Xenophon. It was through him we knew that it was customary for the Great King to take up his position in the centre of his troops.

17 Arrian, within his battle-account, mentions the following cavalry units (in alphabetical order): Bactrians, Indians, Parthians, Persians, and Scythians. — Curtius mentions Bactrians, Cadusians, Massagetae and Persians, but no Indians within his battle account. The Scythians, on the other hand, do not appear in his catalogue, but do so in the story of Parmenides’ fearful vision (4.13.5) and in the speech Alexander gave the day before the battle (4.14.3). — In his battle account, Diodorus mentions Cadusians, Cossaeans, Indians, Mardi, and Scythians. 18 Cf. Atkinson 1980, p. 437 on Curtius 4.15.1: “Darius was actually in the centre (A.iii, 11.5), but Curtius has included the centre in the “cornu sinistrum” (12.12, cf. D. S. 59.2)”; Diodorus states that Darius held command over the whole left, Mazaeus over the right; this fits in with Curtius 4.12.12 and 4.15.1. 19 Atkinson 1980, p. 207, highlights that Curtius prepares the scenario for the decisive encounter of the kings in the battle: “… thus it was simple to conclude that if Alexander and Darius clashed, Darius was on his left wing”.

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In his description of the battle at Cunaxa (401 B. C.), Xenophon had made a ‘royal’ duel (between the contender Cyrus and his brother, the Great King Artaxerxes II) the focal point of the crucial confrontation (Anabasis 1.8.21 ff.) which could well serve as a literary model for Alexander historians. It is quite fitting that Xenophon, too, presents us with such enormous troop numbers for the Great King’s forces (cf. Anabasis 1.7.12) as we find later in the context of Alexander’s battles, first and foremost at Gaugamela.20 Callisthenes, at least in his coverage of Issus, already positioned the Great King in the centre. His report on Issus, just as the one on Gaugamela, has been lost in its original form. The harsh criticism, however, with which the later Greek historian Polybius, who was proud of his pragmatic view, treated Callisthenes’ account of the disposition of the armies and the course of the battle has been preserved.21 The polemic passage Polybius directed against Callisthenes’ report on Issus also draws attention to a particular problem which, in a similar manner, can be observed in the analysis of the battle at Gaugamela. “He [Callisthenes] tells us that Alexander in drawing up his army was most anxious to be opposed to Darius in person, and that Darius also at first entertained the same wish, but afterward changed his mind. But he tells us absolutely nothing as to how each learned at what point in his one line the other was stationed, or whereabouts Darius then took up his new position” (12.22.2 – 3; transl. by W. R. Paton). So the time has come to move on to the encounter of the two kings on the battlefield.

II

The main movements during the battle

II 1) A structured survey of Arrian’s battle account The task of representing in hindsight a highly complex and, in parts, absolutely inscrutable course of events in such a way that the key stages of these events seem to be clearly and chronologically structured cannot be solved without leaving questions unanswered. This also applies to Arrian’s report on Gaugamela. Due to its greater consistency, historical research generally favours his account as a basis for reconstructing the pivotal developments over those by Diodorus, Curtius and Plutarch. The following overview of Arrian’s report is intended to highlight its structure. To accomplish this, it is kept as brief as possible and divided into two parts, with Alexander’s decisive charge forming the centre. Further subdivisions follow the change in the perspective with which Arrian views what is going on.

20 Xenophon, who took part in the battle, puts the potential troop strength of the Great King (Artaxerxes II) at 1,200,000 men; about 900,000 had been on the battle field, along with 6,000 cavalry and 150 chariots. On his own side, led by Prince Cyrus, 10,400 Greek hoplites fought alongside 100,000 men and 600 cavalry; Anabasis 1.7.12; 8.6; 24. 21 Polybios 12.17 – 22; on Darius’ position see 12.18.9 – 10.

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Part 1

Arrian first outlines in detail the dispositions of the two armies. The battle account starts at the point when Darius has to react to Alexander’s array. In order to prevent the danger of a pincer movement, Alexander, in fact, gradually moved his front line further to the right. The left wing of the Persians, however, still reached far beyond the Macedonian line when Darius decided to take the initiative (3.13.1 – 2). From the beginning, Arrian’s focus lies on the Macedonian right wing Darius opened the battle. The cavalry of his left wing tried to encircle Alexander’s right wing. Alexander ordered the mercenary cavalry under Menidas to charge them, but a counter charge by the superior forces of the Scythian and Bactrian cavalry pushed Menidas back (13.2). In response, Alexander ordered the whole flank guard of his right wing to attack (13.3),22 which resulted in further Bactrians being sent against Alexander’s flank guard. There were more casualties on Alexander’s than on Darius’ side. But, eventually, the Macedonians managed to force the enemy out of their formation [… προσπίπτοντες ἐξώθουν ἐκ τῆς τάξεως] (13.4). Next, Arrian’s focus moves to the centre Meanwhile, Darius launched the scythed chariots against the Macedonian phalanx. However, the attack failed. Upon this, the entire phalanx of the Persians advanced [no details reported] (13.5 – 6). Arrian’s report returns to the Macedonian right wing and prepares the ground for the decisive charge Alexander’s right wing was under heavy pressure (14.1).23 The counter attack ordered by Alexander was eventually successful: the danger of encirclement had been averted (14.2) and a gap in the front line of Darius’ phalanx had been created (14.2). The decisive moment of the battle had come: Alexander “wheeled towards the gap, and making a wedge of the Companion cavalry and the part of the phalanx stationed there, led them on at the double with a loud battle cry straight at Darius” (14.2; transl. by P. A. Brunt). After short moments of heavy fighting, the already fearful Darius “was himself the first to turn and flee.” On the Macedonian right wing, the enemy’s cavalry were also successfully thrown back (14.3).24 22 Arrian says that Alexander at that point sent in the mercenaries and the Paeonians under Aretes (3.13.2). The name of the latter is usually corrected to Ariston, since Aretes took command over the prodromoi (3.12.3); cf. also Curt. 4.15.13. Cf. Bosworth 1980, p. 303 and esp. 305; Berve II 1926, no. 109 on Aretes and no. 138 on Ariston. 23 Arrian probably recalls his report on the Persian cavalry attack in 3.13.3 – 4; cf. Bosworth 1980, p. 305. 24 It can be presumed that Arrian here once more refers to the above-mentioned successful prevention of encirclement and the role played by Aretes’ contingent and the Paeonians in the struggle. Cf. on this the in-depth comment on 3.13.3 in Bosworth 1980, 305 – 306.

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Part II

Flashback to the centre and to the Macedonian left The Macedonian phalanx had moved rapidly forwards, but Simmias and his brigade were obliged to halt and fight where they were.25 So the phalanx broke, and some Indian and Persian cavalry pushed through the gap, until they reached the Macedonian baggage camp and started to plunder and free some prisoners. But the reserve line behind the Macedonian phalanx turned and killed the intruders (14.4 – 6). In the meantime, the Persians on the right wing began a flanking attack on the Macedonian left wing. Parmenion, therefore, sent a messenger to Alexander: they needed help (14.6 – 15.1). Arrian’s focus moves back to Alexander Alexander received the message and “turned back from further pursuit”, making with his Companion cavalry for the enemy’s right wing, but first met the enemy cavalry in flight, Parthians, some Indians and the “bravest division of the Persians” (15.1). Now, the fiercest cavalry battle began. The Companion cavalry suffered heavy losses,26 but Alexander came out victorious (15.2). As Alexander reached the enemy’s right wing, the Persians were already in flight. The Thessalian cavalry had fought brilliantly (15.3). Therefore Alexander turned back again to continue the pursuit of Darius — Parmenion followed on the left wing and captured the Persian camp (15.3 – 4). Whereas Arrian is generally judged to be our most reliable source, there are considerable lacunas in his report and a comparative look at the ‘vulgate’ tradition shows remarkable differences. Let us start with the different versions of Darius’ behaviour at the moment of Alexander’s decisive charge.

II 2) The different accounts of the decisive charge The various depictions of the battle’s progress up to that point coincide in a number of features. The authors first describe the successful repulsion of the enemy cavalry’s initial attempts to outflank Alexander’s right wing and the charge of the Persian scythed chariots. They moreover agree that the left wing, led by Parmenion, came under heavy pressure from Persian numerical superiority and that also Alexander’s right wing was hard pressed by the enemy cavalry. At that point, Alexander had to take action to force the decision. 25 On Simmias’ role see below 173 – 174. 26 On the list of the casualties and the wounded officers, esp. Hephaestion, Coenus, and Menidas, see below 183 – 184.

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In Diodorus, Alexander now directly attacks Darius himself, who is fighting bravely from his chariot. Alexander’s javelin misses the king, but hits the driver of the royal chariot. The Persians fighting further away begin to flee, assuming the king has been killed. It is only when this retreating movement is gaining serious momentum that he is alarmed and takes to flight. Dust screens his strategically well-chosen escape route (17.60.1 – 4). Even the otherwise very brief battle account in Justin’s excerpt from Pompeius Trogus’ lost work fits into the picture here: When Darius saw that his men were defeated, he wanted to die heroically, but was urged to flee by those around him (11.14.3). Curtius—as is to be expected—offers a lot more in the way of drama. The two armies are already out of battle formation and are wedged inside each other. The two kings are fighting vigorously now, the one from his chariot, the other on horseback. Both are protected by their guards. The fight reaches its climax: Darius’ charioteer is run through by a spear. Darius himself is torn between hope and despair. The Persians think that their king has been killed and the left wing begins to fall back. Now Alexander storms the scene. The carnage starts, and only then does Darius turn his chariot about and flee. Alexander takes up pursuit, but clouds of dust obscure the view, covering Darius’ retreat (4.15.23 – 33). — Unlike these three reports, in which Darius does not cut too poor a figure, Plutarch and Arrian emphasise his agitation at the sight of Alexander. But in Plutarch, too, Darius only takes to flight when his men are being slain around him by Alexander’s horsemen (Al. 33.3 – 5). The Itinerarium Alexandri, dating from the 4th century A. D., which in principle largely follows Arrian, deviates in that respect and provides a similar picture (26(62)).27 Arrian’s narration, by contrast, seems to neglect the common ‘vulgate’ tradition of heavy fighting before the Great King took the decision to flee. Instead it presents us with a unique scenario: Darius was the first to flee immediately when Alexander started the decisive charge. And, what is even more important, the fiercest fights of the battle took place when Alexander and his Companions returned from the pursuit of the king and met the fleeing enemy cavalry. When deciding which tradition to give priority to, we are not only dealing with the question of the king’s character and the motives for his flight. Even if we succeed in freeing ourselves from the weight of the historical prejudice that we encounter in the image of the cowardly fleeing Oriental, a dilemma will persist. It may be plausibly argued that Darius, in accord with the traditional duties of kingship, had to avoid putting his life and freedom at risk in battle, thereby rendering the question of his cowardice or courage less important.28 Yet, serious questions as to the reconstruction of the battle still remain open. The first of them is the point in time at which Darius fled the field. 27 Cf. Tabacco 2000, p. 177: “È questo di nuovo un punto in cui l’Anonimo si appoggia a qualche altra fonte, più favorevole alla figura di Dario”. 28 Cf. Briant 2003, esp. pp. 126 – 130, 528 – 530.

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Arrian’s version of the battle account — as we saw — is connected with the tradition of Parmenion’s appeal for assistance. Since the latter is also a basic element of the ‘vulgate’ tradition, we are confronted with a complex situation in the sources. To get a clear view, we will first have to look back at the situation on the Macedonian left wing before the decisive moment of the battle und to consider an episode which appears — in different versions — in Diodorus, Curtius and Plutarch, but seems to be neglected by Arrian: It concerns an attack on the Macedonian camp ordered by Mazaeus.

II 3) Differing accounts of a raid on the Macedonian camp and of Parmenion’s appeals for assistance II 3a) The ‘vulgate’ tradition and the attack ordered by Mazaeus

Diodorus, Curtius and Plutarch are in concurrence that the force of cavalry sent by Mazaeus, bypassing Alexander’s left wing, had been temporarily successful in pushing through to the Macedonian baggage camp. This push took place before the decisive confrontation between Alexander and Darius, while Alexander’s right wing was still hard pressed. Turning to Diodorus’ brief report: Mazaeus had sent off Cadusian and Scythian cavalry who bypassed Alexander’s left flank and reached the camp and the captives held there (including the women). The Scythians plundered the baggage and withdrew with their loot and the captives, but without Darius’ mother Sisygambis. In the meantime, Alexander’s right wing had got under great pressure from the Persian cavalry. Now Alexander is forced to go all out. Curtius offers far more details, which are, however, notorious for their problematic nature. According to him, Mazaeus’ assaults and the raid on the Macedonian baggage camp alarmed Parmenion to the extent that he had a message sent to Alexander requesting help. The latter let him know not to worry about the baggage but to fight bravely (4.15.5 – 8). Mazaeus meanwhile seized the camp, where dramatic scenes occurred. Only Sisygambis remained unaffected by hopes of victory. An attempt of the Macedonian cavalry under Menidas to save the camp failed. They were not able to withstand the attack of the Cadusians and Scythians (15.9 – 12). This made Alexander change his mind and he sent the lancers, called the Sarisophoroi, led by Aretes, for support.29 Although Aretes succeeded in killing the leader of the Scythians and re-

29 Cf. Burn 1952: Curtius (4.15.6 – 18) “has simply confused the two forces of enemy cavalry which rode round Alexander’s two flanks — the force which took the camp, and the force against which he sent Menidas and Aretes; and that is how he comes to make Menidas and Aretes take part in the fighting at Alexander’s camp !” On Curtius’ biased portrayal of Menidas cf. Heckel 2006, p. 318 fn. 430. See also below 182 with fn. 86.

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capturing the camp, he was forced to yield to renewed attacks by the freshly arrived Bactrians (15.13 – 18). Joy of victory prevailed on the Persians’ right wing. On his own right wing, Alexander was under threat of being surrounded. He now had to take full risk. Plutarch provides an approximately similar depiction, but does not mention the royal family in the looted camp, and generally dispenses with a lot of details. He presents the episode in advance of the battle events, juxtaposing a confident Alexander with an anxious Parmenion. When the latter’s call for help arrived, Alexander was just about to order the decisive attack on Darius. In an angry response, he had Parmenion rebuked for his faint-heartedness (Al. 32.3 – 4). Whereas, in this context, Diodorus (still) tells us nothing about an appeal for aid from Parmenion to Alexander, Plutarch paints the picture of a timid, over-cautious Parmenion who is taught a verbal lesson by the daring Alexander. In Curtius, Parmenion comes off better in this scene. There is no mention, however, in either of the writers that the episode has an actual effect on the course of the battle.

II 3b) The ‘vulgate’ tradition on Parmenion’s alleged appeal(s) for assistance and the unsuccessful pursuit of the king

Both Curtius and Plutarch relate a second appeal for help from Parmenion to his king, which is said to have been made at a point in time when Alexander had already set off in pursuit of the Great King. It is this appeal for assistance that Diodorus too reports on. Coinciding with the crucial change in the battle’s development around the two kings, the left wing under Parmenion faced increasing difficulties. Mazaeus’ superiority was too great. Thereupon Parmenion sent off some horsemen to Alexander to request his support. The message failed to reach him because he was already pursuing Darius. Nevertheless, Parmenion’s contingents, in particular the Thessalians, stood their ground and eventually repulsed the enemy (17.60.5 – 8). Curtius’ presentation is far more complex. Having depicted Darius’ flight, he puts his focus on the serious difficulties on the left wing under Parmenion. The general sends a message to Alexander, who is already in pursuit. Alexander is annoyed but stops the chase after Darius (4.16.1 – 3). Now Curtius redirects attention to the left flank: Meanwhile Mazaeus had learnt of the king’s defeat and relented in his attacks. Parmenion took heart from this and spurred the courage of the Thessalians. When Mazaeus retreated, Parmenion refrained from pursuing the enemy, as he was unaware of Alexander’s situation on the right wing. Mazaeus managed to escape to Babylon (16.4 – 8). Next, Curtius describes Darius’ flight and the distress of the fleeing Persians (16.8 – 15). Pursuing the fugitives, Alexander had meanwhile pushed far forward, until, at last, he became concerned about Parmenion’s troops. When he turned back from his pursuit, he was informed of Parmenion’s victory (16.16 – 19). Only at that point, on his way back, did he himself run into extreme danger. Retreating enemy cavalry at-

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tacked him and his small force, but he fought valiantly, emerged unscathed and led his men back to camp (16.20 – 25). Although Curtius adopted the version of Parmenion’s two appeals for assistance, the old general (just as in Diodorus) gets his fair share of credit. In Plutarch, however, the desire to taint Parmenion is clearly evident. Alexander would thus have seized Darius if Parmenion had not made a second appeal to him. In the same context, Plutarch also reports on general allegations raised against Parmenion. He had lacked the necessary willingness and enthusiasm, be it because of his age or because of displeasure about Alexander’s arrogance and growing power (Al. 33.6). Then he continues the battle report: Alexander was indignant about Parmenion’s call for help but ordered a withdrawal without giving his men the real reason. On his way to Parmenion’s units, he received the news of total victory (33.7). So, according to Plutarch’s version as well, just as in Diodorus and Curtius, the plea for help to Alexander had no de facto impact on the immediate outcome of the battle.

II 3c) Arrian’s account and its unique features

Arrian does not make any mention of the Persians’ outflanking movement ordered by Mazaeus on the Macedonian left and their advance to the baggage camp at a time when Alexander’s right wing was under heavy pressure and the decisive attack on the centre of the Great King was yet to come. Mazaeus (just as Bessus) is not mentioned at all. However, he relates an ultimately ineffective enemy breakthrough to the camp of the Macedonians after the description of Alexander’s assault on the centre of his royal opponent. As a consequence of Alexander’s charge, a gap had been torn in the Macedonian phalanx where Simmias and his men were fighting. Indian and Persian cavalry managed to exploit this gap and pushed forward to the Macedonian camp and the Persian captives. Alexander’s second front line, however, turned about and came to the rescue of those left in charge of the camp (3.14.4 – 6). In the meantime, the Persians on the right wing, who were still unaware of the king’s flight, rode around Alexander’s left wing and attacked Parmenion’s flank (3.14.6). At that point, Parmenion sent a message to Alexander saying that help was needed. Thereupon the latter turned back but—as already stated above—got involved in heavy cavalry fighting with the fleeing Persians, Indians and Parthians. By that time, the Thessalians on Parmenion’s side were fighting bravely. Thus, when Alexander finally reached the enemy’s right wing, which had been pressing Parmenion hard, the Persian line had already started to disintegrate. Therefore Alexander took up the pursuit of Darius again. Parmenion, too, went after the enemy and captured the Persian camp (3.15.1 – 4).

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II 3d) A comparative résumé

1) As set out above, Arrian’s version of the raid on the Macedonian camp contradicts the ‘vulgate’, and, unlike Plutarch and Curtius, he does not link his version to a plea for help from Parmenion. — His report agrees, however, with Diodorus, Curtius and Plutarch in that the pressure on Alexander’s left wing caused Parmenion to request support and that this occurred at a time when Alexander was already about to follow the fleeing opponent. 2) In Curtius and Plutarch, but not in Diodorus, this appeal for assistance is connected with the unsuccessful pursuit of the king. Plutarch’s account implies that there must have been a strong tendency to blame Parmenion for Alexander’s failure to capture the fugitive king. Curtius, who like Plutarch presents both versions of Parmenion’s appeal for aid, nevertheless tried to maintain a relatively favourable picture of Alexander’s general. This partly corresponds with Arrian’s account, where there is no explicit bias against Parmenion, either. On the other hand, as we will see, Arrian presents us with a particular sequence of events connected with the unsuccessful pursuit of the king. 3) Arrian reports that because of Parmenion’s call for assistance Alexander broke off his pursuit and hurried to relieve his hard-pressed wing. On the way, he and the Companions got engaged in heavy fighting with the retreating enemy cavalry and suffered many wounded and killed. Curtius was obviously aware of this tradition, yet reinterpreted it in his own way: It is above all Alexander who would almost have fallen victim to a surprise attack but managed to fend it off heroically. Losses among the Companions are only vaguely intimated (cf. esp. 4.16.24). 4) Whereas there is still partial concurrence in this respect between Arrian and Curtius (Diodorus and Plutarch remain silent on this episode), Arrian next presents us with a point that sets him apart from the other authors: When Alexander eventually reached the battlefield again and saw that the enemy was already taking flight all around, he once again returned to chasing the fugitive king until it was too dark to continue (cf. esp. 3.15.3). This underlines the importance he attached to this pursuit, which he had been forced to interrupt because of Parmenion’s appeal ! 5) There is another point in which Arrian’s account conflicts with the entire parallel tradition: According to the latter, Alexander’s surge forward engaged Darius and the forces around him in heavy fighting for some time before the king decided to flee. In Arrian, Darius, stricken with fear, is the first to flee from Alexander’s charge (3.14.3). In a nutshell: The sources agree in three essential points: Alexander left the battle site to pursue the fleeing king. When he returned, the battle had been decided. Parme-

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nion and his men had put up a courageous fight without his help. Nevertheless, there are major differences as to Parmenion’s role in the battle that have repercussions on the assessment of Alexander’s generalship.

III

Strategies and tendencies of research in dealing with the heterogeneous source situation

III 1) The accounts of attacks on the Macedonian camp and Parmenion’s appeals for help The considerable divergences in the descriptions of the battle’s progress provided by the relevant sources pose a challenge to all those historians who would like to establish a clear factual picture of the major stages of what happened. In what follows, I will try to present the different attempts at coming to terms with the conflicting source situation, concentrating on central aspects and referring to a selective but as broad as possible range of pertinent literature. First, the different accounts of the cavalry attacks on the Macedonian camp will be examined. One aspect of the ‘vulgate’ tradition relating to the charge on the camp of the Macedonians is particularly exposed to critical examination. It is the unsuccessful attempt to free the Great King’s family, who had been captured after Issus. In general, it is assumed that the royal family were kept at Alexander’s main camp, which was situated far from the battlefield. However, occasionally, there are authors who assume that such a rescue attempt was carried out. G. T. Griffith even took into account that the attack recorded in the ‘vulgate’ tradition as well as the thrust towards the Macedonian camp reported in Arrian had taken place, and that both had been intended to free the royal family. He commented on this by observing, “… the same mistake committed twice”.30 R. Lane Fox viewed things similarly.31 Other authors, such as E. Marsden or A. Demandt, presume there was only one such rescue attempt, referring thereby, however, to Arrian’s report on the push of Indian and Persian cavalry through the phalanx of the Macedonians to take their camp,32 or mixing it with the version of the ‘vulgate’ tradition.33 D. Lonsdale, on the other hand, acknowledged both Arrian’s variant and the attack on the Macedonian base camp ordered by Mazaeus, as is recorded in the ‘vulgate’ tradition, but states: “… there is no firm evidence that the royal family was rescued”.34

30 31 32 33

Griffith 1947, pp. 84 – 85, esp. fn. 26. Cf. Lane Fox 1974, pp. 239 – 240. Cf. Marsden 1964, p. 59. Demandt 2009, p. 193. Cf. also Nawotka 2010, pp. 231 – 232, who — in contrast — considers the presence of Darius’ mother as one of the Persian captives pure legend. 34 Lonsdale 2007, pp. 131 – 132.

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Opinions also differ on the question whether to take into account both versions of the attack on the base camp or to rely only on Arrian’s report. Like Griffith, Lane Fox and Lonsdale, other authors, too, such as J. F. C. Fuller, A. B. Bosworth and H.-J. Gehrke, included in their depiction of the battle both an attack carried out by Mazaeus’ troops and the charge of Indian and Persian cavalry.35 I. Worthington avoids the issue in the text, yet, the chart attached to the description shows both episodes.36 Other authors, however, adopted or adopt only Arrian’s version in their narrative of the Battle of Gaugamela.37 The reverse situation is the absolute exception. In 1952, A. R. Burn published a study on specific source problems relating to the battle. He called the search for an answer to the question ‘Who Captured Alexander’s Camp ?’ “… a case of choosing between a third-hand and a fourth-hand account”. Yet, eventually, the author clearly preferred the basic facts reported in the ‘vulgate’ tradition. This refers to the attack ordered by Mazaeus as well as to “Parmenion’s message to Alexander before the decisive charge”.38 Burn’s radical rejection of Arrian’s report in this question failed to gain acceptance. But a quarter of a century later, A. B. Bosworth, in a critical study39 generally challenging the widespread trust in Arrian, suspected the latter’s version of the attack by Indian and Persian cavalry to be a manipulation. His suspicion was sparked by a known problem. According to Arrian, Alexander’s decisive charge caused a breach in the phalanx where Simmias’ unit was stationed. The unit to his right, under the command of Polyperchon, was still able to keep up with the rush of the assault. Simmias is said to have held this command in absence of his elder brother Amyntas, who had been sent to Macedonia (3.11.9). Diodorus and Curtius state, however, that Philip, the son of Balacrus, led the unit of the absent Amyntas.40 Amyntas and his brothers, among them Simmias, were members of Perdicca’s faction and were consequently numbered among Ptolemy’s opponents after Alexander’s death. From this constellation Bosworth derived the suspicion that Ptolemy, as Arrian’s source, took the opportunity of using his report to blame one of his later rivals for the fact that at Gaugamela enemy cavalry had managed to advance to the Macedonian camp. In the face of this distorting version, however, preference had to be given to the ‘vulgate’ tradition.41 35 Cf. Fuller 1958, pp. 174 – 176; Bosworth 1988, pp. 82 – 83; Gehrke 2004, p. 45. 36 Cf. Worthington 2014, esp. p. 189. Cf. also Fuller 1958, p. 171 and Gehrke 2004, p. 45. 37 Cf., for example, Schachermeyr 1973, pp. 273 – 274; Keegan 1987, p. 87; Heckel 2008, pp. 75 – 80 (the author gives no reference to the sources). 38 Burn 1952, esp. pp. 88 – 90. 39 Cf. Bosworth 1976, p. 4: “The whole purpose of this paper is to show that the traditional argument for the supremacy of Arrian is a delusion, based upon a series of fallacies”. 40 Diod. 17.57.2 – 3; Curt. 4.13.28 – 29. The name Philippus is not given correctly in Curtius. Manuscripts read phaligrus. The correction to ‘Philippus’ has been made with regard to Diodorus. 41 Cf. Bosworth 1976, 2 – 14, esp. p. 12: “The vulgate account of a premeditated and largely successful attack on the base camp is certainly the more plausible, and embarrassing to Ptolemy. If we can judge from Arrian’s account, he transformed it into a limited and haphazard interruption, caused by the failure of Simmias to keep the Macedonian line intact”.

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Bosworth’s hypothesis, seen as an attack on Arrian, met with the strongest opposition. In another study, K.-W. Welwei not only tried to refute Bosworth’s arguments but contended that the entire version given in the ‘vulgate’ tradition of the fight for the Macedonian camp — and not just the presence of the royal family in the camp — should be discarded as unhistorical. Mazaeus’ horsemen had not even succeeded in reaching the camp.42 Simmias, who had come to the assistance of the hard-pressed left wing, had acted perfectly responsibly. Welwei, in turn, was obliged to compromise on at least one point in Arrian’s account. The fact that Arrian, too, speaks of prisoners of war in the camp was a misconception resulting from the influence of the ‘vulgate’ tradition.43 Bosworth also expressed his fundamental reservations about Arrian’s version in his extensive Commentary: “It is possible, therefore, that Ptolemy maliciously exaggerated his [Simmias’] role. He could have been in a subordinate post under both Amyntas and Philippus and Ptolemy exalted him into battalion commander so that he could lay at his door the breach in the Macedonian line”.44 This version would have come in useful to Arrian.45 — Yet in his presentation of the battle published in 1988, only brief references to the problems at issue are to be found.46 Doubts of principle about the authenticity of Arrian’s version of the attack on the camp of the Macedonians remain exceptional. The discrepancies with the ‘vulgate’ tradition concerning the command of Amyntas’ unit, however, continue to require clarification.47 Radical doubts as to the version presented in the ‘vulgate’ tradition were raised again—after Welwei—by A. Devine. They not only included the “fantastic story” about the royal family in the camp. Substantiating his doubts, he pointed out “that a very similar capture of the enemy’s baggage is related in almost identical language [by Diodorus] in the context of the battle of Gabiene”. In that particular case, however, namely the battle between the troops of Eumenes and those of Antigonus in winter 316/15, the harm that Antigonus caused to Eumenes by capturing the enemy baggage train was considerable and resulted in the latter being handed over to his deadly enemy (Diod. 19.42 – 43).48 Devine assumed that about a generation after 42 Cf. Welwei 1979, esp. p. 228: “Den Reiterverbänden des Mazaios war es offensichtlich nicht gelungen, bis zum makedonischen Gefechtstroß vorzustoßen”. 43 Cf. Welwei 1979, p. 225: “Arrians Irrtum könnte auf einer Reminiszenz an die Vulgata-Tradition beruhen”. 44 Bosworth 1980, p. 301. 45 Cf. Bosworth 1980, p. 309: “Mazaeus’ attack disappears to be replaced by an episode politically more satisfactory. Unfortunately it also is self-contradictory”. 46 Cf. Bosworth 1988, p. 83 with fn. 175. 47 In his Who’s Who W. Heckel suggests, “that, because of Simmias’ inexperience and the importance of the battle, Amyntas’ battalion was commanded by Philip son of Balacrus, with Simmias in a subordinate role”. But he also assumes that Simmias was held responsible for his failure by Alexander himself. “The charge that Simmias was, indirectly, responsible for the attack on the Macedonian camp may have been used to justify Alexander’s decision to give Amyntas’ command to Attalus, one of his own syntrophoi (cf. A 4 16.1)”; Heckel 2006, p. 249 s. v. Simmias. 48 On the details of the battle see Schäfer 2002, pp. 155 – 164 with charts.

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Alexander’s death, this episode still had a stimulating effect on the accounts of the Battle of Gaugamela by later Alexander historians.49 A look at the divergent views of the authors cited here shows that there is a clear tendency towards preferring Arrian’s version of the attack on the camp. Also, there are occasional presentations that incorporate both versions into the reconstruction of events. General doubts about Arrian’s version are a rare exception (cf. Table 2). The complexity of the issue is enhanced by the fact that there is also a substantive divergence within the ‘vulgate’ tradition. As already outlined above, both Curtius and Plutarch—unlike Diodorus—link the threat to the camp by Mazaeus’ horsemen with Parmenion’s call for help. Additionally, all sources report another plea for assistance by Parmenion, who found himself pressed hard by enemy cavalry. Here Arrian agrees with Curtius and Plutarch that his message really reached Alexander. The latter’s alleged response to the respective appeals has also been pointed out above. A glance at the table (no. 2), which shows the range of opinions of the authors dealt with here, makes one thing perfectly clear: the assertion that Parmenion repeatedly appealed to Alexander for help is hardly given credence.50 But did he even send such a plea to Alexander ? This would not have to be considered potentially indicative of exaggerated concern.51 How realistic, then, was such an appeal amidst the confusion of the battle ?52 Was Diodorus right in saying that Parmenion’s messengers would not have been able to reach Alexander (17.60.7) ? Opinions differ here. With some caution, a tendency towards scepticism can be observed more recently.53 The issue would not be of such significance if it were not linked to the assessment of Alexander’s actions as a responsible strategist. What do we make of the reproach, most probably already chronicled by Callisthenes, that Parmenion’s request for help had hampered Alexander’s pursuit of the fugitive king, thereby impairing the success of the battle ? Or to put it another way: Was this reproach of Parmenion meant to whitewash Alexander of acting irresponsibly at a crucial moment of the battle ?

49 Cf. Devine 1986, p. 90: “Just as the dreadful example of Ipsus apparently coloured Aristobulus’ treatment of Alexander’s pursuit of Darius, so too the decisive intervention of Antigonus’ raiders at Gabiene may have supplied the model baggage-seizing operation for historians writing a generation or so after Alexander’s death”. 50 But see Fuller 1958, pp. 175 – 177 ! Cf. also Nawotka 2010, pp. 232 – 233. 51 Cf., for example, Marsden 1964, p. 62: “It was merely informative, not a plea for assistance”. Cf. also Devine 1975, p. 381 with fn. 21: “An appeal from Parmenion at this stage is quite credible, and need not be associated with any deliberately discrediting story of cowardice or irresolution on his part”. 52 Cf., for example, Gehrke 2004, p. 45: “Hier stehen wir vor dem größten Rätsel der Schlacht […] Mit Recht fragen sich viele Historiker, ob ein Reiter den König … überhaupt erreichen konnte”. 53 Lane Fox 1974, p. 241; Devine 1986, p. 106; Lonsdale 2007, p. 133; Worthington 2014, p. 192.

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III 2) The pursuit of the king and the assessment of Alexander’s generalship. A short survey on modern estimates. III 2a) Did Darius miss his chances ?

The more we are ready to take the burden of responsibility for Darius’ flight from Parmenion’s shoulders and the more we underline his heroic standing in the battle, the more we have to question Alexander’s abandoning of the battlefield for his risky pursuit of the king. A radical form of exculpating Parmenion was put forward about a century ago by K. J. Beloch in his Griechische Geschichte, even declaring him the real victor: “Arbela ist überhaupt das Meisterstück Parmenions; er hatte hier den schweren Fehler Alexanders gut zu machen, der durch seine Bewegung nach rechts, ohne Rücksicht darauf, ob der linke Flügel folgen konnte, die eigene Schlachtlinie auseinandergerissen hatte, und nur Parmenions heroischer Widerstand … hat den Tag gerettet, natürlich neben den Fehlern des Gegners.”54 Beloch, in his time, unsuccessfully tried his hand as an iconoclast against the idealisation of Alexander. His assessment of the Battle of Gaugamela did not gain acceptance either. Nevertheless, there is still another problem to consider: Did Darius miss his chances at the moment when Alexander’s decisive charge resulted in the creation of a gap in the Macedonian phalanx ? Let us have a look at some judgements made by scholars during the last few decades. While they differ in their assessment of Darius’ motives to abandon the battlefield — cowardice or responsibility—, their general judgement is the same. F. Schachermeyr, for instance, made no secret of his contempt for Darius’ character.55 The decisive factor, however, was the assessment of the opportunities that would have opened up for him: “Wäre damals Dareios bei seinen rechts vom Zentrum aus durchbrechenden Schwadronen gewesen, hätte er sich gleich Alexander an die Spitze des Angriffs gesetzt, anstatt vom hohen Wagen aus die Schlacht bloß zu überschauen, er hätte die Entscheidung gewonnen.”56 — This view was essentially shared by military historian J. Keegan: “A few moment’s resolution at Gaugamela might have spared him [Darius] all the indignity and suffering that lay ahead”.57 Yet he had fled in fear.58

54 Beloch IV 2 21927, p. 300. Cf. also Beloch III 1 21922, p. 644, on the break-through of the Persian and Indian cavalry: “Es war der kritische Augenblick der Schlacht; hätte Alexander einen griechischen Feldherrn und griechische Truppen gegenüber gehabt, so war der Tag verloren.” 55 Cf. Schachermeyr 1973, p. 274: “Unritterlich gab der oberste Ritter gleich alles verloren und während die Seinigen überall dort, wo Alexander selber nicht antrieb, noch siegreich waren, flüchtete der König ganz unköniglich davon.” 56 Schachermeyr 1973, p. 273. 57 Keegan 1987, p. 87. 58 “The emperor, who had fled from Alexander once before, turned his horses and rode pell mell from the field”; Keegan 1987, p. 31.

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P. Barceló59 or I. Worthington60 read no different in this respect. Even an author such as W. Heckel, who does recognise the reasonable motives behind Darius’ flight,61 arrives at a similar judgement on the opportunities still open to the Persians at that stage in the battle: “Here Darius might have counterattacked with devastating effects, but the Indian and Persian cavalry rode right through the opening and continued forwards to attack the Macedonian field camp. They were, however, soon cut off and slaughtered by the forces who turned to rescue the baggage camp.”62 A list of similar deliberations could easily be continued.63 Such speculations may be fruitless, since Darius lost the battle. But they point to a problem that all those scholars who are convinced of Alexander’s impeccable generalship must consider. Had Alexander — by his eager pursuit of the king — abandoned the battlefield at a moment when the decision was still open ?

III 2b) An ‘alternative’ interpretation of Arrian’s account

The notion that Alexander acted irresponsibly by taking up immediate pursuit of the fleeing Great King frequently causes a sense of uneasiness. Many authors, even those who are not unreserved admirers of Alexander, would not want to lay such behaviour at his door. This may be illustrated in the example of J. M. O’Brien: “This claim [Parmenion’s appeal for assistance], based on Callisthenes, is usually interpreted in order to explain Alexander’s inability to capture the Persian king and settle the issue once and for all: Nonetheless, this may very well have been what occurred, especially if Alexander received such an urgent request for assistance before he had begun his pursuit of Darius. It seems unlikely that he would have abandoned the field

59 Barceló 2007, p. 143: “Angesichts der drohenden Gefahr, die durch die herannahenden makedonischen Reiter entstand, ergriff der persische König die Flucht und entwertete so den erfolgreichen Vormarsch seines rechten Flügels”. 60 Cf. Worthington 2014, p. 192: Alexander “finally managed to break through the Persian line … and rode hell-bent after Darius. A last-minute rally on the part of the Great King might have saved the day for the Persians, but none came. Gaugamela now became a repeat of Issus. As Alexander bore down on him Darius abandoned all hope; he and his bodyguard fled the battlefield”. 61 Heckel 2008, p. 80: “His [Darius’] own safety — and the vain prospect of fighting another day — demanded that he avoid capture. Flight would certainly mean defeat in battle, but capture meant that he was lost”. 62 Heckel 2008, p. 78. 63 Cf. also, for instance, Hampl 21965, p. 37: “Allein Dareios hatte hier sowenig wie bei Issos die Kraft, angesichts der Vorgänge in seiner näheren Umgebung durchzuhalten, wieder versagte er als Feldherr und Soldat und gab mit seiner eigenen Flucht das Zeichen für die allgemeine Auflösung des Heeres”; Lauffer 1978, p. 97: “Man hat mit Recht bemerkt, daß Dareios, wenn er mit seiner Reiterei vorgegangen wäre und die schon aufgesplitterten Verbände der Makedonen bekämpft hätte, die Schlacht gewinnen mußte”; Wiemer 2005, p. 112: “Als das persische Zentrum dem Angriff der makedonischen Reiter nicht standzuhalten vermochte, gab Dareíos, der über den Schlachtverlauf im ganzen nicht im Bilde war, seine Sache verloren und wandte sich erneut zur Flucht”.

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if the outcome of the battle had still been in question.”64 But according to the unanimous opinion of the ancient authors, including Arrian, this is exactly what Alexander did. In Arrian’s account, too, Alexander first chases after the fleeing king. At the time he arrives on the battlefield again, the Persian army is in complete disarray, which is why he turns back immediately (3.15.3). Several authors took and take the view that Alexander’s temporary return to the battlefield had still been of importance to the outcome of the battle.65 This is not to be found explicitly in Arrian, yet it serves the purpose of clearing Alexander from blame. Another indirect defence of Alexander, which is not attested to by the sources either, already appears in Delbrück’s Geschichte der Kriegskunst: “In Bedrängnis geriet eine Zeitlang der von Parmenion geführte linke Flügel der Macedonier, wurde aber von dem siegreichen rechten Flügel degagiert”.66 Unfortunately, no reference is made as to how this is to be imagined.67 It can be seen, however, that there are also problems around the issue regarding the situation of the units left behind on the Macedonian right wing when Alexander, right after the decisive charge, took up pursuit of his fleeing opponent. A very remarkable strategy to avoid any undermining of Alexander’s strategic and tactic brilliance was developed by G. T. Griffith, a well-known expert in Alexander-Studies, in 1947 and followed up roughly ten years later by British Major General J. F. C. Fuller, who admired Alexander ‘as genius, as strategist, as tactician, as leader’. In a small monograph on the battle of Gaugamela, published in 1960, British lecturer E. W. Marsden enlarged their concept. They simply proceeded from an alternative version of the facts: Alexander had not forgotten his duties as a sovereign general and turned immediately to assist the troops he had left behind, first of all those menaced

64 O’Brien 1992, pp. 96 – 97 — Cf. Schachermeyr 1973, p. 274: “Alexander war nun der Meinung, nach der Flucht des Großkönigs würden die persischen Angriffe auf der übrigen Schlachtfront von selber aufhören. Deshalb dachte er anfangs gar nicht an Rückkehr, sondern hoffte, die Person des Dareios noch zu erjagen. Da erreichte ihn Parmenions Hilferuf. Der Herrscher leistete ihm zwar Folge, verzieh aber dem Paladin seine ängstliche Botschaft späterhin nie.” — Cf. also the commentary of Herkos and Stantes Apostolides in Droysen 2004, pp. 336 – 337, fn. 377. They argue in favour of a ‘milder’ interpretation of Arrian (3.15.1) who states not explicitly, “daß Alexander, als er Dareios verfolgte, das Schlachtfeld auch v e r l a s s e n haben müßte”. 65 Cf., for example, Lauffer 1978, p. 97: “Alexander, den bei der Verfolgung des Dareios eine Meldung Parmenions mit der Bitte um sofortige Hilfe erreichte, kehrte um und stellte nach hartem Kampf die Lage wieder her, worauf sich das führungslos gewordene persische Heer auflöste. Die Makedonen hatten damit auf der ganzen Linie gesiegt.” Barceló 2007, p. 143, leaves the question open as to whether an appeal for help from Parmenion reached Alexander, underlining at the same time: “Sein [Alexanders] Eintreffen auf dem Schlachtfeld stellte jedenfalls das Übergewicht der Makedonen her und trug zur Auflösung der ohne ihren König kämpfenden persischen Armee bei.” 66 Delbrück 1920, p. 212. 67 Also cf. the likewise quite vague-sounding attempt at exculpating Alexander in Demandt 2009, p. 193: “Sofort machte Alexander kehrt, ließ den Darius laufen und faßte die persische Reiterei von links hinten. Aber inzwischen hatten die Thessaler wieder die Oberhand gewonnen”.

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by the cavalry on the Persian left. It is there that the heavy fights Arrian mentioned had taken place. Arrian had simply misunderstood his source.68 Griffith saw his hypothesis of Alexander’s rapid wheeling back to the battlefield, where the units left behind on the right wing were still sharply pressed by Bessus’ cavalry,69 confirmed by the logic of the battle’s progress: “No one will doubt that Alexander became excited in the moment when he led the ‘Companions’ in the charge that broke the Persian line and put Darius to flight. But it is my belief that he ceased to be the trooper and became the general again once the immediate work was done, and this belief is based not on any preconceived notion of his character, but on the actual situation at the time; if he had not done so, he would probably have lost this battle”.70 To justify his advocacy for Alexander, Fuller used Prince Rupert of the Rhine, commander of the Royal cavalry during the English Civil War, as a negative foil against which to set the Macedonian. “He [Alexander] was no Rupert, a man to be carried away by the excitement of gallop, and to risk the loss of the battle by a premature pursuit would class him as a third-rate general.”71 Marsden picked up on the negative paradigm: “Now Alexander was no Prince Rupert, and Gaugamela no Edgehill”. It was important for Marsden to clarify that to Alexander concern for his troops was paramount. Alexander’s planning after the successful breakthrough consisted in two objectives: “The main one consisted of nothing less than the complete envelopment and extermination of all forces in the Persian centre and the Persian left … The second aim, subsidiary to the first, and to some extent identical with it, was the capture or killing of Darius”.72 Along the same lines, Marsden also cleared Parmenion of blame. The “whole issue” of Arrian’s account “was confused, deliberately confused in a way, by its connection with the arrival of Parmenion’s message.” This message “was actually a signal, pre-arranged between Alexander and his lieutenant”. It was “merely informative, not a plea for assistance”. His word reached Alexander at a time when he was already about to surround the remains of the Persian left: “Alexander was engaged in realising a definite plan of encirclement, not in responding to a fictitious appeal from Parmenion”.73 Now, the tradition of Alexander’s eager pursuit of the Great King is one of the basic elements in the tradition of the battle at Gaugamela that all our sources have in common. So we should not be surprised that the common opinion could not accept 68 Cf., for example, Marsden 1964, p. 60: Arrian’s description of the final phase of the battle “is in some respects the weakest and least precise of his whole account”. 69 Esp. cf. Griffith 1947, pp. 86 – 87. 70 Griffith 1947, p. 89. 71 Fuller 1958, p. 177. Fuller commented on Prince Rupert in fn. 3: “Whose reckless pursuits ruined the battles of Marston Moor and Naseby in 1644 and 1645 respectively”. — Fuller could have chosen a better example to illustrate his point, namely the Battle of Edgehill on 23 October, 1642. Cf. on this also below 181 – 182. 72 Marsden 1964, p. 61. 73 Marsden 1964, pp. 61 – 62.

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this amazing ‘solution’ to the dilemma. One method of preserving Alexander’s image as impeccable general without correcting and amending Arrian’s account is to highlight his extreme risk-taking as the key to his success.

III 2c) The ‘unstoppable momentum’ of the decisive charge

Alexander’s unconditional will to win will doubtlessly have had an inspiring and encouraging effect on his troops.74 Yet, to build the strategic planning of the battle on the impact of his direct attack against the Great King75 certainly posed a high risk to Alexander. H.-J. Gehrke highlighted the problem: Even if in retrospect “der plötzliche und furiose Angriff auf das Herz des persischen Heeres um den Großkönig herum” proved the crucial moment of the battle, the question nonetheless arises as to what extent Alexander could be certain of this when he set off in pursuit of the fugitive king: “Für ihn war die Schlacht entschieden. Ob sie es denn wirklich war, blieb aber zunächst noch fraglich, denn niemand hatte mehr eine Übersicht.”76 The dilemma described here presents no small challenge when it comes to an uncompromising appraisal of Alexander’s generalship. Now, a way of maintaining Alexander’s image of an impeccable strategist as well as Arrian’s account was provided by the statements of expert lecturers in military history and strategy: Alexander’s decisive charge had developed into an ‘unstoppable momentum’. Thus, the enemy had no longer stood a chance. First, I would like to quote J. Keegan: “… when the light troops and cavalry had made touch with the enemy’s line, Alexander, clothed in his unmistakably conspicuous battle garb, charged into the brown. At that moment his power to command the battle passed from him. He lost sight of the line, lost all means to send orders, could think only of saving his own life and taking that of as many of the enemy as put themselves within reach of his sword-arm. But the knowledge that he was risking his skin with theirs was enough to ensure that the whole army, from that moment onwards, fought with an energy equal to his. Total exposure to risk was his secret of total victory”.77 So the further course of the battle was essentially already decided by the devastating impact Alexander’s charge had left on Darius. This makes it also possible to acknowledge Alexander’s hot pursuit as a ‘tactical hallmark’, as does D. Lonsdale: “For Alexander, the personal defeat of the enemy commander would evoke the great heroic

74 Cf., for example, Barceló 2007, p. 141, esp. on Gaugamela: “Sein [Alexander’s] Selbstbewusstsein und seine Siegeszuversicht müssen erdrückend und geradezu ansteckend gewesen sein”. 75 Cf., for example, Worthington 2014, p. 192: “… ultimately he [Alexander] staked his battle strategy once more on the demoralizing psychological effect of killing or capturing Darius”. 76 Gehrke 2004, pp. 44 – 46. 77 Keegan 1987, p. 90.

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tradition of his ancestors. Romantic though he may have been, Alexander was also a great pragmatist and strategist […] As the centre of his [Darius’] line began to fail, there came a point when once again Darius took the decision to flee the battlefield. Thus began another of Alexander’s tactical hallmarks: the pursuit.” The breach in Alexander’s phalanx could not be exploited by the enemy. “… the moment when his [Alexander’s] line became disjointed and vulnerable was the same moment at which his own attack had acquired an unstoppable momentum. Alexander had seized the initiative, and the speed and momentum of his combined-arms attack ensured that the enemy could never regain control of the battle”.78

III 2d) Back to the paradigm of ‘Prince Rupert’ and back to the sources

If we are not entirely convinced by the above-mentioned apologetic strategies in modern scholarship, we cannot help considering the possibility that Alexander indeed acted — at least for a short while — like the unlucky Prince Rupert. I would first like to quote from R. Lane Fox’s widely read and literarily ambitious monograph, which is sustained by a basic admiration for Alexander: “As Alexander routed the Persian centre, he cannot have known that the rest of his line was either endangered or able, most fortunately, to rally its several weaknesses … Dust was swirling around him and it was a matter of dodging the scimitars and lunging at half-seen turbans in order to stay alive … The one certain target was Darius, and he was known to have retreated, so Alexander abandoned all secondary dangers and dashed with a group of horsemen in pursuit. If this seems as impetuous as the disastrous conduct of Prince Rupert at Edgehill, it is not to be disbelieved as too irresponsible: through dust and struggling Orientals, Alexander could not usefully have returned in time to aid his left centre, even had he known this to be necessary. If history later had an excuse to be made, it was not that he set off in pursuit but that his pursuit of a vital prize was to prove a failure. A scapegoat was needed, and, as so often, the blame was put to Parmenion …”79 In two source-critical studies on the battle, striving to ensure accuracy, A. M. Devine was eventually cautiously restrictive in his conclusion: “Alexander’s tactics in this battle, while on the whole brilliant in their originality and subtlety, were not altogether flawless in their execution. The masterpiece was marred by the victor’s heroic pretensions and misconceived order of priorities. Gaugamela, we must remember, was, after all, the victory of a very great but as yet immature general.”80 Devine did not share the conviction “that ‘Alexander was no Prince Rupert, and Gaugamela no Edgehill’”.81 He pointed out, however, that the question as to whether or not Alexander had

78 79 80 81

Lonsdale 2007, pp. 132 – 133. Lane Fox 1974, p. 240. Devine 1975, p. 385 = Devine 1986, p. 111. Devine 1975, p. 382 fn. 24.

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acted irresponsibly in his impetuous pursuit of the Great King had quite likely preoccupied ancient Alexander historians more than once. It stands to reason that such doubts emerged very soon and had to be combated. After all, it was not only the king that had managed to flee just in time but also a large part of his army.82 Plutarch’s report shows quite clearly that the blame levelled at Parmenion of being responsible for the successful escape of the Great King may already go back to Callisthenes. Whether these reproaches against Parmenion started soon after the battle or became more antagonistic only in connection with the brutal trial of his son Philotas and the ensuing liquidation of Parmenion is a cause for controversy.83 The allegations against Parmenion are only one element in a long chain of tendentious reports on his role.84 However, the marked differences in the accounts of the authors who drew on the ‘vulgate’ tradition also indicate that Callisthenes’ version did not go unchallenged. This starts with Diodorus, whose report does not establish any link between Parmenion’s appeal and Alexander’s unsuccessful pursuit.85 And this is, furthermore, demonstrated by the significant differences in the assessment of Parmenion’s behaviour in Curtius and Plutarch. Although both authors relate that Alexander received two messages for help from Parmenion, the latter comes off considerably better in Curtius than in Plutarch. “Curtius is clearly influenced by a source favourable to Parmenion, which tried to turn the hostile account on its head”, as J. E. Atkinson emphasised in his Commentary on Curtius.86 Arrian’s report on the battle, remarkably enough, also avoids a negative assessment of Parmenion: “Callisthenes had used Parmenion’s message in his propaganda to imply that Alexander had been prevented from achieving the full fruits of his victory. In Arrian’s version there is no animus against Parmenion”, as A. B. Bosworth stated in his Commentary published around the same time.87 Bosworth then picked up on an observation put forward by A. M. Devine a few years before. In these reflections, the battle at Issus in 301 B. C. plays an important role. As early as 1947, G. T. Griffith had justified his firm conviction that Alexander could not have acted so recklessly (see above) with, among others, one argument: “The premature pursuit after a local success was one of the surest and most attractive ways of losing a battle, as Demetrius Poliorcetes was to demonstrate at Ipsus to the 82 Cf., for example, the summarizing of the basic facts of the battle by Grainger 2007, p. 79: “It was a very close fight, for the Macedonian defence were breaking even as Alexander’s attack succeeded. Dareios’ personal defeat again caused his army to break up, and this time substantial Persian forces gave up the fight altogether. He had done this at a remarkable low cost to his own army.” 83 Cf. Zahrnt 2006. 84 Cf. Müller 2003, pp. 55 – 79, esp. on Gaugamela pp. 68 – 73. 85 Cf. Devine 1986, pp. 89 – 90. 86 Cf. Atkinson 1980, pp. 447 – 448. It fits into the picture that Curtius’ characterisation of the role Alexander’s general Menidas played at Gaugamela seems rather spiteful. The fact that Menidas was involved in Parmenion’s assassination may have been the underlying reason for this; cf. Devine 1986, p. 91; Heckel 2006, p. 319 fn. 430. 87 Bosworth 1980, pp. 310 – 311.

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next generation of soldiers”.88 Devine assumed that among the then-active Alexander historians the issue of Alexander’s responsibility was given new relevance by the fatal example of Demetrius Poliorcetes: “… the historiographical emphasis changed from one of execrating Parmenion for being responsible, through his ‘unnecessary’ appeals for assistance, for the escape of Darius (Curt. 4.16.3 is most significant here), to that of glossing over the tactically irresponsible character of Alexander’s prolonged pursuit of the Great King (note Curt. 4.16.29 – 30)”.89 As we know, Aristobulus wrote after 301 B. C.90 At least as regards the arrangement of Darius’ forces, he also demonstrably served as one source for Arrian’s battle account. So he could have been behind Arrian’s version of Parmenion’s plea and the resulting exoneration of Alexander. Bosworth, too, assumed that in this case Aristobulus was the more likely one to be taken into consideration than Ptolemy.91 — As Devine summarises, we should be aware of two different lines of tradition in Arrian’s battle account: “CallisthenesPtolemy-Arrian and, possibly, Callisthenes-Aristobulus-Arrian”.92 Contrary to the case of Aristobulus, Arrian, in the context of the battle account, never explicitly refers to Ptolemy as a source. A particular case, however, in which there is at least a clear hint at Ptolemy should still be mentioned here. It has to do with the unsuccessful pursuit of the Great King. In the epilogue to their accounts of the battle, Diodorus and Curtius point out four names of Macedonian commanders who suffered serious wounds: Hephaistion, Perdiccas, Coenus and Menidas.93 Three of these names also appear in Arrian, but do so in connection with the last heavy cavalry fight that occurred on Alexander’s return to the battlefield. Their assignment, however, does not square with what we know about the position of Coenus and Menidas in the battle.94 A. R. Burn therefore called this “a mistake that is no doubt Arrian’s own, based on a misunderstanding of Ptolemy”. This is of lesser importance here. What is 88 Griffith 1947, p. 82. — In 301 B. C., Ipsus in Phrygia was the scene of one of the decisive battles at the time of the Diadoches. A coalition led by Seleucus and Lysimachus was pitted against the forces of Antigonus. The furious cavalry attack Antigonus’ son Demetrius launched against the allied cavalry under Seleucus’ son Antiochus at the beginning of the battle had led him too far from the centre, in which Antigonus commanded the phalanx. Seleucus’ unit of elephants managed to advance into the resulting gap and to block Demetrius’ return to the battlefield. Meanwhile, Antigonus’ phalanx was exposed to Seleucus’ cavalry charges. Part of his troops defected to the enemy side. Eventually, the aged Antigonus fell, fighting bravely. The pursuit of the enemy had turned the victory Demetrius had gained over the cavalry of Seleucus’ son Antiochus into a fatal strategic error. Cf. the report in Plutarch, Demetrius 29 – 30.1. 89 Devine 1975, p. 382 fn. 24. 90 Arr. An 7.18.5 = BNJ F 54 (F. Pownall). 91 Bosworth 1980, pp. 310 – 311: “Either Ptolemy or Aristobulus might have modified the story of the pursuit to protect the king’s military reputation, but Aristobulus is the more likely to have been affected by the events at Ipsus”. 92 Devine 1986, p. 94. 93 Diod. 17.61.3; Curt. 4.16.31 – 32. 94 Cf., for example, Burn 1952, p. 88; Bosworth 1980, p. 311: “Coenus, however, was a phalanx commander fighting in the centre (cf. iii 11.9) and Menidas had been in action on the extreme right (ii 13.3)”.

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conspicuous, though, is the absence of Perdiccas in Arrian’s listing. Apart from his being among the wounded, as is reported by Diodorus and Curtius, we unfortunately do not get to know anything certain about his position in the battle’s events.95 The reason why his name does not occur in Arrian’s list may well be that Ptolemy, as his presumed source, ignored him. Bosworth, significantly, terms this as “Ptolemy’s vendetta against the memory of his dead rival”.96 Arrian’s reference to the heavy casualties the Macedonians suffered in the last stages of the battle contrasts with the ‘vulgate’ tradition. As outlined above, the latter provides a different picture of the final phase of the fighting as well as Alexander’s decisive charge: Before the Great King decided to take flight, a fierce battle had been raging between the armies. Diodorus, Curtius, Justin, Plutarch and the Itinerarium Alexandri are in agreement on this point.97 The legendary elaboration of an “epic hand-to-hand combat”98 which can be found, to varying degrees, in the accounts of the different authors and which culminate in the duel between the two kings99 do not exactly inspire much confidence.100 But does this mean we can also rule out the existence of these fights with great numbers of casualties on both sides ? Is it possible that Arrian’s report, or his respective source, presumably Ptolemy, wished to relieve Alexander of the fact that his hot pursuit of the Great King had forced the units left behind to cope on their own ? We can assume that Callisthenes authored the first written account of the battle, thereby defending Alexander against potential criticism. Unfortunately, we have little tangible knowledge about the formation of the tradition obviously intended to exculpate Parmenion. The date at which Ptolemy published his report is a matter of notorious controversy. Aristobulus, at any rate, took up his pen relatively late. Both had an interest in protecting Alexander’s image from disparaging criticism. The pathways through which their works were passed down remain in the dark. The writers of our sources on the battle, beginning with Diodorus, had their own picture of Alexander. They were children of their time, writing centuries later. The extent to which they still had direct knowledge of the earlier texts may have differed from case to case. This applies all the more to their respective literary aspirations. It is not without good reason that extensive research into source material has been done for generations to clarify all these questions. With this in mind, we should not forget to imagine the initial con95 Cf. Heckel 2006, p. 197: “Not one from the lead, Perdiccas was wounded at Gaugamela (C 14.16.31; D 17.61.3)”. — There is a complete lack of information as to Ptolemys’ role in the battle: cf., for example, the overview provided in Heckel 2006, esp. pp. 235 – 236. 96 Bosworth 1980, pp. 311 – 312; cf. also Heckel 2006, p. 328 fn. 535 with further references. 97 Cf. above 167. 98 Cf. Bosworth 1980, p. 307. 99 Mederer 1936, pp. 24 – 30. On the development of the motif from the royal duel to the version of Darius’ death by the hand of Alexander, see Pfister 1958, esp. pp. 102 – 103. 100 But see, for example, Demandt 2009, p. 193: „… der Speer Alexanders traf den Wagenlenker des Großkönigs, und dieser ergriff die Flucht, bevor noch die Schlachtentscheidung gefallen war. Vielmehr führte er sie wieder herbei”.

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ditions a report on this battle had to come to terms with. Let me leave the final word to A. B. Bosworth: “The preliminary formation is relatively clear, but the details of the battle are variously transmitted by the sources and are impossible to reconcile in toto. Even at the time it must have been a virtually hopeless task to reconstruct the course of the engagement, for all participants necessarily had a very partial experience limited to their own sector. Nobody, certainly not Alexander, had a synoptic view”.101

Table 1 A selection of estimates of the strength of Darius’ army Alexander is given the traditional 47,000 (40,000 infantry + 7,000 cavalry) Delbrück 1920, 209 – 210 Dareios: “vielleicht 12 000 Reiter … mehr gewiß nicht” — Infanterie: nicht mehr als die Mazedonier Judeich 1924/31, 373 – 374 Dareios: “Mit einigen Hundertausenden … werden wir … zu rechnen haben” — Reiterei: ca. 40 000 Fuller 1958, 164 Darius: The strength of his army “must have considerably exceeded that of Alexander”; no exact figures given Marsden 1964, 32 and 37 Darius’ infantry: at any rate less than 100,000 — “in all, Darius had 34,000 cavalry” ≈ cavalry 5:1 Schachermeyr 1973, 269 Dareios hatte “etwa 45 000 Reiter und 200 000 Fußkämpfer” ≈ 5:1 Lane Fox 1974, 236 “Alexander … marched his 47,000 men … against a foe some six times their numbers …” ≈ 6:1 Brunt 1976, 511 “All we can safely say is that the Macedonian cavalry were substantially outnumbered” (511)

101 Bosworth 1988, pp. 81 – 82.

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Devine 1986, 102 – 103 Darius: 25,000 horsemen — ‘a reasonable estimate’ — 50,000 infantry — ‘an educated guess’ Keegan 1987, 85 Darius’ army “must have outnumbered Alexander’s 50,000 several times” Bosworth 1988, 78 “The Persians certainly had a numerical advantage, probably a great advantage, but it cannot be quantified” O’Brien 1992, 93 Darius assembled “some 25,000 horsemen” + “an untold number of infantry (perhaps 50,000)” Cartledge 2004, 152 “Alexander’s 47,000 men lined up against Darius’ perhaps quarter of a million” ≈ 5:1 — “Darius had about 30,000 cavalry …” ≈ 4:1 Gehrke 2004, 38 Dareios hatte “rund 40 000 Reiter und womöglich an die 200 000 Mann Fußvolk” ≈ 5:1 Cawkwell 2005, 247 “… it is unlikely that the army of Darius was over 100,000 in all” ≈ 2:1 Grainger 2007, 79 “The Macedonian/Greek army was outnumbered, perhaps by five to one” ≈ 5:1 Lonsdale 2007 Exact estimates not possible — 250,000 the “most realistic” estimate in the sources ≈ 5:1 Heckel 2008 General superiority of Darius’ army, no estimate in precise numbers Demandt 2009, 190 Plausible Annahme von ungefähr 60 000 Kriegern Nawotka 2010, 226 “numerical superiority” of Darius’ cavalry, no estimate in precise numbers

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Worthington 2014, 189 100,000 would be a “plausible figure” for the Persian army: ≈ 2:1

Table 2 1 2 2? 3 4 5 6

The attack on the Macedonian camp by horsemen sent from Mazaeus took place The break-through of Indians + Persians took place Mixture of 1 + 2 Parmenion sent to Alexander roughly about the time of the decisive charge The message was delivered Parmenion sent to Alexander before the time of the decisive charge The royal family was the target of an attack

Griffith 1947

1

Burn 1952

1

Fuller 1958

1

3

4

3

4

5

2

3

4

5

Marsden 1964

2

3

4

Schachermeyr 1973

2

3

4

2

?

Welwei 1979

2

?

Devine 1975/1986

2

3

Keegan 1987

2

3

2

3

?

3

4

2

?

?

2

?

2

?

Lane Fox 1974

Bosworth 1988

1

1

O’Brien 1992 Lonsdale 2007

1

Heckel 2008 Gehrke 2004

1

2

?

4

Demandt 2009

2

3

4

Nawotka 2010

2?

?

?

2?

3

1?

6

6

?

Worthington 2014

6

6 5

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Bibliography Atkinson, J. E. 1980. A Commentary on Q. Curtius Rufus’ Historiae Alexandri Magni. Books 3 and 4, Amsterdam: Hakkert. Barceló, Pedro. 2007. Alexander der Große. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Baynham, Elizabeth. 2010. Arrian’s Sources and Reliability. In The Landmark Arrian. The Campaigns of Alexander, James Rom ed., 325 – 332. New York: Anchor Books. Beloch, Karl Julius (ed.). 21922. Griechische Geschichte III/1. Berlin and Leipzig: de Gruyter. Beloch, Karl Julius. 21927. Alexander und Parmenion. In Griechische Geschichte IV/2, K. J. Beloch ed., 290 – 306. Berlin and Leipzig: de Gruyter. Berve, Helmut. 1926. Das Alexanderreich auf prosopographischer Grundlage II. München: Beck. Bichler, Reinhold. Forthcoming 2020. Numbers in Herodotus. In Melammu Symposia 10 Kassel 26. – 28. 09. 2016, Kerstin Droß-Krüpe, Sebastian Fink, Kai Ruffing, Robert Rollinger eds., Wien: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Briant, Pierre. 2002. From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire, P. T. Daniels tr. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Briant, Pierre. 2003. Darius dans l’ombre d’Alexandre. Paris: Fayard. Bosworth, Albert B. 1976. Arrian and the Alexander Vulgate. In Alexandre le Grand: Image et Réalité, E. Badian ed., 1 – 34. Genève: Fondation Hard. Bosworth, Albert B. 1980. A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander the Great. Commentary on Books I – III. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Bosworth, Albert B. 1988. Conquest and Empire. The Reign of Alexander the Great. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brunt, P. A. 1976. Appendix IX: Gaugamela. In Arrian. Anabasis of Alexander. Books 1 – 4. P. A. Brunt ed. and tr., 509 – 514. Cambridge MA. and London: Harvard University Press. Burn, A. R. 1952. Notes on Alexander’s Campaigns: 332 – 330. The Journal of Hellenic Studies 72: 81 – 91. Delbrück, Hans. 31920. Geschichte der Kriegskunst im Rahmen der politischen Geschichte. Vol. 1: Das Altertum. Berlin: G. Stilke. [repr. Hildesheim 1960] Demandt, Alexander. 2009. Alexander der Große. Leben und Legende. München: Beck. Devine, A. M. 1975. Grand Tactics at Gaugamela. Phoenix 29 (4): 374 – 385. Devine, A. M. 1986. The Battle of Gaugamela: A Tactical and Source-Critical Study. The Ancient World 13: 87 – 116. Droysen, Johann Gustav. 2004. Geschichte Alexanders des Großen, Armin Hohlweg ed. Neuried: ars una. [repr. of Gotha 1877]. Fuller, John F. C. 1958. The Generalship of Alexander the Great. London: Eyre & Spottiswoode. Gehrke, Hans-Joachim. 2004. Weltreich im Staub: Gaugamela, 1. Oktober 31 v. Chr. In Schlachten der Weltgeschichte. Von Salamis bis Sinai, S. Förster, M. Pöhlmann, and D. Walter eds, 32 – 47. München: Deutscher Taschenbuch-Verlag.

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Grainger, John D. 2007. Alexander the Great Failure. The Collapse of the Macedonian Empire. London and New York: Hambledon Continuum. Griffith, G. T. 1947. Alexander’s Generalship at Gaugamela. The Journal of Hellenic Studies 67: 77 – 89. Hampl, Franz. 21965. Alexander der Große. Göttingen: Muster-Schmidt. Heckel, Waldemar. 2006. Who’s Who in the Age of Alexander the Great. Prosopography of Alexander’s Empire. Oxford: Wiley. Heckel, Waldemar. 2008. The Conquests of Alexander the Great. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Judeich, W. 1924/1931. Gaugamela. In Geschichte der Kriegskunst IV, J. Kromayer and G. Veith eds, 372 – 384. Berlin: de Gruyter. Keegan, John. 1987. The Mask of Command. New York: Viking. Lane Fox, Robin. 21974. Alexander the Great. London: Dial Press. Lauffer, Siegfried. 1978. Alexander der Große. München: Deutscher Taschenbuch-Verlag. Lonsdale, David J. 2007. Alexander the Great: Lessons in Strategy. London and New York: Routledge. Marsden, Eric W. 1964. The Campaign of Gaugamela. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Mederer, Erwin. 1936. Die Alexanderlegenden bei den ältesten Alexanderhistorikern. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Müller, Sabine. 2003. Maßnahmen der Herrschaftssicherung gegenüber der makedonischen Opposition bei Alexander dem Großen. Frankfurt am Main: Lang. Nawotka, Krzystof. 2010. Alexander the Great. Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. O’Brien, John Maxwell. 1992. Alexander the Great. The Invisible Enemy. A Biography. London and New York: Routledge Pfister, Friedrich. 1958. Dareios von Alexander getötet. Rheinisches Museum für Philologie NF 101 (2): 97 – 104. Schachermeyr, Fritz. 1973. Alexander der Große: Das Problem seiner Persönlichkeit und seines Wirkens. Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Schäfer, Christoph. 2002. Eumenes von Kardia und der Kampf um die Macht im Alexanderreich. Frankfurter Althistorische Beiträge 9. Frankfurt am Main: Clauss. Tabacco, Raffaela. 2000. Itinerarium Alexandri. Testo, apparato critico, introduzione e commento di R. Tabacco. Torino: Leo S. Olschki. Welwei, Karl-Wilhelm. 1979. Der Kampf um das makedonische Lager bei Gaugamela. Rheinisches Museum 122: 222 – 228. Wiemer, Hans-Ulrich. 2005. Alexander der Große. München: Beck. Worthington, Ian. 2014. By the Spear. Philip II, Alexander the Great, and the Rise and Fall of the Macedonian Empire. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Zahrnt, Michael. 2006. Von Siwa bis Persepolis. Überlegungen zur Arbeitsweise des Kallisthenes. Ancient Society 36: 143 – 174.

Die „Thermopylenschlacht 2.0“ am Persischen Tor (330 v. Chr.)1 Christian Mileta

Otto von Bismarck wird das Diktum zugeschrieben, es werde niemals so viel gelogen wie vor der Wahl, während des Krieges und nach der Jagd.2 Dieser Ausspruch scheint im Hinblick auf den Krieg noch viel zu optimistisch formuliert. Weiß man doch, dass mit dem Ende der offenen Kriegshandlungen keineswegs die Stunde der Wahrheit anbricht. Vielmehr wirken die Ideologeme, aber auch die platte Propaganda, die in der Vorkriegszeit, vor allem aber während des Krieges wirkungsmächtig waren, weiter. Zusätzlich werden Argumente formuliert und propagiert, die den Erfolg der Sieger noch glänzender machen oder aber den Misserfolg der Verlierer beschönigen und ihm letztlich doch einen positiven Sinn geben sollen. Das alles hat natürlich mit der Erinnerungskultur, also mit der Pflege der individuellen wie auch kollektiven Erinnerung einer jeden unmittelbaren Nachkriegszeit zu tun. Denn solange es noch Zeitzeugen gibt, existiert jeweils ein noch recht vielstimmiges Geflecht von Erinnerungen an den Krieg. Dieses verwandelt sich dann unter dem Einfluss von Politik, Kultur und Wissenschaft allmählich in ein gesellschaftlich ausgehandeltes Narrativ,3 welches schließlich Teil des kollektiven Gedächtnisses des betreffenden Volkes wird.4 1

2 3

4

Der vorliegende Beitrag folgt inhaltlich eng dem Text des Vortrages; die Belege beschränken sich angesichts der unübersehbaren Fülle an Literatur, die insbesondere zur Thermopylenschlacht existiert, im Wesentlichen auf die Quellenangaben. https://www.aphorismen.de/Zitat/8513/ Aufgerufen: 11. 12. 2018. Für den Begriff Narrativ siehe die Definition bei Stierle 1984, S. 398: „Der Ausdruck ‚narrativ‘ bezeichnet ein Textschema, das in allen Kulturen für die Ordnung von Erfahrung und Wissen grundlegend ist. Im Darstellungsschema der Narrativität wird ein Zusammenhang von Geschehen und Handlung in eine nach Relevanzgesichtspunkten geordnete und unter einer temporalen Anschauungsform stehende Geschichte überführt. Zugleich wird diese Geschichte im Medium der Sprachen konkretisiert und perspektiviert (Diskurs der Geschichte).“ Zum kollektiven Gedächtnis siehe Erll 2011, SS. 5 – 6. Dort wird einem „weiten“ Verständnis dieses Begriffes gefolgt, „der unter seinem Dach tatsächlich so heterogene Phänomene wie neuronale Verschaltungen, das Alltagsgespräch und die Tradition vereint.“ Siehe auch die dort gegebene „vor-

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_10

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Christian Mileta

Man kann demnach in den zeitgenössischen, aber auch in den später verfassten literarischen Kriegs- und Schlachtenberichten keine Wahrheit, sondern allenfalls Ideologeme erwarten, die zu ihrer Beglaubigung u. a. auch auf Versatzstücke der vergangenen Realität zurückgreifen. Das stellt die Geschichtswissenschaft, im vorliegenden Fall die Alte Geschichte, vor besondere Herausforderungen. Denn bei den fast ausschließlich von antiken Schrifstellern verfassten Quellen, die über antike Schlachten berichten, handelt es sich zumeist um literarische Kunstwerke, mindestens aber um rhetorisch durchgestaltete Texte, die sich nur im Kern am Narrativ der jeweiligen Schlacht orientieren. Es ist demnach nicht leicht, aus diesen Werken die Narrative und davon ausgehend die realen historischen Ereignisse und Abläufe herauszufiltern. Dabei darf nicht vergessen werden, dass die zumeist ja erst in späterer Zeit entstandenen Quellen durchaus Verzerrungen und Unwahrheiten, aber auch schlichte Missverständnisse enthalten, die durch das geistige Klima und die Gelehrsamkeit der Epochen bedingt waren, in denen die betreffenden Werke verfasst bzw. bearbeitet wurden. Im Folgenden soll das Narrativ der Schlacht am Persischen Tor behandelt werden, die im Winter 331/30,5 genauer gesagt im Januar 330, ausgefochten wurde. Dieses Narrativ aber weist inhaltliche Berührungspunkte zum Narrativ der Thermopylenschlacht auf, die so stark und offensichtlich sind, dass sie nicht erst nachträglich, also im Verlauf der Überlieferung entstanden sein können. Vielmehr müssen schon die allerersten Berichte über den Durchbruch Alexanders durch das Persischen Tor ganz bewusst Bezug auf einen bedeutenden kulturellen und politischen Erinnerungsort der Griechen genommen haben. Gemeint ist die im August 480 zwischen den Persern und den Griechen geschlagene Schlacht am Thermopylenpass in Mittelgriechenland. Dass gerade diese beiden Narrative gezielt miteinander verbunden wurden, hing mit der explizit antipersischen Propaganda zusammen, mit welcher der Eroberungszug Alexanders gen Osten vorbereitet und begleitet wurde. Im Verlauf dieses Feldzuges war der Durchbruch durch das Persische Tor der letzte Schritt vor der Eroberung von Persepolis. Dieses wurde in der Folge geplündert und angezündet, wobei die Quellen diese Vorgänge ausdrücklich mit den Perserkriegen verbinden und sie als Ausdruck der Rache für die Untaten deklarieren, welche die Perser während dieser Kriege in Griechenland begangen hätten. Im Sinne der obigen Vorbemerkungen und Beobachtungen werden im Folgenden zunächst einige Überlegungen zum historischen Setting und den rekonstruierbaren Ereignissen der Thermopylenschlacht präsentiert, die im wesentlichen dem Bericht Herodots folgen. Dieser Autor wirkte etwa eine Generation nach der Thermopylenschlacht und schuf ein bereits in der Antike viel gelesenes Geschichtswerk. Darin

5

läufige“ Definition des „kollektiven Gedächtnisses“, demzufolge dieses „ein Oberbegriff für all jene Vorgänge organischer, medialer und institutioneller Art [ist], denen Bedeutung bei der wechselseitigen Beeinflussung von Vergangenem und Gegenwärtigem in soziokulturellen Kontexten zukommt.“ Sämtliche Jahresangaben des Beitrages beziehen sich auf die vorchristliche Ära, weshalb von nun an der Zusatz „v. Chr.“ entfällt.

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lieferte er eine Darstellung über den Verlauf und den Sinn der Thermopylenschlacht, die sehr bald zu einem Narrativ wurde und als solches in das kulturelle Gedächtnis der Griechen einging. Sodann wird die Schlacht am Persischen Tor behandelt werden, die man auch als die Thermopylenschlacht 2.0 etikettieren kann. Dabei hebt letztere Bezeichnung darauf ab, dass sich das Narrativ der Schlacht am Persischen Tor zu einem beträchtlichen Teil am Narrativ der Thermopylenschlacht des Jahres 480 orientierte. Das aber resultierte daraus, dass bereits die Zeitgenossen relativ schlecht über den tatsächlichen Ablauf der Schlacht am Persischen Tor unterrichtet waren. Es verwundert somit nicht, dass die relevanten Schriftsteller – wichtig sind hier vor allem Diodor, Curtius Rufus und Arrian, die jeweils auf die verlorenen Darstellungen der primären Alexanderhistoriker, insbesondere auf Kallisthenes und Kleitarch bzw. auf Aristobul und Ptolemaios Lagos zurückgriffen – sachlich eher dürre Berichte über die Schlacht liefern. Dabei nehmen diese Berichte aber eindeutig Bezug auf die Thermopylenschlacht,6 genauer gesagt auf das Narrativ dieses Ereignisses, welches seit Mitte des 5. Jahrhundert zum Allgemeinwissen jedes einigermaßen gebildeten Griechen und Makedonen gehörte.

1 Die Thermopylenschlacht ereignete sich während der Perserkriege, und zwar bald nach Beginn des von Xerxes I. unternommenen zweiten Feldzuges gegen Griechenland (480/79).7 Xerxes I., der 486 Herrscher des Perserreiches geworden war, hatte bereits 483 mit planmäßigen Vorbereitungen zur Bestrafung und Unterwerfung Griechenlands begonnen. Hauptmotive waren dabei die Rache für Unterstützung des Ionischen Aufstandes (499 – 494) durch die Griechen des Mutterlands sowie der Wunsch nach Revanche für den von den Griechen abgewehrten ersten Feldzug des Perser unter Datis und Artaphernes (490).

6

7

Siehe hierzu Nawotka 2010, S. 248: „Though differing from one another in detail, all the ancient authors generally describe the conflict … in a way that presents the Persian Gate as an Iranian Thermopylai, the last line of defence which Alexander now overcame similarly to how Xerxes succeded in 480.“ Siehe auch Heckel 1980, SS. 171, 174. Die folgende Skizze der Vorgeschichte und des Ablaufs der Thermopylenschlacht basiert im Wesentlichen auf dem Bericht von Herodot (7,5 – 200: Vorgeschichte, Zug des Xerxes und Reaktion der Griechen/7,201 – 238: Thermopylenschlacht/8,1 – 21: Seeschlacht vor dem Kap Artemision). Dieses Verfahren ist hinsichtlich der äußeren Abläufe und der Topographie berechtigt, da Herodot (* ca. 490/89) noch auf zeitgenössische Berichte über die Schlacht zurückgreifen konnte und, was den Thermopylenpass angeht, ganz offensichtlich über Autopsie verfügte. Demgegenüber müssen seine grob übertriebenen Angaben zur Größe des Perserheeres sowie die negative Darstellung der Kampfbereitschaft der persischen Soldaten mit Vorsicht behandelt werden. Denn bei diesen Angaben handelt es sich nicht um Tatsachen, sondern um Ideologeme, die bereits zum Narrativ der Schlacht gehören, an dessen Ausformung Herodot maßgeblich beteiligt war.

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In der ersten Hälfte des Jahres 480 stellte Xerxes dann in Westkleinasien ein riesiges Heer zusammen, das er auf dem Landwege nach Griechenland führen wollte. Die Gefahr dieser Invasion war bereits 481 offensichtlich geworden, als Xerxes Gesandte an alle griechischen Stämme und Städte, außer Athen und Sparta, geschickt hatte, die dort jeweils die symbolische Übergabe von Wasser und Erde, also die Unterwerfung unter die persische Oberherrschaft forderten. Außer den Thessalern, den Böotiern und einigen kleineren Stämmen, die sich gleich den Makedonen den Persern unterwarfen, sowie Delphi und Argos, die neutral blieben, lehnten alle anderen griechischen Gemeinwesen, also auch Athen und Sparta, die Forderungen des Xerxes ab und entschlossen sich zum Krieg gegen die Perser. Sie schlossen sich zum Hellenenbund zusammen, um gemeinsam gegen die Perser vorzugehen; bestehende Konflikte zwischen einzelnen Bündnispartnern wurden beendet bzw. zeitweilig ausgesetzt. Im weiteren Vorlauf der Invasion wurde dann immer klarer, dass die Griechen dem gewaltigen Aufmarsch der Perser nur dann widerstehen könnten, wenn sie erstens einer gemeinsamen Verteidigungsstrategie folgten und zweitens ihre Chance auch auf dem Meer suchten. Im Frühjahr 480 einigten sich die verbündeten Griechen in der Tat darauf, den Persern zu Lande und zur See entgegenzutreten; der Oberbefehl wurde den Spartanern anvertraut. Was den Landkrieg betraf, schlugen letztere vor, die Perser am zuvor befestigten Isthmos von Korinth zu erwarten. Die nördlich dieser Linie siedelnden Griechen, die dann völlig schutzlos gewesen wären, lehnten diesen Vorschlag unter Wortführung der Athener ab. Schließlich beschloss man, den Tempepass in Nordthessalien zu sperren und den persischen Vormarsch dort zu stoppen. Dieser Versuch musste allerdings bald abgebrochen werden, da sich herausgestellt hatte, dass die Perser diesen Pass leicht umgehen konnten. Daraufhin gaben die Verbündeten ganz Thessalien auf und sperrten die nach Mittelgriechenland führenden Pässe. Zu diesen gehörte auch der Thermopylenpass, auf dessen Höhe es dann zur Landschlacht zwischen den Persern und den Griechen kommen sollte. Der Thermoylenpass liegt an einer strategisch wichtigen Engstelle im südlichen Teil der Küstenstraße entlang des Malischen Golfes. Der Pass wird im Süden vom Kallidromos-Massiv begrenzt. Letzteres ist der östlichste Teil einer Gebirgskette, die eine natürliche Barriere zwischen Nord- und Mittelgriechenland bildet. Diese Barriere konnte in der Antike nur an wenigen Stellen überwunden werden. Dazu gehörte der zwar enge, aber doch vergleichsweise bequeme Thermopylenpass. Noch heute läuft ein großer Teil des Verkehrs zwischen Nord- und Mittelgriechenland über dieselbe Strecke. Im Altertum stellte diese Route neben der nur wenige Kilometer weiter westlich gelegenen Straße über den Dhemapass8 die einzige Verbindung zwischen Nord- und Mittelgriechenland dar, über die man ein Heer führen konnte.9 8 9

Nach Welwei 2007, S. 144, lag der Dhemapass am östlichen Rand des Oite-Gebirges (Phthiotis), also 5 – 6 km westlich der Thermopylen. Nach der freilich umstrittenen Ansicht von Szemler et al. 1996, war die Passage eines größeren Heeres überhaupt nur am Dhemapass möglich. Vgl. Albertz 2006, SS. 37 – 38.

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Dass es gerade am Thermopylenpass zur Schlacht kam, hing damit zusammen, dass sich unweit östlich davon, und zwar vor dem Kap Artemision an der Nordspitze der Insel Euboia, die Flotten der Griechen und Perser gegenüber lagen.10 Damit deckten sich die Land- und Seestreitkräfte beider Seiten jeweils, so dass Xerxes eine Doppelschlacht suchen und gewinnen musste, wenn er Zugang zu Mittelgriechenland erlangen wollte. Die geographische und verkehrstechnische Situation am Thermophylenpass stellt sich im Einzelnen wie folgt dar: Die Straße am Malischen Golf beschreibt von Norden kommend einen konkaven Bogen, der zunächst in westlicher, sodann in südlicher Richtung verläuft und sich schließlich nach Osten wendet. Dieser Streckenverlauf resultiert daraus, dass sich der schlauchartige Malische Golf westwärts in die oben erwähnte Gebirgskette hinein schiebt. Den südlichen Teil dieser Kette bildet das von Nordwesten nach Südosten verlaufende Kallidromos-Massiv, womit die südliche Strecke der Küstenstraße im Norden vom Meer und im Süden von diesem Massiv begrenzt wird. Während der in Rede stehende Küstenstreifen heute im Folge der Verlandung des Malischen Golfes teilweise eine Breite von mehreren Kilometern erreicht, war er im 5. Jh. sehr schmal. Und zwischen den Städten Anthele im Westen und Alpenoi im Osten, auf Höhe der steil abfallenden und dicht mit Bäumen bzw. mit Macchia bewachsenen Ausläufer des Kallidromos, die man nach der benachbarten Stadt Trachis auch als die Trachinischen Felsen bezeichnet, stieß die Strecke mehrfach direkt ans Meer bzw. an einen der Küste vorgelagerten Sumpf. Entlang dieser etwa sechs Kilometer langen Strecke aber verlief der durch drei Tore gesicherte Thermopylenpass. Die Pass-Straße war keineswegs unwegsam, aber hügelig und, wie bereits erwähnt, teilweise sehr schmal. Besondere Engstellen bildeten das östlich von Anthele gelegene „Westtor“ sowie das „Osttor“, westlich von Alpenoi. Beide Tore boten trotz offenbar erfolgter künstlicher Erweiterungen nur Durchlass für je einen Wagen, was auf eine lichte Breite von jeweils ca. drei Metern deutet. Zwischen beiden Toren, und zwar in gleicher Entfernung vom West- und vom Osttor, befand sich das bedeutend breitere Mittlere Tor, die eigentlichen Thermopylen. Dieser Name (= „Heiße Tore“) leitete sich von den heißen heilkräftigen Quellen ab, die sich auch heute noch dort befinden. Auf Höhe der Thermopylen weitete sich der Pass etwas; außerdem gab es hier eine Reihe ineinander übergehender kleiner Ebenen und Hügel. Damit war der Ort schon auf Grund der topographischen Gegebenheiten für die Errichtung einer Verteidigungsstellung prädestiniert. Das zeigte sich auch an den Resten einer Mauer, welche die Phoker im 6. Jh. zur Abwehr von Einfällen der Thessalier errichtet hatten. Die-

10 Hdt. 7, 175, erwähnt ausdrücklich, dass die Griechen den Thermopylen-Pass wegen seiner Enge, aber auch deshalb besetzten, weil er nahe dem Kap Artemision lag, wohin ihre Flotte fahren sollte. Diese beiden Orte waren einander so nahe, „dass die einen von den anderen leicht Nachricht haben konnten, wie es bei ihnen stünde.“ (Übers. Stein).

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se Mauer war jetzt provisorisch wiederhergestellt worden. Damit war ein gestaffeltes Verteidigungssystem entstanden, das den Vormarsch der Perser zuerst durch das enge Westtor und sodann durch eine unebene und zunächst noch sehr schmale Wegstrecke behindern sollte. Zudem machten die Gegebenheiten den Einsatz von Reitern unmöglich, womit die Perser nur Fußtruppen einsetzen konnten. Die Streitmacht der Griechen stand unter dem Befehl des spartanischen Königs Leonidas und zählte nur etwa 5 200 Mann. Die einzelnen Kontingente kamen hauptsächlich von der Peloponnes, wobei die Zahl der Spartaner nur 300 Schwerbewaffnete, begleitet von ihren Heloten, ausmachte. Ferner gehörten noch größere Kontingente aus den böotischen Städten Thespiai und Theben11 sowie Truppen der Phoker und der Lokrer zum Heer der Griechen. Diese Aufzählung macht klar, dass zwar der Peloponnesische Bund an den Thermopylen stark engagiert war, der restliche Hellenenbund hier aber nur einen geringen Teil seiner Kräfte einsetzte. Dabei muss freilich bedacht werden, dass zum Hellenenbund solche Seestädte wie Athen und Aigina gehörten, die mit starken Kräften am Seekrieg und damit auch an der Seeschlacht vor dem Kap Artemision beteiligt waren. Dem griechischen Kontingent an den Thermopylen stand ein Landheer gegenüber, dessen Stärke Herodot mit zwei Millionen Mann beziffert. Diese Zahl ist natürlich gewaltig übertrieben; man wird nicht irren, wenn man sie auf ein Zwanzigstel reduziert und somit eine Stärke von höchstens 100 000 Mann annimmt.12 Doch selbst dann verfügten die Perser bei den Thermopylen noch über ein weit größeres Heer als die Griechen. Wenn Xerxes trotz dieser Übermacht erst nach vier Tagen mit dem Angriff begann, so belegt das nachdrücklich, dass er erst den Beginn der Seeschlacht vor dem Kap Artemision abwarten musste. Erst als diese, am fünften Tag, begonnen hatte, gab der Großkönig den Befehl, die griechischen Stellungen zu erstürmen. Der Angriff verlief zäh und verlustreich. Nach der Erstürmung und Passage des Westtores hatten die persischen Soldaten zunächst einen Höhenrücken zu überwinden. Nach einer kurzen ebenen Strecke mussten sie sich dann, taktisch ungünstig, wiederum nach oben bewegen und so gegen das stark befestigte Mittlere Tor und die dort stehende Phokische Mauer vordringen, hinter der sich die Griechen nun verschanzt hatten. Diese konnten ihre Stellungen ohne weiteres verlassen, um gegen die angreifenden Perser vorzugehen, sich aber auch leicht wieder zurückziehen, wenn der Druck zu stark wurde. Auf diese Weise vermochten die Griechen den Persern zwei Tage lang standzuhalten. Dabei erlitten selbst Gardeeinheiten des Perserheeres wie die Meder und die „Unsterblichen“, die Leibgarde des Großkönigs, erhebliche Verluste. Das hing vor allem damit zusammen, dass die persischen Kontingente sich wegen der Enge des Raumes nicht entfalten

11 Bei diesen handelte es sich vermutlich um Exilanten aus dem eigentlich perserfreundlichen Theben. 12 Die oben angegebene Stärke des persischen Landheeres orientiert sich am Mittelwert moderner Schätzungen, die zwischen 60 000 bis 80 000 Mann samt Tross (Delbrück 1900, S. 82) und 200 000 Mann (Murray 1986, S. 353) liegen.

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konnten. Außerdem waren sie unvorteilhaft ausgerüstet, was besonders ihre viel zu kurzen Speere betraf. Aus diesen Gründen unterlag eine große Zahl der Perser den Griechen im Nahkampf. Sehr viele wurden auch in den vor der Küstenlinie liegenden Sumpf abgedrängt, wo sie jämmerlich umkamen. Zu den taktischen Vorzügen der Verteidigungsstellung am Mittleren Tor gehörte, dass die Griechen bei zunehmendem Druck der Perser langsam in Richtung Osttor zurückweichen und sich schließlich hinter dieses zurückziehen konnten. Danach hätten sie den engen Durchgang dieses Tores mit Felsbrocken, Baumstämmen und anderen Hindernissen für einige Zeit blockieren können. Die damit notwendige Erstürmung des Oststores hätte die Perser große Opfer, vor allem aber viel Zeit gekostet, was dem Gros der Griechen die Möglichkeit eines gefahrlosen Rückzugs geboten hätte. Ein solch oder ähnlich gearteter Rückzug hat gewiss zum Schlachtplan des Leonidas gehört. Denn schon wegen der großen numerischen Überlegenheit der Perser war völlig klar, dass diese die Blockade der Thermopylen früher oder später überwinden würden.13 Demnach konnte es hier nur darum gehen, die Perser für eine gewisse Zeit aufzuhalten. Und zwar solange, bis die vor Artemision tobende Seeschlacht, wie man hoffte, zugunsten der Griechen ausgegangen wäre. Am Morgen des dritten Tages, bei dem es sich wohl um den 20. August 480 handelte,14 gelang den Persern schließlich der Durchbruch durch die Thermopylen. Dieser recht rasche Erfolg war Xerxes dadurch möglich geworden, dass sich unter den in der Gegend ansässigen Griechen ein Verräter gefunden hatte. Dabei handelte es sich um den Malier Ephialtes, der bei Xerxes vorstellig geworden war und diesem von einem Pfad über das Kallidromos-Massiv berichtete, auf dem man die Thermopylen umgehen könne. Dieser Fußpfad war auch anderen ortskundigen Griechen bekannt, doch allein Ephialtes verriet ihn für eine reiche Belohnung, also aus reiner Habsucht, an Xerxes. Mehr noch, er führte einen Trupp der „Unsterblichen“ in der Nacht vom zweiten auf den dritten Tag der Schlacht in den Rücken der griechischen Verbündeten. Auf den Höhen stießen die Perser zwar auf ein größeres Kommando schwer bewaffneter Phoker, welche die Grenzen ihrer Heimat schützen und zugleich den Fußpfad decken sollten. Da sie die letztere Aufgabe aber nur halbherzig erfüllten und überdies bald flüchteten, konnten die „Unsterblichen“ ungehindert aus dem Gebirge absteigen. Die Griechen am Thermopylenpass waren allerdings bereits im Laufe der Nacht von Spähern über die drohende Einkesselung unterrichtet worden und hielten deshalb bei Tagesanbruch Kriegsrat.

13 Dies ist schon die immanente Logik des Berichtes bei Herodot: Die von ihm für das persische Heer sowie für das griechische Kontingent an den Thermopylen angegebenen Zahlen (2 000 000 zu 5 200) ergeben ein ungefähres Kräfteverhältnis von 400:1. Damit war der Durchbruch der Truppen des Xerxes durch den Pass von vornherein nur eine Frage der Zeit. 14 Siehe Green 1970, S. 124: Beginn der Schlacht am 18. August. Damit fiel der dritte Tag auf den 20. August 480.

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Im Resultat der Beratung entließ Leonidas alle Verbündeten außer den Thespiern und den Thebanern. Die nun beträchtlich verminderte Streitmacht der Griechen kämpfte dann vom Vormittag an zunächst gegen das von Xerxes persönlich geführte Hauptheer der Perser, das nun mit voller Kraft aus Richtung des Westtors gegen die am Mittleren Tor stehenden Griechen vordrang. Dabei verzichteten die Griechen zunächst auf die Deckung durch die Mauer. Sie kämpften vor dieser zumeist im Nahkampf und mit dem Schwert. Bei diesem für beide Seiten sehr verlustreichen Kampf fiel auch Leonidas, um dessen Leiche sich Perser und Griechen erbittert stritten. Als der Kampf bereits in vollem Gange war, drangen schließlich auch die „Unsterblichen“, deren Abstieg nun beendet war, aus Richtung des Osttores, also von hinten, auf die Griechen ein.15 Im Angesicht der aussichtlosen Lage ergaben sich die Thebaner. Demgegenüber verschanzte sich der Rest der 300 Spartaner und 700 Thespier auf dem sogenannten Leonidashügel hinter der Mauer, wo sie nach erbitterter Gegenwehr allesamt fielen. Währenddessen hatte sich die Seeschlacht vor dem Kap Artemision ohne Entscheidung hingezogen. Beide Seiten hatten einander weder besiegen noch zum Abdrehen zwingen können. Als aber im Verlauf des dritten Tages bekannt wurde, dass Xerxes den Thermopylenpass erobert hatte und Leonidas mit all seinen Kampfgefährten gefallen war, brach die griechische Flotte den Kampf ab und segelte nach Süden. Damit gaben die Griechen die Seeschlacht verloren, wobei der Sieg den Persern nur wenig nützte. Denn diese hatte bei den Seegefechten, aber auch durch zwei Stürme, die sich vor bzw. während der Schlacht ereigneten, viele Schiffe verloren. Die Verluste waren so hoch, dass die persische Flotte der griechischen zahlenmäßig nur noch geringfügig überlegen war. Zieht man ein Resümee der Doppelschlacht an den Thermopylen und vor Artemision, so ergibt sich zunächst, dass die Griechen erstere eindeutig verloren und die zweite nach unentschiedenem Verlauf abgebrochen haben. Es bleibt auch festzuhalten, dass die relativ rasche Niederlage der Griechen bei den Thermopylen weniger aus dem Verrat des Ephialtes, als vielmehr aus der erdrückenden Übermacht des persischen Heeres resultierte. Die vergleichsweise kleine Streitmacht der Griechen war einfach zu schwach, den Persern für längere Zeit zu widerstehen. Es war also von Anfang an klar, dass die Perser das griechische Kontingent letztlich überwinden würden. Damit stellte sich die zwar militärisch zweitrangige, doch politisch-moralisch hochbedeutsame Frage, wie lange die Griechen den Thermopylenpass halten könnten und mit welch großen Opfern die Perser ihren Durchbruch nach Mittelgriechenland erkaufen müssten. 15 Die Angaben zur chronologischen Abfolge der beiden Angriffswellen der Perser ergeben sich aus Hdt. 7, 215 – 219 und 223 – 225. Demnach begann Xerxes den Angriff „zu der Zeit, wenn der Markt voll wird“ (Hdt. 7,223,1), also gegen 10 Uhr, vgl. Welwei 2007, S. 146. Dagegen trafen die „Unsterblichen“, die von Ephialtes über den Umgehungspfad geführt worden waren, erst geraume Zeit nach dem Beginn des Kampfes ein (Hdt. 7,225,1).

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Im Resultat muss festgestellt werden, dass die Perser sowohl die Landschlacht bei den Thermopylen als auch die Seeschlacht vor der Nordspitze der Insel Euboia relativ schnell und wohl auch mit verhälnismäßig geringen Opfern gewonnen haben. Insofern hatte der hartnäckige Widerstand des griechischen Kontingents an den Thermopylen, vor allem aber der militärisch an sich sinnlose Opfertod der dreihundert Spartiaten – die ebenfalls gefallenen 700 Thespier werden von der Überlieferung in seltsamer Weise vernachlässigt –, auch keine militärische, dafür aber eine große moralische Wirkung: Die Einheit der Griechen blieb trotz der Niederlage erhalten, denn insbesondere Sparta hatte gezeigt, dass es fest zur griechischen Sache hielt und weiter halten würde. Im Übrigen wurde die Niederlage in beiden Schlachten schon bald dadurch überblendet, dass die Perser zwar nach Mittelgriechenland durchbrechen konnten, dort aber im Herbst 480 die Seeschlacht von Salamis und dann im Sommer 479 auch die Landschlacht bei Plataiai verloren, worauf sie Griechenland wieder räumten. Die Erinnerung an die tatsächlichen Ereignisse der kombinierten Land- und Seeschlacht bei den Thermopylen und vor dem Kap Artemision aber wurde schon bald durch ein gesamtgriechisches Narrativ verdrängt. Dieses konzentrierte sich ganz auf die Thermopylenschlacht, wobei der Zusammenhang zwischen dieser Landschlacht und der Seeschlacht vor dem Kap Artemision unterdrückt wurde.16 Zugleich wurde die militärische Niederlage bei den Thermopylen in einen moralischen Sieg der Griechen und insbesondere der Spartaner umgewertet. Demnach hatten zunächst 5 200, zuletzt aber nur noch 1 000 griechische Hopliten, unter denen die 300 Spartaner samt ihrem König Leonidas an Tapferkeit und Todesmut ganz besonders herausragten, zweieinhalb Tage lang einer Übermacht von 2 Millionen Persern getrotzt. Dabei betont das Narrativ, dass die persischen Soldaten, und zwar selbst die Angehörigen der Eliteeinheiten, größtenteils feige waren und nur unter Schlägen zum Kampf bewegt werden konnten. In Folge ihrer Feigheit, aber auch ihrer militärischen Unfähigkeit seien sie dann massenhaft zu Tode gekommen. Herodot schrieb seine „Historien“, darunter auch den Bericht über die Thermopylenschlacht, zwischen 350 und 330. Damals existierten im Bewusstsein der Griechen noch verschiedene Versionen des Schlachtverlaufes, die Herodot auch keineswegs verschwieg. Letztlich war er es aber, der das später gültige Narrativ der Thermopylenschlacht entscheidend formte. In dieser Meistererzählung geht es vor allem um den bedingungslosen Kampf der 300 Spartaner gegen einen unebenbürtigen, doch übermächtigen Feind. Zugleich wird insinuiert, dass es nur deshalb zu einer totalen Niederlage kam, weil die Perser einen nur Einheimischen bekannten Umgehungspfad nutzen konnten, über den sie der Verräter Ephialtes geführt hatte.

16 Das zeigt sich sowohl bei Herodot als auch bei Diodor, wo beide Schlachten, abweichend vom tatsächlichen Verlauf, nicht verzahnt, sondern nacheinander geschildert werden (Hdt. 7,201 – 238/Diod. 11,7 – 10: Thermopylenschlacht/Hdt.. 8,1 – 21; Diod. 11,12 – 13: Seeschlacht vor Artemision).

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Soweit das maßgeblich von Herodot geprägte Narrativ der Thermopylenschlacht von 480, welches schon bald Teil des kulturellen Gedächtnisses der Griechen und Makedonen wurde und deshalb jederzeit aktiviert werden konnte. Das galt auch und gerade für die Zeit des Alexanderzuges, der offiziell ja lange Zeit ein Rachefeldzug aller Griechen gegen die Perser war, und zwar wegen der Schandtaten, welche diese während der beiden Perserkriege des frühen 5. Jahrhunderts begangen hatten.

2 Im Rahmen unserer Beobachtungen und Überlegungen ist nun ein Szenenwechsel zum Alexanderzug, genauer gesagt zum Narrativ der Schlacht am Persischen Tor, nötig, die man wegen der engen Bezüge zum Narrativ der Schlacht von 480 auch als die Thermopylenschlacht 2.0 bezeichnen könnte. Dabei muss freilich eingeräumt werden, dass wir über die Einzelheiten dieser Schlacht weit schlechter unterrichtet sind als im Fall der Thermopylenschlacht. Allem Anschein nach hatten die Autoren der überlieferten Berichte, hier sind vor allem Diodor, Curtius Rufus und Arrian von Belang, nur verschwommene und sich teilweise widersprechende Vorstellungen über die Vorgeschichte und den Verlauf der Schlacht am Persischen Tor sowie über die Topographie des Schlachtfeldes. Das hing offensichtlich damit zusammen, dass bereits die Verfasser ihrer verlorenen Vorlagen, die sogenannten primären AlexanderAutoren, von denen hier Kleitarch, Kallisthenes, Aristobul und Ptolemaios von besonderer Bedeutung sind,17 nur unzureichend über die Einzelheiten der Schlacht am Persischen Tor informiert waren. Sie selbst werden das nicht als Mangel betrachtet haben. Denn sie waren von vornherein weniger an der korrekten Wiedergabe realer Geschehnisse, sondern vielmehr an der Idealisierung Alexander des Großen und seines Eroberungszuges interessiert. Demnach kann nachfolgend nur eine Darstellung der Schlacht am Persischen Tor gegeben werden, die ein Kompositum der sich oft widersprechenden Angaben von Diodor, Curtius Rufus und Arrian darstellt. Dabei wird in Zweifelsfällen jener Version gefolgt, die rational gesehen plausibler erscheint. Auf dieser Basis sind die folgenden sicheren bzw. höchstwahrscheinlichen Aussagen zur Vorgeschichte und zum Verlauf der Schlacht am Persischen Tor möglich: Die Schlacht gehörte zur unmittelbaren Nachgeschichte der Schlacht von Gaugamela vom 1. Oktober 331, in der Alexander den Perserkönig Dareios III. zum zweiten Mal und damit endgültig besiegt hatte. Im Anschluss daran nahm der Argeade nacheinander die reichen Satrapien Babylonien und Elam ein, wonach er sich dann jeweils samt dem Heer für

17 Zum Verhältnis zwischen den erhaltenen Berichten über die Schlacht am Persischen Tor und ihren – weitgehend verlorenen – Vorlagen siehe Heckel 1980, SS. 168 – 169, 171 – 174.

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einige Zeit in Babylon und Susa aufhielt.18 Gegen Mitte Dezember 331 begann dann von Susa aus der Marsch nach Persepolis, der wichtigsten Residenz- und eigentlichen Hauptstadt des Perserreiches, als dessen Herrscher Alexander sich nach dem Sieg von Gaugamela betrachtete.19 Die Entfernung zwischen beiden Städten betrug bei Benutzung der achämenidischen Königsstraße etwa 670 Kilometer, wobei unter Berücksichtigung der unterwegs notwendigen Auf- und Abstiege ein Höhenunterschied von reichlich 2 200 Metern zu überwinden war.20 Unter diesen Umständen kann die tägliche Wegstrecke, die das Heer samt dem Tross zurücklegte, kaum über 20 Kilometern gelegen haben. Von Susa aus zog das Heer zunächst in südöstlicher Richtung quer durch die susianische Ebene bis an die Schwelle des iranischen Hochlands. Bei der heutigen Stadt Schuschtar überquerte man den Pasitigris und begann sodann mit dem Aufstieg ins Hochland, konkret ins Zagrosgebirge. Der Marsch wurde schon bald durch einen Konflikt um den als Uxierpass bekannten ersten Gebirgspass gestoppt, der das Tor zur Persis bildete.21 Die im Umland des Passes lebenden Berguxier hatten nämlich verlangt, dass Alexander ihnen, wie das früher auch die Achämenidenkönige getan hätten, eine Zahlung für den freien Durchzug durch den Pass leisten sollte.22 Alexander ging nur scheinbar auf diese Forderung ein und forderte die Berguxier auf, sich am nächsten Tag am Pass einzufinden, um die geforderte Zahlung in Empfang zu nehmen. In der folgenden Nacht unternahm er mit einem Teil seiner Truppen auf Seitenpfaden einen Marsch in das Gebiet der Berguxier, wo er zunächst deren Siedlungen verheerte. Sodann stieß er eilig gegen den Uxierpass vor. Bereits zuvor hatte er Krateros und dessen Einheiten auf den Hängen der Straße, die im Rücken des Passes lag, Stellung beziehen lassen. Alexander erreichte den Pass eher als die ahnungslose Masse der Berguxier, die sich in Erwartung der Zahlung ebenfalls dorthin bewegten. Als sie ankamen, hatte Alexander den Pass bereits sperren lassen und ging mit seinen Truppen gegen die Berguxier vor. Diese versuchten zu fliehen, kamen aber größtenteils zu Tode, indem sie entweder in Abgründe stürzten oder aber von den Männern Alexanders bzw. des Krateros niedergemacht wurden.

18 Nach Nawotka 2010, SS. 237, 243 – 244, 246, kamen Alexander und das Heer bereits kurz vor dem 20. Oktober 330 in Babylon an. Knapp fünf Wochen später, also am 24. oder 25. November, zogen sie weiter nach Susa, wo sie Mitte Dezember anlangten, aber nur wenige Tage blieben. 19 Plut., Alex. 34,1: „Der Ausgang der Schlacht (scil. bei Gaugamela) bedeutete offenbar den völligen Zusammenbruch der Perserreiches. Alexander ließ sich also zum König Asiens (basileus tes Asias) aufsrufen …“ (Übers. Ax). 20 Die Höhenangaben sind für Susa knapp 80 m über NN und für Persepolis ca. 1 600 m ü. NN, wobei auf der Strecke zwischenzeitlich Höhen von bis zu 2 300 m ü. NN. zu überwinden sind. Angaben nach Google Maps/ Aufgerufen: 11. 12. 2018. 21 Die Lage dieses Passes ist nicht klar, er dürfte am ehesten in der Gebirgslandschaft zwischen Schuschtar und Masdsched Soleyman gelegen haben, vgl. Nawotka 2010, S. 246 (unter Verweis auf Speck 2002). 22 Zur Schlacht am Uxier-Pass siehe ausführlicher Wiesehöfer 2018, SS. 289 – 291.

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Es folgte ein Strafgericht Alexanders über die Berguxier. Im Ergebnis erlaubte er diesen zwar, weiterhin in der Gegend zu wohnen. Gleichzeitig erlegte er ihnen aber schwere Tribute in Form größerer Kontingente an Pferden, Schlachtvieh und Schafen auf, die sie von nun an jährlich abliefern mussten. Die Schlacht am Uxierpass kann wegen ihrer charakteristischen Einzelheiten – gemeint sind vor allem die Sperrung des Passes, die Besetzung der hinter dem Pass liegenden Hänge durch die Einheiten des Krateros sowie die Umgehung des Passes durch Alexander – narratologisch als ein Präludium zur später geschlagenen Schlacht am Persischen Tor betrachtet werden. Dass wir es hier höchstwahrscheinlich mit einem Narrativ zu tun haben, zeigt sich an den unpräzisen Vorstellungen unserer Autoren über die Topographie des Uxierpasses ebenso wie an der ziemlich unglaubwürdigen Behauptung Arrians, die achämenidischen Großkönige hätten für den ja häufigen Durchzug durch den Pass regelmäßig einen Wegzoll gezahlt.23 Kehrt man auf die Ebene des Faktischen zurück, muss sich das Heer Alexanders nach der mehrtägigen Verzögerung am Uxier-Pass noch vor Ende Dezember 33124 wieder in Bewegung gesetzt haben. Der Marsch verlief zunächst in südöstlicher Richtung bis zur heutigen Stadt Haftkel, wo man in den ersten Tagen des Januar 331 angelangt sein dürfte.25 Dort wurde der Zug geteilt. Auf Befehl Alexanders zogen die schwerbewaffneten Fußtruppen, die thessalischen Reiter sowie der Tross unter dem Befehl des Parmenion auf der vergleichsweise bequemen Südostroute der Königsstraße weiter, die in der Forschung auch als „Winterroute“ bezeichnet wird. Diese führte über die jetzigen Städte Ramhormoz, Behbahan und Gachsaran bis in die Gegend der heutigen Ortschaft Baba Meydan im Fahliyantal und von dort vermutlich weiterhin in südöstlicher Richtung über eine Gebirgsstrecke in die Marvdascht-Hochebene, in der Persepolis liegt.26 Die „Winterroute“ war, ab Haftkel gerechnet, ca. 570 km lang, woraus sich eine Marschdauer von reichlich einem Monat errechnen lässt.27

23 Arr. 3,17, 1. Nach Wiesehöfer 2018, SS. 293 – 296, handelte es sich in der Perserzeit nicht um die Zahlung eines Wegzolls, sondern um einen rituellen Gabentausch, der jährlich zwischen den persischen Großkönigen bzw. ihren Beauftragten und den einzelnen Bergvölkern, hier den Berguxiern, vollzogen wurde. Dabei ging es jeweils darum, die Zugehörigkeit der relativ autonom lebenden, doch für das Heer wichtigen Bergvölker zum Perserreich erneut zu bekräftigen. Alexander wich sofort von dieser Praxis ab und verlangte von den Berguxiern wie auch von allen anderen Bergvölkern die volle Unterwerfung unter seine Herrschaft. 24 Vgl. Nawotka 2010, S. 247. 25 Die Entfernung zwischen dem östlich von Schuschtar gelegenen Uxierpass und Haftkel betrug ca. 90 km, woraus sich ein Marschdauer von ca. 5 Tagen errechnen lässt. 26 Für die Bezeichnung „Winterroute“ sowie den Streckenverlauf, vgl. Nawotka 2010, S. 247 (unter Verweis auf Speck 2002, leicht von unserem Vorschlag abweichend). Demnach verlief diese Route über Bulfaris, Tashan, Bahhaban, das Fahliyantal, Tang-i Laleh, Tang-i Khollar und sodann durch die Marvdasht-Hochebene nach Persepolis. 27 Die von Parmenion angeführte Hauptarmee marschierte samt Tross, womit sie maximal 20 km pro Tag zurücklegen konnte. Das bedeutet, dass sie inklusive 6 Ruhetagen (jeder 4. Tag) 35 Tage für die 570 km lange Strecke benötigte (28 Tage à 20 km + 1 Tag à 10 km = 570 km + 6 Ruhetage: Tag 4, 8, 12, 16, 20 und 24).

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Alexander selbst hatte das Kommando über den beweglicheren Teil des Heeres übernommen, zu dem das restliche Fußvolk sowie der überwiegende Teil der Reiterei gehörten. Mit diesem Kontingent schwenkte er auf eine nördliche Nebenstrecke der Königsstraße ein, die in der Forschung auch als „Sommerroute“ bezeichnet wird. Diese verlief wahrscheinlich zunächst in nordöstlicher Richtung bis zum heutigen Baghmalek und von dort in südöstlicher Richtung und verschiedenen Flusstälern folgend bis auf die Höhe der heutigen Stadt Yasudsch. Hier bog die Route nach Osten ab und folgte dieser Richtung bis zum heute Asopas genannten Fluss, von wo sie dann in südöstlicher Richtung direkt in die Marvdascht-Hochebene und damit auch nach Persepolis führte.28 Diese Route war mit ca. 535 km etwas kürzer, doch zumal im Winter bedeutend anspruchsvoller als die Hauptstrecke der Königsstraße.29 Allerdings bewegten sich die Alexander unterstehenden Einheiten ohne Tross, was Eilmärsche von maximal 50 und durchschnittlich 35 km pro Tag möglich machte. Somit hätte man, sofern man nicht auf Hindernisse traf, die Strecke einschließlich Ruhetagen in ca. 19 Tagen30 bewältigen und damit unerwartet früh in Persepolis eintreffen können. Alexanders Kalkül basierte somit auf dem Überraschungseffekt und zugleich auf der Erwartung, dass Ariobarzanes, der weiterhin zu Dareios III. haltende Satrap der Persis, die Hauptroute der Königsstraße und nicht etwa die Nebenstrecke sperren würde. Doch genau das Letztere geschah, indem Ariobarzanes und seine Truppen das auf dieser Strecke, und zwar 220 km vor Persepolis, gelegene Persische Tor besetzten, welches je nach Sehrichtung auch Susianisches Tor genannt wurde. Bei diesem „Tor“ handelte es sich um eine heute noch existierende Engstelle, die sich ca. 12 km östlich vom heutigen Yasudsch am Ende eines engen Tales befindet.31

28 Für die Bezeichnung „Sommerroute“ sowie den Streckenverlauf, vgl. Nawotka 2010, SS. 247 – 248. (unter Verweis auf Speck 2002, leicht von unserem Vorschlag abweichend): „Alexanders corps marched east passing nearby today’s Band Shavar, thence via Dismuk valley to Abadeh, which is not far from the Susian Gate (today Tang-i Tamoradi). Through this pass the Macedoninas marched southeast to the Beshar river valley and thence through the Persian Gate (not far from today’s Yasuj), which gave them access to the northern part of the Marvdascht Plain and Persepolis.“ 29 Siehe Nawotka 2010 S. 247: die Sommerroute verlief über bedeutend höhere Pässe als die Winteroute und war deshalb während des Winters eigentlich unbenutzbar. 30 Ansatz nach https://de.wikipwedia.org/wiki/Tagesmarsch/ Abgerufen: 11. 12. 2018. Demnach können die Kavallerie und die Infanterie ohne Tross unter günstigen klimatischen und Wetterbedingen sowie bei ungekürzter Nachtruhe ein Zweitagespensum von maximal 100 bzw. 70 km erbringen, am dritten Tag fällt die Leistung in beiden Fällen auf 35 km pro Tag ab. Zum Erhalt der Kampffähigkeit muss jeweils nach 3 Tagen ein Ruhetag eingelegt werden. Da der von Alexander angeführte Heeresteil auch Fußtruppen umfasste, war die Geschwindigkeit von diesen abhängig. Das bedeutet, dass für die ca. 535 km lange Strecke von Haftkel nach Persepolis ohne äußere Störung mindestens 19 Tage (incl. 4 Ruhetagen) benötigt worden wären (Tag 1 – 3/5 – 7/9 – 11 und 12 – 15 je 105 km pro DreitagesEtappe = 420 km + Tag 16 – 19 mit 115 km = 535 km). 31 Für den Ort siehe die Ergebnisse von Speck 2002, welcher das ca. 5 km hinter Yasudsch beginnende Tang-e Meyran, also das Meyrantal, als die Gegend identifiziert hat, in der sich das Tor befand, und zwar am Ende dieses ca. 7 km langen Tals. Diese moderne Lokalisation des Persisches Tors lässt sich

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Noch bevor Alexander, vermutlich am neunten Tag des Marsches32 und damit wohl am 15. Januar 330, seinen Heeresteil bei dem heutigen Yasudsch nach Osten einschwenken und in Richtung des Persischen Tores marschieren ließ, dürften ihm Späher gemeldet haben, dass die Pass-Straße durch eine Mauer versperrt war, die auf Befehl des Ariobarzanes errichtet worden war. Hinter dieser Mauer befanden sich die Stellungen und Lager der Truppen des Ariobarzanes. Und auf den Kämmen der steil abfallenden Hänge, durch welche die vor der Mauer liegende Strecke im Norden und im Süden begrenzt wurde, waren persische Soldaten postiert, welche die vorrückenden Einheiten Alexanders mit Speeren und Felsbrocken eindecken sollten. Trotz dieser taktisch ungünstigen Lage befahl Alexander den Angriff. Über die nun folgende Schlacht liegen uns Berichte von Diodor33 im Umfang von 2 Teubnerseiten, Curtius Rufus34 (5 ½ Teubnerseiten) und Arrian35 (4 Teubnerseiten) vor. Hinzu kommen noch einige kurze, für unsere Zwecke aber nur wenig aussagekräftige Passagen in der Alexandervita von Plutarch36 sowie bei Polyainos.37 Damit bleiben praktisch nur die Berichte von Diodor, Curtius und Arrian übrig, die sich teilweise, doch nicht allzu sehr widersprechen, wenn man einige weitschweifige und auch sehr emotionale Passagen von Curtius vernachlässigt: Abgesehen davon, dass Curtius Details der Schlacht berichtet, die wohl allein seiner Phantasie entsprungen sind,38 schiebt er beispielsweise auch eine längere Beschreibung der Landschaft und der natürlichen Bedingungen der Persis ein, die er offenbar einem Handbuch entnommen hat. Und diese eher langweilige Schilderung wird gerade in dem Moment in die Handlung eingeschoben, in dem Alexander nach dem ersten erfolglosen Angriff mit einem Gefangenen über die Möglichkeit der Umgehung des Feindes auf einem Fußpfad spricht. Nach allem, was man über die aufbrausende Natur der literarischen, aber auch der wirklichen Persona Alexanders weiß, würde dieser sich eine solche Suada, vor allem im gegebenen Moment, niemals angehört, sondern dem Sprecher das Wort abgeschnitten haben. Nimmt man diese und ähnlich geartete Passagen, die dem Stil nach auf Kleitarch zurückgehen dürften, aus dem Bericht des Curtius heraus, bleiben bei ihm statt 5 ½

32

33 34 35 36 37 38

mit den Berichten von Diodor und Curtius (am Ende eines langen engen Tals), nicht aber mit dem von Arrian vereinbaren. Nach diesem lag das Tor kurz hinter dem Eingang in das Tal. Da die Entfernung zwischen Haftkel und dem Persischen Tor ca. 320 km betrug, benötigten die Alexander unterstehenden Kontingente bei Einlegung von drei Ruhetagen ca. 11 Tage (Tag 1 – 3 und 5 – 7 mit je 105 km pro Dreitages-Etappe + Tag 9 – 11 mit 110 km = 320 km) für diese Strecke. Vgl. die oben angestellte Berechnung. Diod. 17,68. Curt. 5,3,17 – 4,33. Arr. 3,18,2 – 9. Plut. Alex. 37.1 – 2. Polyainos, Strat. 4,3,27. Zu Curtius siehe allerdings die ausgewogenene Wertung von Philip Huyse. Curtius Rufus. http:// www.iranicaonline.org/articles/curtius-rufus-quintus-probably-fl/ Aufgerufen: 11. 12. 2018.

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nur 2 Teubner-Seiten sachdienlichen Textes übrig. Das entspricht genau dem Umfang der staubtrockenen Schilderung von Diodor. Doppelt soviel, nämlich vier TeubnerSeiten umfasst der Bericht von Arrian. Als früherer General bemüht sich Arrian, die Abläufe aus militärischer Sicht zu schildern, was ihm aber nicht recht gelingt. Er selbst, aber auch die Verfasser seiner Vorlagen39 sind, anders als Herodot im Fall der Thermopylen, niemals am Persischen Tor gewesen und konnten anscheinend auch nicht auf detailliertere Schilderungen der Schlacht zurückgreifen. Dasselbe gilt für Diodor und Curtius bzw. für die Autoren, auf denen ihre Berichte basieren. Arrian, aber auch Diodor und Curtius sind somit sehr unsichere Quellen, was den realen Ablauf dieser Schlacht sowie die Topographie des Schlachtfeldes angeht. Anders sieht es auf der literarischen Ebene aus. Auf dieser haben alle drei Autoren Berichte geschaffen, die mit ihren antipersischen Tönen, vor allem aber durch die Rückbindung an das Thermopylen-Narrativ entscheidend zur Entstehung eines neuen Narrativs, nämlich dem der Schlacht am Persischen Tor, beigetragen haben. Aus dieser Meistererzählung kann folgender Ablauf der Schlacht rekonstruiert werden: Hinter dem durch eine querstehende Mauer blockierten Tor steht Ariobarzanes mit 55 000 (Curtius) bzw. 40 000 (Arrian) oder 25 000 (Diodor/Curtius) Mann Fußvolk und 700 (Arrian) bzw. 300 Reitern. Auf den Kämmen der steilen Berge vor dem Tor hat er zahlreiche Soldaten platziert, welche den Vormarsch Alexanders von oben behindern sollen. Die taktische Lage ist demnach für Ariobarzanes positiv, für Alexander aber ungünstig. Trotzdem lässt dieser sein Fußvolk gegen die Mauer anrennen, muss den Sturmangriff aber schon bald wegen außergewöhnlich hoher Verluste abbrechen. Nach Diodor und Curtius wurden seine Leute nämlich von hinter der Mauer mit Katapulten und von den Höhen der Schlucht mit Pfeilen beschossen. Zusätzlich wurden sie von oben mit Steinen und zum Teil auch mit gewaltigen Felsbrocken eingedeckt. Im Resultat wurden viele von Alexanders Männern getötet oder aber schwer verwundet. Alexander zieht seine Truppen schließlich reichlich 5 km40 und damit wohl ins Lager am Eingang der Schlucht zurück. Sodann erkundigt er sich bei Einheimischen nach einer Möglichkeit, das Persische Tor zu umgehen. Diese antworten, das sei nur auf einer einzigen Route möglich, die zwar leicht begehbar sei, doch über Medien führe und viele Tage beanspruche. Auf diese Variante will Alexander sich nicht einlassen und befragt nun die Gefangenen.

39 Arrian fußt vor allem auf Aristobul sowie auf dem sogar namentlich erwähnten Ptolemaios Lagos. Da letzterer ja angeblich selbst an der Schlacht teilgenommen hatte, müsste er eigentlich recht konkrete Angaben zur Topographie des Schlachtfeldes gemacht haben. Diese aber sind – sofern überhaupt vorhanden – von Arrian nicht übernommen worden. 40 Curt. 5,3,23 und Polyainos, Strat. 4,3,27: Rückzug um 30 Stadien (à 177,6 m = 5,328 km). Dagegen ist bei Diod. 17,68,4 die Rede von 300 Stadien, was ein Überlieferungsfehler sein dürfte.

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Darunter befindet sich – als deus ex machina – ein zweisprachiger Lykier, dessen Name allerdings nicht genannt wird. Er war als Gefangener der Perser in die hiesige Gegend geraten und sodann für lange Zeit in dieser als Schäfer herumgezogen. Darum kennt er auch einen geheimen Bergpfad, auf dem sich das Persischen Tor umgehen ließe, und verspricht Alexander, ihn samt seinen Truppen auf diesem Pfad in den Rücken des Feindes zu führen. Wegen der lykischen Herkunft des Mannes erinnert sich Alexander angeblich sofort an einen alten Orakelspruch der Pythia, der besagte, ein Wolf (Lykos) werde ihn einst in die Persis führen.41 Er verspricht dem Hirten deshalb eine größere Belohnung für die versprochene Leistung. Alexander unterstellt sodann ein Drittel der Truppen, das im Lager bleiben soll, dem Befehl des Krateros. Die restlichen Kontingente begeben sich bei Einbruch der Dunkelheit auf den Marsch hinter die Reihen des Ariobarzanes. Dieser vom Gegner unbemerkte Marsch dauert eine (Diodor, Arrian) bzw. zwei Nächte (Curtius). Laut Curtius ist der dabei benutzte Pfad steil und steinig, zudem teilweise auch mit tiefem Schnee bedeckt und insgesamt nur schwer passierbar. Dagegen ist die Strecke nach Darstellung Arrians durchaus bequem zu passieren. Denn auf dem ersten, aufsteigenden Teil des Weges sind sogar noch Reiter samt ihren Pferden am Marsch beteiligt. Auf dem Gebirgskamm angelangt meint der siegesgewisse Alexander dann allerdings, die meisten Reiter sowie eine größere Zahl von Fußsoldaten entbehren zu können und lässt sie nicht mit absteigen. Vielmehr schickt er diese Einheiten auf einer gemächlich absteigenden Strecke ins östliche Hinterland des Persischen Tores. Dort sollen sie später teils die nach der Schlacht nach Osten fliehenden Perser aufhalten, teils die weitere Strecke nach Persepolis, u. a. durch einen Brückenbau über den nächstgelegenen Fluss, klarmachen. Da Alexander zuvor bereits etwa ein Drittel seiner Truppen unter dem Kommando von Krateros vor der Mauer zurückgelassen hat und nun zusätzlich ein wohl gleichgroßes Kontingent wegschickt, verfügt er selbst zuletzt nur noch über ca. 4 700 Soldaten und damit nur über 1/5 bzw. 1/8 der Truppen des Ariobarzanes, die er ja angreifen will. Nach Diodor und Curtius erreicht Alexander den Gebirgskamm gegen Mitternacht. Damit wird narratologisch ein klarer Bezug zur Thermopylenschlacht hergestellt, wo die Perser ebenfalls um Mitternacht auf dem höchsten Punkt der Strecke angelangt waren. Nach dem Erreichen des Kamms befiehlt Alexander den sofortigen Abstieg. Dieser endet nach allen drei Autoren kurz vor dem Morgengrauen, gemäß Jahreszeit und

41 Curt. 5,4,4: ein zweisprachiger Gefangener, der griechisch und persisch sprach; 5,4,10: der Gefangene stammt eigentlich aus Lykien, war in dieser Gegend aber lange als Schäfer tätig. Ähnlich Diod. 17, 68,25 – 26. Bei Polyainos, Strat. 4,3,27, und Plut. Alex. 37,1, liegt der Schwerpunkt der Erzählung darauf, dass der Gefangene ein Lykier bzw. wenigstens dem Vater nach ein Lykier war, und dass Alexander von der Pythia geweissagt worden war, ein „lykos“ (Wolf) würde ihn einst auf seinem Zug gegen die Perser geleiten. Bei Arr. 3,18,4, ist nur allgemein von „Gefangenen“ die Rede.

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Ort also gegen 6:30 Uhr.42 Direkt aus der Bewegung heraus beginnt dann der Sturm auf drei hintereinander liegende Wachen der Perser. Dabei werden die pflichtvergessenen, weil schlafenden „Barbaren“ (Curtius, Arrian), die dort postiert sind, jeweils in kürzester Zeit überrannt und niedergemacht. Im Resultat befindet sich Alexander mit seinen Truppen genau bei Sonnenaufgang, also um ca. 7 Uhr im Lager der Perser.43 Zur selben Zeit befiehlt Krateros seinen Soldaten, die Mauer von vorn anzugreifen. Die im Lager biwakierenden und größtenteils noch schlafenden persischen Soldaten sowie ihre an der Mauer stehenden Kameraden werden demnach völlig überraschend in die Zange genommen, und zwar von hinten durch das Kontingent Alexanders und von vorn durch die Truppen des Krateros (Curtius, Arrian) sowie des Ptolemaios (Arrian). Die Perser werden nun nach Diodor und Arrian teils sofort niedergehauen, teils versuchen sie, in die Berge zu fliehen. Dabei werden sie entweder von Pfeilen getroffen oder stürzen von den steilen Hängen zu Tode. Bei Curtius wird der Handlungsablauf dadurch variiert und dramatisiert, dass sich die eigentlich feigen Perser im Angesicht der drohenden Niederlage doch durchaus hartnäckig verteidigen. „Ganz nach Barbarenart“ kämpfen sie nun teilweise ohne Waffen, wobei sie ihre Gegner mit nackten Händen umfassen und in den Tod reißen. Andere stürzen sich nach der Niederlage in ihre eigenen Waffen.44 Während, wie eben geschildert, angeblich sehr viele persische Soldaten fielen, floh ihr Befehlshaber Ariobarzanes angesichts der Niederlage feige in Richtung Persepolis. Laut Arrian wurde er dabei nur von einigen wenigen Leuten,45 nach Curtius hingegen von 40 Reitern und 5 000 Mann Fußvolk begleitet. An den Mauern von Persepolis angekommen wurde er allerdings von der dortigen Besatzung nicht in die Stadt hineingelassen. Daraufhin stellte er sich ein letztes Mal den Truppen Alexanders entgegen, wurde aber geschlagen und fiel im Kampf.46

3 Die oben gegebene Schilderung der Schlacht am Persischen Tor basiert im Wesentlichen auf den relevanten antiken Quellen, deren Berichte deutliche Bezüge auf die Thermopylenschlacht des Jahres 480 oder, besser gesagt, auf das im Altertum verbreitete Narrativ dieser Schlacht beinhalten. Man kann die Schlacht am Persischen Tor 42 Der Sonnenaufgang ereignet sich in dieser Zeit (um den 10. Januar) und Gegend (Yasudsch) jeweils kurz nach 7 Uhr, womit das Morgengrauen gegen 6:35 Uhr eintritt. Siehe https://www.gaisma.com/ en/location/yasuj.html/ Abgerufen: 11. 12. 2018. 43 Siehe die vorhergehende Anmerkung. 44 Curt. 5,4,31 – 32. 45 Arr. 3,18,9. 46 Curt. 5,4,33 – 34.

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deshalb, worauf oben bereits hingewiesen worden ist, durchaus auch als „Thermopylenschlacht 2.0“ bezeichnen. Gleich sind die Sperrung des Durchgangs durch eine Mauer, wobei man teils nur einmal, teils mehrfach erfolglos gegen diese Mauer anrennt. Übereinstimmend greift man auf die Hilfe eines Hirten zurück, der im Fall der Thermopylenschlacht 2.0 natürlich nicht explizit als Verräter bezeichnet wird, aber doch für eine hohe Belohnung agiert. Schließlich steigt man jeweils in der Nacht, geleitet durch den Hirten, über einen geheimen Fußpfad in das Gebirge auf und erreicht die Kammlage gegen Mitternacht. Es folgen der Abstieg, und bei Tagesanbruch bzw. am frühen Vormittag beginnt dann der exterminatorische Angriff auf den jeweiligen Gegner. Zu den Unterschieden zwischen der originalen Thermopylenschlacht und der Variante 2.0 gehört, dass letztere in einer anderen Jahreszeit, also nicht im Sommer, sondern im Winter und somit bei Eis und Schnee stattfindet, und dass sogar Kavallerieeinheiten an dieser Schlacht beteiligt sind. Im Übrigen sind die Rollen vertauscht: Dieses Mal sitzen nicht die tapferen Griechen (und Makedonen), sondern die feigen und unfähigen Perser in der Falle. Diese hatten zunächst auf unritterliche Art und Weise, also vor allem mit Steinschleudern sowie mit Steinwürfen und dem Herabrollen von Felsen gegen die Leute Alexanders gekämpft. Bei der direkten Konfrontation aber dachten sie in der Mehrheit nicht daran, zu den Waffen zu greifen, sondern flohen lieber und kamen dabei größtenteils ohne Kampf ums Leben. Jene Perser aber, die sich doch dem Kampf stellten, taten dies allein mit dem Mut der Verzweiflung und nach Art der Barbaren. Anders als den 300 tapferen Spartanern, die bei der Thermopylenschlacht den später auch öffentlich gerühmten Heldentod gefunden hatten, konnte das Narrativ der Thermopylenschlacht 2.0 den gefallenen Persern demnach keinen Heldentod zubilligen. Denn sie waren ja angeblich unfähig und feige gewesen und hatten, wenn überhaupt, auf Barbarenart, also unzivilisiert gekämpft. Es hatte sich also schlichtweg nicht um vollwertige Gegner gehandelt. Zu diesem Bild passt auch, dass sich ihr Führer Ariobarzanes feige vom Ort des Geschehens absetzte und erst in einer späteren Schlacht fiel. Die jeweils aufeinander bezogenen Übereinstimmungen bzw. Unterschiede der Narrative der eigentlichen Thermopylenschlacht sowie der Thermopylenschlacht 2.0 waren, wie sich zeigt, in keiner Weise zufällig, sondern Teil einer offiziellen Lesart. Bei dieser fällt allerdings auf, dass die Schilderungen über den Ablauf und die Topographie der Schlacht am Persischen Tor, anders als die Berichte über die Thermopylenschlacht sehr mechanisch und unklar wirken. Man kann deshalb aus dem Narrativ jener Schlacht, anders als bei dem der Thermopylenschlacht, keine klare Vorstellung über den Ort und den Ablauf der Kampfhandlungen gewinnen. Ein rechtes, aber gelenktes Verständnis der Thermopylenschlacht 2.0 ergibt sich erst vor der Folie des Narrativs der originalen Thermopylenschlacht. Dieser Lesart ist immanent, dass Alexander und seine tapferen Soldaten sich trotz des großen Sieges von Gaugamela den Weg nach Persepolis erkämpfen mussten. Und

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zwar zunächst durch die Schlacht am Uxierpass, die als das Präludium zur Schlacht am Persischen Tor aufzufassen ist. Letztere aber wird als ein positiv endendes RealReenactment der Schlacht an den Thermopylen dargestellt. Mit dem diesmal rasch errungenen Sieg über die freilich unebenbürtigen Perser, deren Gefallenen natürlich kein Heldenstatus zuerkannt werden konnte, wurde das letzte Hindernis auf dem Weg nach Persepolis aus dem Weg geräumt. Danach konnten Alexander und seine Soldaten sich endlich für die Untaten rächen, welche die Perser während der Perserkriege an den Griechen begangenen hatten – und zwar durch die Besetzung und Niederbrennung von Persepolis, einer Tat also, die sowohl in der Realität als auch für das nun Zug um Zug entstehenden Narrativ des Alexanderzuges von großer Bedeutung war.

Bibliographie Albertz, Anuschka. 2006. Exemplarisches Heldentum. Die Rezeptionsgeschichte der Schlacht an den Thermopylen von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart. München: Oldenbourg. Delbrück, Hans. 1900. Geschichte der Kriegskunst im Rahmen der politischen Geschichte. Berlin: Stilke. Engels, Donald W. 1978. Alexander the Great and the Logistics of the Macedonian Army. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Erll, Astrid. 22011. Kollektives Gedächtnis und Erinnerungskulturen. Eine Einführung. Stuttgart: Metzler. Green, Peter. 1971. Alexander the Great. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson. Gutsfeld, Andreas und Mileta, Christian. 2010. Die Schlacht an den Thermopylen – Hintergründe, Verlauf und Bedeutung. In Oskar Kokoschkas Antike. Eine europäische Vision der Moderne. Katalogbuch zur Ausstellung in Halle 28. 03.–10. 06. 2010. Stiftung Moritzburg. Katja Schneider und Stephan Lehmann eds, 72 – 79. München: Hirmer. Hammond, Nicholas G. L. 2001. Alexander der Große: Feldherr und Staatsmann. Biographie. München und Berlin: Propyläen. Heckel, Waldemar. 1980. Alexander at the Persian Gates. Athenaeum 58: 168 – 174. Huyse, Philip. Curtius Rufus. http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/curtius-rufus-quintusprobably-fl/ Aufgerufen 10. 12. 2018. Lauffer, Siegfried. 1978. Alexander der Große. München: dtv. Murray, Oswyn. 1986. Das frühe Griechenland. München: dtv. Nawotka, Krzysztof. 2010. Alexander the Great. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars. Speck, Henry. 2002. Alexander at the Persian Gates. A Study in Historiograpy and Topography. American Journal of Ancient History 1: 15 – 234. Stierle, Karlheinz. 1984. Narrativ, Narrativität. In Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie. Bd. 6. Karlfried Gründer ed., 398 – 402. Basel und Stuttgart: Schwabe.

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Welwei, Karl-Wilhelm. 2007. Sparta. Aufstieg und Niedergang eine antiken Großmacht. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta. Wiemer, Hans-Ulrich. 2005. Alexander der Große. München: Beck. Wiesehöfer. Josef. „Das also war das Geschenk von Alexander“. Der Feldzug der Makedonen gegen die Berguxier des Zagros. In Sterben in den Bergen. Realität – Inszenierung – Verarbeitung. Montafoner Gipfeltreffen 3. Michael Kasper et al. eds, 289 – 297. Wien, Köln, und Weimar: Böhlau. Will, Wolfgang. 2009. Alexander der Große. Geschichte und Legende. Darmstadt: Primus-Verlag. Wirth, Gerhard. 1993. Der Brand von Persepolis. Folgerungen zur Geschichte Alexanders des Großen. Amsterdam: A. M. Hakkert.

Battle Descriptions in Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita Simon Lentzsch

I

Introduction

In the preface to his monumental history of the rise of Rome to its reign over the Mediterranean world (conventionally called Ab Urbe condita), the Augustan historian Livy states that he aims to explain “through what men and by what policies, in peace and in war (domi militiaeque), empire was established and enlarged”.1 It therefore does not come as a surprise that a great part of his work is dedicated to an account of war and of campaigns of the Roman Republican armies.2 Livy’s text shares this quality with the large majority of preserved texts of the Greek and Roman historiographical tradition which concentrate on warfare and conflict.3 Consequently, the Ab Urbe Condita also contains numerous battle descriptions. These vary considerably with regard to their extent or the depth of detail, from passing references of a few lines to extensive reports of many chapters.4 As Livy’s text is one of the most important sources for our knowledge of much of the political, religious, and military history of the early and middle Roman Republic, it would be a difficult task to write a history of these periods of Roman history with-

1

2 3

4

Liv. pref. 9: “per quos viros quibusque artibus domi militiaeque et partum et auctum imperium sit”. I would like to thank the other participants of the conference for helpful comments and fruitful discussions, and especially Johanna Luggin (Innsbruck) and Sebastian Fink (Helsinki) for their hospitality and the invitation to Innsbruck. Thanks are also due to Karl-Joachim Hölkeskamp (Cologne) for his advice and helpful comments on this paper. Passages of Ab Urbe Condita are cited from the edition in the Bibliotheca Teubneriana. English translations are taken from the Loeb Classical Library. All dates are BC unless otherwise noted. Cf. Walsh 1961, p. 157; Kremer 1994, p. 17; Le Bohec 2015, p. 114. Cf. e. g. Plathner 1934, p. 6; Paul 1982, p. 144; Hanson 2007, p. 13; Hornblower 2007, p. 22; Levene 2010, p. 261; Meier/Stoll 2016, p. 3. On the topic of war in Thucydides and his impact on Greek historiography, see Strasburger 1982, pp. 777 ff. Cf. already Plathner 1934, p. 10 (with numerous references to passages in Livy).

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_11

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out reference to Ab Urbe Condita.5 However, although Livy’s text is regarded as a very important source, it also regularly has received heavy criticism by modern scholarship, especially with regard to its battle descriptions. These are blamed for mistakes regarding topography, the technical details of warfare, the disposition of troops on the battlefield, and for the way their movement and behaviour on the battlefield is described.6 This criticism goes back to the 19th century.7 Later scholars, such as Patrick Walsh, noted Livy’s “lack of military experience”, which “closed his eyes to the absurdities perpetrated by himself ”, and attested that in his battle descriptions “the blind is leading the blind.”8 More recently, some scholars plead for a more nuanced view on Livy’s historical accuracy in general and especially with regard to his battle descriptions which were, according to these contributions, much more trustworthy than has been regularly assumed.9 Recently, however, other approaches to the Livian text have proven more fruitful. Especially studies that concentrate on the more literary aspects of the Ab Urbe Condita, such as questions of style and composition, the representation of events or aspects such as religion, different groups of the populus Romanus, or foreign people, and the way in which Livy tries to shape his audience’s reception of the Roman past.10 Following these approaches, this paper aims to demonstrate that a closer look at the battle descriptions in Livy’s work will reveal a much more coherent structure and logic of these passages than has often been assumed. Furthermore, it will be argued that a careful examination of battle descriptions in Livy, which not only focus on the descriptions of different pitch battles but also widen the perspective on the broader narrative of the Ab Urbe Condita, deepens our understanding of how Livy arranged the accounts of battles and wars in his work and how he used them to construct his image of Rome’s past. 5 6 7

Cf. e. g. Roth 2006, p. 54. See, for instance, Walsh 1961, pp. 159 ff. For an outline of the research on Livy in the 19th and early 20th century, see Burck 1977a, pp. 2 ff.; Pausch 2011, pp. 6 f., 65. 8 Walsh 1961, pp. 159 ff.: “It must be admitted that there is scarcely a major battle account which does not contain a headache for the modern historian, because of mistakes caused by inexperience, obscurity, omission of vital detail, over-dramatization, or over-simplification.” Cf. Gerlinger 2008, p. 20; Mineo 2015a, p. XXXIV. An example for a less polemic way to express criticism of Livy’s battle descriptions can be found in Daly 2002, p. 25, who states that “where Polybius did not have much experience of warfare, Livy had none at all and so was forced to accept his sources at their word”. On a broader level, this criticism is expanded on ancient historiography in general which, according to some scholars, was completely unreliable and, consequently, useless for a reconstruction of the authenticity of battles of the ancient world (cf. Hornblower 2007, p. 40 for references of such a view). 9 See already Plathner 1934, p. 15 and, more recently, Roth 2006; Koon 2010, p. 23. 10 Cf. on this Mineo 2015a, pp. XXXI – XXXII. See e. g. Luce 1971; Gärtner 1975; Levene 1993; 2010; Johner 1996; Jaeger 1997; Bernard 2000; Chaplin 2000; Ridley 2000; Gaertner 2008; Pausch 2011; Richardson 2012, and the entries in Chaplin and Kraus 2009 and in Mineo 2015 (especially: Bernard 2015; Hoyos 2015; Le Bohec 2015; Humm 2015; Mineo 2015b, Mineo 2015c; Oakley 2015). Cf. also earlier works, which paved the way for a new understanding of Livy, for example: Bruckmann 1936; Burck 1950; 1992; and the entries in Burck 1977.

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Out of the numerous battle descriptions which Livy provides, I have chosen three passages for closer analysis. The first does not describe an open-field encounter but rather the siege and capture of the Etruscan city of Veii early in the fourth century. According to Livy, the Romans took Veii only after a long and laborious siege, which in turn gave him sufficient space for a comprehensive siege narrative. The following section will serve to examine his account of the battle of Sentinum in 295, which was later often regarded as a decisive Roman victory in the process of the conquest of Central Italy. In contrast to these tales of triumphs, the third section will focus on the descriptions of two of the greatest and most humiliating defeats which the armies of the Roman Republic ever suffered on the battlefield, namely the accounts of the battles at Lake Trasimene (217) and, of course, at Cannae (216).

II

The Siege of Veii

The Roman conquest of Veii can surely be regarded as an event of historical authenticity, although the exact date, the course of the operations, and their circumstances are beyond our knowledge.11 This was also the case for Roman historians like Livy who explicitly acknowledges the lack of sources for Rome’s early history at the beginning of book six, when he notes that “the history of the Romans from the founding of the City […] to its capture by the Gauls” around 386 “are obscure not only by reason of their great antiquity […], but also because” much of the previous evidence in the form of written records did not survive.12 This scarcity of sources, however, was clearly only a minor obstacle for Livy, who presents his readers with extensive accounts of numerous events of the decades of the regal period and the early generations of the republic, arranging one of the most prominent passages in this part of Ab Urbe condita around the description of the siege of Veii. Livy’s book five is devoted to the tale of the siege and capture of two great cities, Rome and its Etruscan counterpart Veii.13 The book is divided into two parts of roughly equal length. In the first one, Livy describes the long siege of Veii by a Roman army and the final conquest of the city under the command of the famous general M. Furius Camillus. Shortly after, however, the Roman plebs turns against Camillus out of envy and controversies over the division of the loot, which the Roman army had acquired at Veii.14 This inner struggle in Rome marks the beginning of the sec-

11 Ogilvie 1965, pp. 626 ff.; Roth 2006, p. 52. For a pointed discussion of the evidence see Cornell 1995, pp. 309 ff.; Forsythe 2005, pp. 246 ff. 12 Liv. 6,1,1. 13 See Luce 1971, p. 268. Cf. Levene 1993, p. 175; Kraus 1994, p. 282; Jaeger 1997, p. 59; Gaertner 2008, pp. 30 f.; Forsythe 2015, p. 323; Oakley 2015, pp. 230 f. 14 Liv. 5,22,1; 5,28,8 – 11; 5,32,8 – 9. Cf. Ogilvie 1965, pp. 698 ff. for possible explanations for the development of the tradition.

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ond half of book five, which concentrates on the Roman defeat against a Celtic army at the river Allia and the subsequent capture of Rome.15 Livy notes in the second chapter of his fifth book that the Roman generals commanded a siege of Veii, and in chapter 22 he describes the capture of the Etruscan city.16 One may suppose that twenty-one chapters would have given him sufficient space to present his readers with a detailed account of the operations of Romans and Etruscans during the siege. Livy, however, provides his readers with remarkably few details of the fighting itself. While he reserves much space for an account of the elections and of quarrels in Rome, only on four occasions do the readers receive comparatively detailed descriptions of fights between Veientines and Romans, in the entire account of the first nine years of the siege.17 In the first of these passages, the Etruscans, “a vast horde, most of them armed with torches” attack the Roman siege works by night, in order to kill the Romans “with sword and fire”.18 In the second, Livy reports that other Etruscan people, namely the Capenates and the Faliscans, had joined forces in order to help the Veientines, since they were afraid that the Romans would turn against them as soon as they had captured Veii.19 Consequently, the Romans are attacked from two directions — Capenates and Faliscans from the outside and Veientines from the city — thereby losing one of their siege camps; partly because of this disadvantageous tactical situation, partly because discord in the Roman army prevents sufficient defence.20 Despite all of their efforts, according to Livy, the Romans were not able to take Veii by storm but had reached the area within the walls through a tunnel, which they had secretly constructed over months.21 The final battle within the walls of Veii is also described in vivid pictures of “women and slaves” who “cast down stones and tiles from the roofs”, on the Roman soldiers. “The air”, according to Livy, “resounded with shouts” and “the wailing of women and children”, while “the battle” rages “in every quarter until the Roman general bade the heralds to proclaim that those without arms should

15 Liv. 5,32,6 – 55,5. Cf. most recently Richardson 2012, pp. 116 ff.; Stoll 2016, pp. 92 f.: Lentzsch 2017 (all with further references). 16 Liv. 5,2,1; 5,22,8. 17 Veientines lead sorties against the Romans: Liv. 5,7,2 – 3; 5,8,7 – 12 (Faliscans and Capenates support the Veientines); 5,13,9 – 13. In 5,12,4 Livy reports, that the Romans could recapture one of their lost siege camps. 18 Liv. 5,7,2 – 3 (nam cum agger promotus ad urbem vineae que tantum non iam iniunctae moenibus essent, dum opera interdiu fiunt intentius quam nocte custodiuntur, patefacta repente porta ingens multitudo facibus maxime armata ignes coniecit, (3) horae que momento simul aggerem ac vineas, tam longi temporis opus, incendium hausit; multi que ibi mortales nequiquam opem ferentes ferro igni que absumpti sunt.). 19 Liv. 5,8,5 – 6. 20 Liv. 5,8,7 – 12. 21 Liv. 5,19,10 – 11; 5,21,10.

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be spared, what ends the slaughter” and, at the same time, serves as a signal to start looting Veii.22 Given the highly questionable quality of the sources for this early period of Roman warfare, these passages probably do not represent an authentic account of the operations during the siege of Veii.23 They rather give an impression of a set of stock elements which can be found in numerous descriptions of sieges and the captures of cities in ancient historiography and are frequently used by Livy.24 Even so, this does not necessarily mean that passages such as these would give a completely unrealistic impression of ancient siege warfare.25 For example, we will probably never know for certain whether the legionaries really constructed a mine (cuniculus) into the temple of Iuno on Veii’s citadel and then poured from there into the quarters of the city, as Livy reports.26 We do know, however, that the Romans of the early fourth century did not possess sophisticated siege engines and techniques. Therefore, it does seem plausible that they conquered Veii not by storming its city-walls but by using a stratagem. Furthermore, in ancient warfare, fortified cities were frequently taken after a long siege and/or by using some kind of stratagem, since taking a fortress by storm was a highly difficult and complicated endeavour.27 Therefore, neither a rather long period of siege nor its end by stratagem are necessarily implausible.28 In Livy’s account, the Romans took Veii after a siege of ten years. As several scholars rightly noted, this period is certainly an allusion to the Troian War, which is another example of how historiographical traditions and myths of the Greek world influenced the formation and development of different sections of the Roman ’Geschichtskultur’.29 Furthermore, the parallel to the Troian war underlines the importance of the conflict with Veii. 22 Liv. 5,21,11 – 14 (clamor omnia variis terrentium ac paventium vocibus mixto mulierum ac puerorum ploratu complet (12) momento temporis deiectis ex muro undique armatis patefactis que portis cum alii agmine inruerent, alii desertos scanderent muros, urbs hostibus inpletur; (13) omnibus locis pugnatur; deinde multa iam edita caede senescit pugna, et dictator praecones edicere iubet, ut ab inermi abstineatur. is finis sanguinis fuit. (14) Dedi inde inermes coepti, et ad praedam miles permissu dictatoris discurrit.). 23 Cf. Ogilvie 1965, pp. 628, 672 f.; Forsythe 2015, p. 323. See, for a rather skeptical view, also Walsh 1961, p. 279, and, for a more optimistic one, Roth 2006, p. 52. 24 Cf. on these passages Paul 1982, pp. 150 f. (with further references). On such elements see in general e. g. Paul 1982; Roth 2006, pp. 52 ff., and see also Caes. Gall. 7,79 – 88 and Liv. 9,35; (as examples for descriptions of an attack on siege camps from two directions). 25 Cf. Roth 2006, p. 53. 26 Liv. 5,21,10 – 12. 27 Note, for instance, that in the Second Punic War, Roman as well as Carthaginian armies usually conquered foreign cities with some kind of stratagem and/or by help of traitors within the city walls. See e. g. Liv. 25,7,10 – 25,11,20 (Carthaginian capture of Tarentum by treason); Liv. 25,23,1 – 17; 25,28,1 – 25,31,11 (stratagems, traitors and deserters in the account of the Roman capture of Syracuse); Liv. 27, 15,9 – 19 (Roman recapture of Tarentum); Liv. 26,45,7 – 26,46,7 (Roman capture of New Carthage). 28 Cf. Roth 2006, p. 52 (“it was almost certainly more than a single campaigning season: two or three years is a reasonable guess”). 29 See, for instance, Plathner 1934, p. 30; Oakley 1997, p. 85; Forsythe 2015, p. 323.

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As we have seen, Livy’s readers receive only little information of the encounters between Romans and Etruscans. Accordingly, the most important explanation for the Roman success cannot be found in the description of the fighting itself, but in the wider context of the operations which Livy narrates in great detail, especially in the passages on political disagreements of patricians and plebeians in Rome.30 A close reading of these chapters reveal that the key to victory over the Etruscans lies not only in the application of a reasonable strategy and its determined conduct but also — and especially — in the establishing and maintaining of concord (concordia) among the different groups and layers of Roman society.31 In Livy’s account of the siege of Veii, the Romans are always defeated in battle when they fail to display concord. According to Livy, the two commanders Sergius and Verginius, for example, “showed more jealousy of one another than spirit (animus) in dealing with the enemy” which leads to the loss of one of the Roman siege camps.32 A few chapters later, it is the memory of this defeat which encourages the Romans to unite their forces which, consequently, enables them to defeat their opponents and to throw the Etruscans back to their city walls.33 Furthermore, the prerequisite for victory is not only concordia in the field between different commanders as well as between general and soldiers but also between patricians and plebeians in the city of Rome.34 As Oakley notes, here Livy’s account “echoes the experience of its first readers: they must often have believed during the civil wars that the state would collapse if concordia were not achieved.”35 It is probably due to this experience that the theme of concordia looms largely in the account of Roman wars in Livy. Another important factor for the Roman success, which can be found in the wider narrative of the siege and capture of Veii, is the Romans’ respect for their gods — closely related here to their ability to find an appropriate interpretation of even unusual prodigies and prophecies.36 This ability is not only an expression of the Romans’ piety, but also of another aspect of the concept of concordia, namely the concord between Romans and the gods. This pax deorum is regularly interpreted both as a condition of, and guarantee for, Roman military victory, and hegemony.37 As soon as concord in the Roman camp is re-established, the Romans only have to find the right general to lead them to the triumph over Veii: M. Furius Camillus, the 30 For example: Liv. 5,2,2 – 12; 5,3,2 – 5,6,17; 5,9,4 – 5; 5,10,6 – 9; 5,12,3. Cf. Oakley 2015, p. 239. 31 See Liv. 5,3,10, where the patrician Ap. Claudius underlines the importance of concordia as a prerequisite for the endurance of Rome’s rule over its neighbours. See also 5,6,11. Cf. Burck 1977b, p. 311; Oakley 2015, pp. 232 f. 32 Liv. 5,8,4 – 13. 33 Liv. 5,13,10 (ante omnia adiuvit memoria damnationis Sergi ac Vergini.). 34 On the importance of concordia in Livy see, with further references, Humm 2015, pp. 353 ff.; Mineo 2015c, pp. 125, 131, 134 f.; Oakley 2015, pp. 232 ff. 35 Oakley 2015, pp. 232 f. 36 Cf. on the importance of religion in book five see Luce 1971, p. 268; Levene 1993, pp. 175, 192 ff. and cf. Oakley 2015, pp. 237 f. 37 See, with further references, Rosenstein 1990, pp. 54 ff.; Mineo 2015b, p. 141.

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great hero in Livy’s account of the first decades of the fourth century. According to the Augustan historian, the appointment of Camillus as dictator for the war against Veii “at once made a change in all things else; there was new hope and a new spirit, and even the fortune of the City seemed to be renewed.”38 In the course of the further narrative Camillus is, unsurprisingly, able to justify these expectations: he ensures concord in the senate and between senate and people,39 before the final attack on Veii he prays to Apollo and Iuno in order to assure that they are on the Roman side, and then commands the last storm on the city himself.40 One could thus conclude that in order to achieve victory, the Romans are in need of a strong military leader whose greatest and most important merits are not only military skills but also, and perhaps more importantly, moral values such as concord and pietas.41 At the end of his account of Rome’s capture of Veii, Livy uses a typical element of the narrative formula of the description of the final defeat of a foreign enemy, that is a short acknowledgement of the former power and glory of the defeated rival who is now under the domination of the Roman people.42 Camillus’ role in these events hints at an aspect which is of great importance in Livy’s battle descriptions — the choice of the right commander respectively the fatal consequences which a poor choice would bring. As we will now see, this aspect is also important in Livy’s account of the campaign which leads to the battle of Sentinum and the description of this fight.

III

The Battle of Sentinum

The description of the battle of Sentinum in the tenth book of Livy’s history is part of his narrative of the so-called Third Samnite War (298 – 290) and forms one of the highlights of this section of Ab Urbe Condita.43 In the consulate of Q. Fabius Rullianus and P. Decius Mus (295), the Romans were confronted with a strong coalition of Samnites, Gauls, and Etruscans which forced the army of the res publica into a fight, often regarded as “one of the great turning-points in Rome’s history, opening the way for her hegemony in peninsular Italy.”44 According to studies in more recent scholarship, however, the importance and the impact of this battle may not have been that

38 Liv. 5,19,3. 39 Note that, in contrast to earlier conscriptions, there is now no resistance among the people (Liv. 5, 19,5). 40 Liv. 5,21,2 – 4. On this passage see Ogilvie 1965, pp. 673 ff. 41 Cf. Burck 1977b, pp. 325 f. 42 Liv. 5,22,8. 43 Liv. 10,24,1 – 31,15. Cf. Lipovsky 1984, p. 156. On the campaigns and operations, which eventually led to the battle of Sentinum see Salmon 1967, pp. 277 ff.; Oakley 2005, pp. 281 ff.; Grossmann 2009, pp. 119 ff. 44 Oakley 2005, p. 268.

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high.45 Yet, the army which the Romans fielded at Sentinum seems to have been the “largest force that Rome had ever assembled” until that year.46 In any account, it is essential for an adequate understanding of Livy’s description of the battle of Sentinum that in the memory of later generations, this battle was often regarded as a milestone in the history of the rise of Rome, of the conquest of the Italian peninsula, and of the submission of the Samnites with whom the Romans had fought — according to Livy — for decades for hegemony over Italy.47 This status of the battle of Sentinum is mirrored in Livy’s description of it, one of the most vivid and spectacular in the first decade, even more in the preserved parts of his work in general. Furthermore, it displays many of the elements which are typical for Livy’s descriptions of major battles. Before I demonstrate and discuss these elements, I will focus on the narrative context of the battle of Sentinum, since it is of great importance for an adequate interpretation of the battle description. The account of the Sentinum campaign is integrated into the narrative of the Third Samnite War, which again is a part of the broader narrative of the struggle for hegemony between the Romans and the Samnites; one of Livy’s important leitmotifs in the Second Pentad of his work. In the chapters preceding the description of the battle of Sentinum, this event is “more extensively foreshadowed than any other event in the entire [second] pentad.”48 Nine chapters before the description of the encounter, Livy notes that “a mighty war was prepared against the Romans in Etruria, on the part of many nations”, namely the Samnites, Etruscans, and the Umbrians. Furthermore, this coalition enlists Celtic mercenaries from Cisalpine Gaul in order to further strengthen their force.49 In the following sections, Livy reports how the Roman troops suffer a series of minor defeats against these enemies, mainly because of the inept leadership displayed by the consul L. Volumnius.50 As a result, discord and lack of trust emerges between Volumnius and his troops,51 which leads to more difficulties on the Roman side, culminating in a quarrel between Volumnius and his colleague App. Claudius.52 Only under considerable pressure of their troops do the

45 See e. g. Blösel 2015, p. 74. It should be noted that Livy himself does not explicitly claim that the victory of Sentinum was decisive in the process of Roman conquest of Italy (thus, rightly, Oakley 2005, p. 268). 46 Oakley 2005, p. 283. 47 Cf. Lipovsky 1984, p. 157; Oakley 2005, p. 268; Cornell 2004, pp. 123 ff. demonstrates plausibly that neither Romans nor Samnites considered the wars that they fought against each other as a struggle for hegemony over the whole of Italy, at least at the time of the beginning of the wars. 48 Lipovsky 1984, p. 156 ff. (quotation on p. 157). 49 Liv. 10,18,1 – 2. Cf. the account of similar preparations for the war on the side of the Roman enemies in Liv. 10,21,1 – 2 and in Liv. 10,21,11. Cf. Lipovsky 1984, p. 158. 50 Liv. 10,18,3 – 6. 51 Liv. 10,18,6 (nec duci milites nec militibus dux satis fideret). 52 Liv. 10,18,8 – 14.

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consuls — still unwillingly — unite their armies. Consequently, they are able to win a victory on the battlefield against the coalition of enemies.53 Therefore, one can conclude, the theme of concordia and discordia again plays an important role in Livy’s war narrative. In the following sections, up to chapter 27, in which the description of the battle of Sentinum begins, this theme is repeatedly brought to the readers’ attention.54 Especially the account of the election of the two consuls, Q. Fabius Maximus and P. Decius Mus, deserves closer attention. Here, Livy not only emphasizes that “by the consent of all citizens” the experienced general Fabius Maximus is elected. In a speech, Fabius also insists that the assembly of the people also elects P. Decius Mus, with whom he had fought successfully and in utmost harmony during two earlier campaigns because he — Fabius — “had found nothing more that tended to the preservation of the commonwealth than the harmony of colleagues”.55 Consequently, the people elect both men to consuls, and even a smaller quarrel about the designation of the provinciae can be settled relatively easily, especially since it was, in Livy’s view, due “more to rivalry between the orders than to their own.”56 Eventually, the consuls unite their armies.57 The Roman cause is further strengthened by the fact that, before the battle of Sentinum, the enemies divide their troops due to strategical reasons which are caused by the movement of Roman troops on command of Fabius.58 A few chapters later, in his account of the battle, Livy underlines that this decision prevented Roman defeat.59 Consequently, while the Romans find new strength in their unity, the enemies weaken their position before both sides confront each other on the battlefield. Livy’s description of the battle of Sentinum contains a number of elements which regularly appear in his accounts of major field battles, emphasizing the importance of the encounter.60 In this case, shortly before the start of the battle, a prodigy takes place in the plain between the two armies, as “a hind, pursued by a wolf that had chased it down from the mountains, fled across the plain and ran between the two lines.” While the soldiers are watching, the two animals “turned in opposite directions, the hind towards the Gauls, the wolf towards the Romans.” Then, Livy reports,

53 Liv. 10,19,1 – 22. On this chapter, which contains several peculiar details see esp. Oakley 2005, p. 210 f. 54 See Liv. 10,21,15; 10,22,1. 55 Liv. 10,22,3 (Censura duobusque consulatibus simul gestis expertum se nihil concordi collegio firmius ad rem publicam tuendam esse.) See also Liv. 10,22,4 (Subscripsit orationi eius consul cum meritis P. Deci laudibus, tum, quae ex concordia consulum bona quaeque ex discordia mala in administratione rerum militarium evenirent […].). Cf. the earlier election of Fabius to the consulship where he also recommended electing P. Decius Muss as his colleague (Liv. 10,13,12 – 13) and, furthermore, two passages, in which Fabius refuses an election (Liv. 10,9,10 – 12; 10,15,7 – 12). On this complex of passages see Oakley 2005, pp. 139 ff., 294; Richardson 2012, pp. 100 ff. 56 Liv. 10,24,1. The whole episode in: Liv. 10,24,1 – 18 and cf. Oakley 2005, p. 271. 57 Liv. 10,26,1 – 4. 58 Liv. 10,27,2 – 6. 59 Liv. 10,27,11. Cf. Lipovsky 1984, p. 161; Oakley 2005, p. 275. 60 Lipovsky 1984, p. 159, n. 2.; Oakley 2005, p. 276.

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“for the wolf a passage was opened between the ranks, but the hind was killed by the Gauls.” A Roman soldier, an antesignanus, who consequently had a good view of what took place on the field from his place in the battle line, is the first to interpret the prodigy rightly and called out “that way flight and slaughter have shaped their course, where you see the beast lie slain that is sacred to Diana; on this side the wolf of Mars, unhurt and sound, has reminded us of the Martian race and of our Founder.”61 It is noteworthy that in a parallel account of this event, the wolf seems to be able to escape rather accidentally, while in Livy it seems to be a conscious decision of the Roman soldiers; an alteration, which was maybe created in order to underline the superior Roman ability to interpret the situation as a propitious omen.62 The enemies, on the contrary, fail to realize the meaning and importance of the prodigy, since Livy then directly moves on to a description of the formation and battle order of both armies which is another typical element of battle accounts not only in Livy but in Roman (and Greek) historiography in general.63 Livy often gives only little information about the actual course of the fighting or even about details. His battle descriptions often start from a bird’s eye view and give the reader a summary of the early stages of a fight. In the case of Sentinum, we read that the struggle first remains undecided, since “Fortune had given no indication where she intended to bestow her might”, and therefore, “the fighting was very different” on both wings.64 Livy explains this mainly with different characters of both Roman leaders, the consuls Fabius Maximus and Decius Mus. On the right wing, Fabius chooses a rather defensive tactic, holding back his troops from a direct attack on their enemies.65 Fabius’ tactic lies in the assumption that Samnites as well as Gauls — while successful and brave at the first attack — would fail in the later stages of the fight, since they “could least of all men put up with heat and labour” and, therefore, “whereas in the early stages of the battles they were more than men, they ended with being less than women”.66 In this comment of Livy, we can find another recurrent feature of Livian battle descriptions, that is the stereotypical collective characterization of foreign people and their troops, in this case Samnites and Gauls, who are usually regarded as both brave but inadequately disciplined and, furthermore, compared to the steady Romans, as physically weak.67 Therefore, at first sight, they may appear dangerous but are, in reality, no match for the disciplined and well-trained Roman legionaries, at least as long

61 62 63 64 65 66

Liv. 10,27,8 – 9. Cf. Engels 2007, p. 395 for further references. Zon. 8,1. Cf. Oakley 2005, pp. 275 f., 289; Engels 2007, p. 396. Liv. 10,27,10 – 11. Cf. Gerlinger 2008, p. 18. Liv. 10,28,1. Cf. Richardson 2012, p. 97. Liv. 10,28,2 – 5. Liv. 10,28,4 (Gallorum quidem etiam corpora intolerantissima laboris atque aestus fluere primaque eorum proelia plus quam virorum, postrema minus quam feminarum esse). 67 On portraits of peoples in general in the Livian text see, for instance, Walsh 1961, pp. 108 f.; Bernard 2000; 2015; Levene 2010, pp. 214 ff. (all with further references). On the image and characterization of the Gauls in Livy in general see Kremer 1994, pp 17 ff., esp. 31, and Oakley 1998, pp. 158 f.; 2005, p. 553.

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as the Roman general chooses — like, according to Livy, Fabius at Sentinum — the appropriate tactical approach.68 Unfortunately, P. Decius Mus on the left wing, “with greater impetuosity of his youth and spirits” (Ferocior Decius et aetate et vigore animi), expends “all the strength he could muster in the first encounter”, since he wanted to gain the glory of victory for his wing and himself alone.69 A trained reader of Livy would expect the negative outcome of this attempt, since those characters in his work “who are feroces tend to act violently and impulsively, often with danger to themselves”,70 to their army, and to their country. Consequently, the attack fails and the Romans are driven back on Decius’ wing.71 At this point the battle is undecided, since both sides could gain an advantage on one of the two wings of the fighting formation. Such a phase of the fighting, in which neither side was able to overthrow the enemy, in fact probably occurred frequently in ancient field battles.72 However, in Livian battle descriptions this stage of fighting is primarily used to set the stage for another of Livy’s most favourite elements: a single scene in which the narrator focuses on the thought, decisions, and actions of one (or more) of the prominent fighters, usually the general(s), that gives the whole battle a new — and often unexpected — turn. This technique regularly lends the whole account a new character, which is, as Walsh notes, almost “cinematographic in its effect”.73 In the case of the battle of Sentinum, this scene focuses on one of the most prominent deeds of a Roman general during the middle Republic — the heroic devotio of the consul P. Decius Mus. This self-sacrifice was remembered and referred to in Roman memory culture until the time of the empire.74 Remarkably, Decius’ father and, at least according to some branches of the Roman tradition, his son, both of the same name, P. Decius Mus, are said to have sacrificed themselves in battle under similar circumstances.75 At Sentinum, according to Livy, who preserves the longest and most detailed version of the event, Decius decides to sacrifice his life for the greater good of the res publica. In following a famous family tradition, according to which his father had also

68 Cf. on this particular passage Kremer 1994, pp. 31 f.; Oakley 2005, pp. 276 f., 318. 69 Liv. 10,28,6 (Ferocior Decius et aetate et vigore animi quantumcumque virium habuit certamine primo effudit.). 70 Oakley 2005, p. 277. Cf. in general Will 1983, p. 177; Geist 2009, pp. 169 ff.; Stoll 2016, p. 97. 71 Liv. 10,28,7 – 12. 72 Cf. e. g. Sabin 2000, pp. 14 ff.; Schulz 2012, pp. 185 f. 73 Walsh 1961, p. 202. See also Lipovsky 1984, p. 161, who notes that Decius “by devoting himself […], causes an almost miraculous turn in Rome’s fortunes”. Cf. Plathner 1934, p. 13. 74 See the references in Broughton 1951, p. 177. See for further considerations e. g. Bücher 2006, pp. 185 ff.; Engels 2007, pp. 385 ff. 75 In the battles of Veseris in the year 340 (Liv. 8,6,9 – 13; 8,9,3 – 14) and at Ausculum in 279 (Cic. fin. 2,61; Tusc. 1,89). Cf. Broughton 1951, p. 135 and p. 192 for further references. On the tradition of the devotiones of Publii Decii Mures see (with further references) Walter 2004b, pp. 418 ff.; Richardson 2012, pp. 24 ff. Oakley 1998, pp. 477 ff. evaluates the historical authenticity of the accounts of the devotiones.

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sacrificed himself as consul at the battle of Veseris (340), Decius devotes “himself and the enemy’s legions in behalf of the army of the Roman people”, praying “that he was driving before him fear and panic, blood and carnage, and the wrath of the gods celestial and gods infernal, and should blight with a curse the standards, weapons and armour of the enemy, and that one and the same place should witness his own destruction and that of the Gauls and Samnites.” The ritual character of the devotio is underlined through the presence of the pontifex Marcus Livius, whom Decius ordered not to leave his side, presumably in order to witness the conduct of this oath. After having spoken these words, Decius throws himself alone into the midst of battle where he finds death but also brings destruction and terror to the Samnite battle line.76 According to Livy, from this point on, the battle “seemed scarcely to depend on human efforts”, and as the account of the fighting continues, the Romans are described to attack their opponents more vigorously and, consequently, slaughter thousands of them and so break their battle line. Gauls and Samnites now both behave helplessly and pointlessly, which may be seen as a result of Decius’ sacrifice.77 Finally, Livy ends his description with a report of the casualties and captured enemies, a typical element of his battle accounts, and the burial of Decius (on which see further below).78 The single event of the battle of Sentinum, which is described in by far the most detail, is Decius’ devotio, a scene which focuses on a single character in the midst of battle whose decisions bring victory to his side. Roman readers of Livy’s work most probably expected this course to the description. At least some of them would have known the heroic exemplum of Decius Mus from public speeches in which Roman orators regularly used historical examples in order to underline their argument.79 Furthermore, it seems that Decius’ devotio was already a prominent episode in earlier works of Roman historiography, which are unfortunately only preserved in fragments.80 Moreover, learned readers of the Ab Urbe Condita would also have re76 Liv. 10,28,12 – 18 (deinde, ut nulla vi perculsos sustinere poterat, (13) patrem P. Decium nomine conpellans “quid ultra moror” inquit “familiare fatum ? datum hoc nostro generi est, ut luendis periculis publicis piacula simus; iam ego me cum hostium legiones mactandas Telluri ac dis Manibus dabo.” (14) haec locutus M. Livium pontificem, quem descendens in aciem digredi vetuerat ab se, praeire iussit verba, quibus se legiones que hostium pro exercitu populi Romani Quiritium devoveret. (15) devotus inde eadem precatione eodem que habitu, quo pater P. Decius ad Veserim bello Latino se iusserat devoveri, (16) cum secundum sollemnes precationes adiecisset, prae se agere sese formidinem ac fugam caedem que ac cruorem, caelestium inferorum iras; (17) contacturum funebribus diris signa, tela, arma hostium locum que eundem suae pestis ac Gallorum ac Samnitium fore — , (18) haec execratus in se hostes que, qua confertissimam cernebat Gallorum aciem, concitat equum inferens que se ipse infestis telis est interfectus.). 77 Liv. 10,29,1 – 16. Cf. Oakley 2005, pp. 278 f. 78 Liv. 10,29,17 – 18. 79 On the use of historical exempla in Roman oratory see Bücher 2006 (on the Decii Mures see here esp. pp. 185 ff.). 80 The most recent edition of the fragments was edited under the auspices of T. Cornell (Cornell 2013, usually abbreviated as FRHist). Cf. also Beck and Walter 2005, p. 108. There are no direct quota-

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membered scenes in which the decisions and deeds of a single character change the course of a battle with thousands of participants from earlier Latin prose literature on Roman warfare, especially from the works of Sallust and C. Iulius Caesar.81 The description of the ferocious attack of Decius may have even caused a faint resemblance of Homeric aristeia of the Iliad. Consequently, Livy’s decision to centre his description of the battle of Sentinum around Decius’ devotio was presumably not exceptionally original. Apart from the stylistic elaboration of a well-known tradition and the addition of some details, Livy’s own contribution was perhaps primarily the integration of this scene and the battle description in his wider narrative of the Samnite wars and of his work in general. In his preface, Livy explicitly announces that he will present his readers exempla from the past so that they may choose for themselves and their state what to imitate or to avoid.82 Decius’ decision to sacrifice his own life for the victory of the Roman army was certainly seen as a selfless and brave deed. This was perhaps especially the case in the years of discord and even of open civil war which marked Livy’s youth and that of all members of his generation.83 Furthermore, as already noted above, Decius’ example was linked to the self-sacrifice of his father, an event which Livy described in detail in book 8 of Ab Urbe condita. According to him, the battle of Veseris was one of the most important encounters of the Latin War, marking the beginning of the struggle over hegemony between the Romans and their various Italian opponents, mainly the Etruscans, Samnites, and Gauls.84 Through concentration on the devotiones of the two Decii, Livy stresses the connection between the two battles, and consequently both wars, which in this perspective appear as parts of a single historical continuum, marked by Rome’s fight for hegemony over Italy and the devotion that outstanding figures of noble Roman families displayed in this fight.85 It should be noted, however, that in spite of the recognition of Decius’ courage and of the effect that his deed had, in Livy’s description, one Roman general alone neither

81

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83 84 85

tions of the devotiones of the Decii Mures in the preserved fragments. Even so, it is highly probable that they were already mentioned in earlier works of Roman historiography before Livy. Note, however, that John Briscoe considers that the text refers to the devotio of P. Decius Mus in the battle of Ausculum (FRHist III, p. 316). See e. g. Caesar’s descriptions of his own intervention in the battle against the Nervi during his campaign in Gaul (Caes. Gall. 2,25,1 – 3) and in the final battle of the war at Alesia (Caes. Gall. 7,87,3 – 7,88,3). Cf. on this passages Harris 2006, p. 311; Gerlinger 2008, pp. 37 ff. For Sallust’s focus on Catilina in the description of the battle of Pistoria (Sall. Cat. 56 – 61) see Gerlinger 2008, pp. 44 ff. In the passage in the preface, Livy addresses the reader directly (Liv. pref. 10): hoc illud est praecipue in cognitione rerum salubre ac frugiferum, omnis te exempli documenta in inlustri posita monumento intueri: inde tibi tuaeque rei publicae quod imitere capias, inde foedum inceptu, foedum exitu, quod vites. On this passage and Livy’s concept of exemplary history in general see Chaplin 2000, pp. 4 f. and passim. On the reading of Livy’s praise of examples of selfless service for the state against the background of his own time see e. g. Galinsky 1996, pp. 280 ff.; Dahlheim 2006. Cornell 1995, p. 348; Forsythe 2005, p. 289. Liv. 10,28,12 – 13.

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decides the entire struggle nor the battle of Sentinum. One may also note that his unwise tactical approach had brought him into a situation which could only be solved by an extraordinary action.86 After Decius’ death, two of his legates and his colleague Fabius lead the Romans into the final stages of the battle. This means that both wings of the Roman army now act in tactical harmony, forming a clear contrast to the description of the beginning of the fight. One could conclude that Decius’ death was not only necessary as a sacrifice to win the support of the gods and as a way to shake and shatter the battle line and fighting moral of the enemy, but also to reunite the Roman army and their leaders. After the battle, Fabius orders his soldiers to search for the body of Decius. The legionaries eventually found the corpse under heaps of killed enemies and brought it back to their camp, where Decius’ colleague, Q. Fabius Maximus Rullianus, conducted obsequies “with every mark of honour.”87 Later, it was Fabius who was remembered as the glorious victor of the battle of Sentinum, who could also celebrate a triumph when he returned to Rome. Livy, however, emphasizes in his description of the procession that the soldiers who accompanied the triumphator celebrated “no less the glorious death of Publius Decius than the victory of Fabius, reviving with their praise of the son the memory of the father, whose death (and its service to the commonwealth) had now been matched.”88 Scholarship on Roman historiography and other representations of the Roman past has long emphasized the importance of the traditions that were preserved within noble Roman families, which influenced the sources from which Roman historians could build their own versions of Roman history.89 The complex picture of the course of the battle of Sentinum in Livy (discord and concord on both sides, prodigies before the battle, virtues and mistakes of generals) may partly be the result of such competing family traditions of this fight and partly of the evolution and elaboration of historiographical accounts of Roman historians before Livy.90 From this material, Livy formed a combination of elements and themes, and also drew connective lines to the broader context of the account of the war and, furthermore, to more distant sections of his work. Some of these features also appear in the description of the great defeats which the Roman armies suffered against one of the most dangerous enemies in Roman history — the Carthaginian general Hannibal.

86 Cf. Oakley 2005, p. 277 on Decius’ ferocia. 87 Liv. 10,29,18 – 20 (10,29,20: intermissa inde omnium aliarum rerum cura Fabius collegae funus omni honore laudibus que meritis celebrat.). 88 Liv. 10,30,9 (celebrata inconditis militaribus carminibus non magis victoria Q. Fabi quam mors praeclara P. Deci est excitata que memoria parentis, aequata eventu publico privato que filii laudibus.). 89 See e. g. Cornell 1995, pp. 9 f.; Flower 1996, pp. 148 f.; Oakley 1997, pp. 28 ff.; Blösel 2003; Hölkeskamp 2004, pp. 188 ff.; 2011, p. 27; Walter 2003; 2004a, pp. 84 ff.; Wiseman 2008, p. 13; Pausch 2011, pp. 20 f. 90 Cf. Oakley 2005, pp. 272 ff.

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The battles of Lake Trasimene (217) and of Cannae (216)

In the first two books of the third decade of Ab Urbe Condita, Livy gives a detailed account of the opening years of the Second Punic War, in which the Carthaginian army under the command of Hannibal gain a series of victories, culminating in the famous battle of Cannae in the summer of 216.91 Even if one takes the numbers in the ancient sources with sufficient caution, there can be no doubt that, as a result of these defeats, the Romans suffered enormous losses.92 Perhaps surprisingly, the defeats of the first years of the war are in no way marginalised in Livy’s text. On the contrary, especially the battles at Lake Trasimene (217) and at Cannae are described in considerable length and detail.93 This can be partly explained with Livy’s use of his sources, for example the Greek historian Polybius, who had already interpreted the battle of Cannae as an important turning point in Roman history, and a number of Roman predecessors of Livy, of whom some seem to have written detailed accounts of the war and the Roman defeats.94 Furthermore, however, another explanation for Livy’s interest in these events may be seen in the fact that they fit perfectly into his historiographical concept, as we will see in this section. Livy outlines his historiographical concept in the preface to his work. Here, as noted above, he emphasizes the usefulness of the study of history for his contemporary readers, who lived in a time “when we can endure neither our vices nor their cure.”95 Even so, what he and his contemporaries could do, according to Livy, was to study the lessons of the past in order to orientate their own behaviour as well as the organization of their state towards the shining examples of the past, or rather to avoid those not so admirable examples.96 Defeats appear especially suited to demonstrate some of these lessons, since an intensive reading of the books 21 and 22 of Ab Urbe Condita reveals a number of passages which correspond to Livy’s didactic concept. In the preceding sections, we have already seen that, according to Livy’s account, concordia among the Romans is maybe the most important prerequisite for military victory. Accordingly, discordia among the Roman people should be expected to be one of the greatest dangers for the Roman empire. Indeed, quarrels between competing Roman generals, between soldiers of different armies, and finally discord among the populus Romanus in general, serve

91 Pol. 3,13 – 109; Liv. 21,1 – 22,50; App. Hann. 1 – 20. See, for instance, Lazenby 1998, pp. 49 ff.; Seibert 1993, pp. 75 ff.; Heftner 1997, pp. 201 ff.; Daly 2002, pp. 8 ff. 92 Linke 2006, p. 67 calculates that ca. 20 % of the male population of Rome who was eligible for service died in the first years of the war. See also Brunt 1971, pp. 417 ff.; Rich 1993, p. 41; Beck 2006, pp. 205 f.; Rosenstein 2006, p. 235. 93 Liv. 22,4,1 – 22,7,5 (Lake Trasimene); 22,45,5 – 22,50,3 (Cannae). 94 Pol. 3,113,1 – 3,116,3. Note, for instance, that the first Latin historiographical monograph, the work of L. Coelius Antipater, was dedicated to the Second Punic War (cf. Briscoe 2013, p. 257). 95 Liv. pref. 9 (… haec tempora quibus nec vitia nostra nec remedia pati possumus perventum est.). 96 On this aspect of Livy’s work see e. g., with further references, Oakley 1997, pp. 114 ff.; Chaplin 2000; 2015.

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as a leitmotif in the overwhelming narrative of (especially the opening books) of the third decade, of which Livy’s descriptions of the encounters at Lake Trasimene and at Cannae are important parts.97 These descriptions repeatedly received severe criticism by modern historians, especially when they were compared to those in the third book of Polybius.98 Admittedly, Livy’s accounts of these battles are not always particularly helpful when aiming to reconstruct the historical course of the campaigns as well as of single battles.99 Polybius usually prefers to give a bird’s eye view of the battlefield, and, in most cases, Livy also presents a general overview of the distribution of troops on the field and then reports the major manoeuvres of the different parts of both armies.100 Even so, in the descriptions of the major battles he takes his readers more closely into the fighting than does Polybius, depicting single scenes that portray the vices and virtues of important characters. A good example for this construction of battle descriptions is Livy’s account of the battle at Lake Trasimene in book 21, one of the greatest defeats of the Roman side in the entire war.101 Here, the consul C. Flaminius appears at the centre of the battle, since the fight did “nowhere […] rage so fiercely as about the consul”, who was “attended by the bravest of his soldiers and stoutly lent a hand himself, wherever he saw the Romans hard pressed and in dire straits.”102 This description of the consul’s behaviour in battle is remarkable, since in the preceding chapters Livy had taken any opportunity to portray Flaminius as a general of extraordinarily poor qualities, who conducted his magistracy in discord with the Senate and even the gods, and whose incautious strategic decisions made it easy for Hannibal to lead the Romans into a trap at the banks of Lake Trasimene in Etruria. Here, according to Livy, on a misty morning, the Roman legions marched without proper reconnaissance, into Hannibal’s trap and were attacked by the forces of the Carthaginians and their allies from the surrounding hills.103 In face of secure defeat, however, all Roman soldiers show remarkable virtue. Although the poorly planned advance into the terrain had made it impossible for the legionaries to face their enemies in sufficient battle order, they are

97 Cf. Ridley 2000, p. 30. 98 See e. g. Gärtner 1975, p. 13; Gerlinger 2008, p. 20 n. 9. 99 In his account of the battle at the Trebia, for example, Livy first notes that Hannibal posted his war-elephants on both wings of the battle formation (Liv. 21,55,2; 21,55,7), later they somehow appear in the middle of the battle line (Liv. 21,55,9), while it is unclear how they could have moved there. Cf. Walsh 1961, 160; Händl-Sagawe 1995, pp. 339 f. 100 Cf. Levene 2010, p. 280. 101 Liv. 22,4,1 – 22,7,5. Cf. Pol. 3,80 – 85. On the battle at Lake Trasimene and the preceding campaign in general see Lazenby 1998, pp. 61 ff.; Seibert 1993, pp. 152 ff. 102 Liv. 22,6,1 – 2 (Tris ferme horas pugnatum est, et ubique atrociter; circa consulem tamen acrior infestior que pugna est. (2) eum et robora virorum sequebantur et ipse, quacumque in parte premi ac laborare senserat suos, inpigre ferebat opem.). 103 Liv. 22,4,4 – 7.

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able to withstand the superior forces of Hannibal’s army for nearly three hours.104 As mentioned above, Livy emphasizes that it was especially Flaminius who performed as an example of a brave general, who actively engages in close-combat to strengthen the morale of his army — a futile attempt to change the course of the battle, but, and this is probably the impression Livy aimed to create here, a remarkable one.105 At this stage of the battle, it seems as if Flaminius was able to compensate for his false strategic decisions before — until, again, his earlier deeds fall back on him. In the midst of the fighting, a Celtic warrior of the Insubrian tribe, allies of Hannibal’s Carthaginians, recognizes Flaminius who during his first consulship had led a devastating campaign into the Insubrian homelands. Somehow, Livy even knows the name of the Celtic warrior, Ducarius, who explicitly states that killing Flaminius would be his act of revenge for the destruction of the land and the city of the Insubrians, for the slaughter of their soldiers and the annihilation of their people.106 With Ducarius’ speech, Livy creates a connection to Flaminius’ earlier campaign in northern Italy, which he had apparently conducted in opposition to numerous leading senators. Apparently, the consul had already earlier acted in discord with the Senate, thus not only bringing his army into the dangerous position at the banks of Lake Trasimene but also sealing his personal fate, since Ducarius’ attack is successful, and the Insubrian kills the Roman consul on the battlefield.107 Furthermore, Livy underlines Flaminius’ position as an outsider with a detailed account of how the consul ignored the advice of the Senate before he left Rome, as well as a number of clearly negative prodigies which occurred during the march to Lake Trasimene.108 Both the tradition of Flaminius’ quarrel with the Senate and his ignorance of prodigies can already be found in older sources.109 Therefore, as in the case of the battle of Sentinum, Livy’s achievement was primarily to integrate these older traditions into a coherent narrative of the Hannibalic war, especially its first years. Without their leader, “a great part of the Romans” who, in the midst of the battle, are somehow able to note Flaminius’ death, flee the battlefield.110 Livy closes his account of the encounter with a report of the number of casualties on both sides, another typical element of battle descriptions (not only) in his work.111

104 Liv. 22,5,7 – 6,1. 105 Liv. 22,5,1 – 2 and esp. 22,6,1 – 2. One may note that Polybius (Pol. 3,84) does not mention Flaminius’ heroic last fight. Cf. Bruckmann 1936, p. 68; Johner 1996, pp. 170 f.; Levene 2010, pp. 268 ff. 106 Liv. 22,6,3 – 4. 107 Cf. Beck 2005, pp. 266 f.; Levene 1993, pp. 39 f.; 2010, p. 290.; Johner 1996, pp. 109 f. 108 Liv. 21,63,13 – 14; 22,3,11 – 14. Cf. Rosenstein 1990, p. 90; Levene 1993, pp. 38 ff.; 2010, pp. 44, 268; Händl-Sagawe 1995, pp. 400 ff.; Engels 2007 pp. 431 ff.; Geist 2009, p. 66. 109 Flaminius’ ignorance of prodigies was mentioned in the work of L. Coelius Antipater: FRHist 15 F 14 (= Cic. div. 1,77 – 78). See also Cic. div. 2,71; nat. deor. 2,8. 110 Liv. 22,6,5 – 7. See on the effect of Flaminius’ death on the Roman soldiers in Livy’s text Levene 2010, pp. 269 ff. 111 Liv. 22,7,2 – 5. Here, Livy includes a short discussion of different numbers in his sources.

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Again, as in the case of the siege of Veii and the battle of Sentinum, the description of the events on the battlefield at Lake Trasimene needs to be read in connection with different other passages in his work. In this case, not only the wider narrative of the entire war but also the earlier career of the Roman general and his relation to the Senate years before are essential for an understanding of this episode. Before we consider this point further, we examine how Livy integrated his account of the greatest and most humiliating defeat which the armies of the Roman Republic had to face in their entire history, that is the battle of Cannae, into his vision of the Roman past.112 As in earlier accounts of major encounters, Livy also opens the description of the battle of Cannae with an overview of the formation of both battle lines.113 And again, the Roman generals, both consuls, were present at Cannae: C. Terentius Varro and L. Aemilius Paullus appear as leading actors in Livy’s description of the fighting. According to Livy, Paullus, the favourite of the Senate and of the Patrician aristocracy, aimed to implement a strategy which was both reasonable and thoughtful but highly unpopular among the lesser layers of society as well as with the majority of the army.114 From his first appearance in the Livian account, Varro appears as a self-ambitious and irresponsible man of not only low but also questionable family background who, however, relies on strong support from the plebs.115 Varro agitates against the war strategy of the Senate as well as against leading politicians such as Q. Fabius Maximus Verrucosus, the famous Cunctator, who appears as a close ally and experienced advisor of L. Aemilius Paullus. As a result, a deeply divided pair of consuls leads the Roman army, the greatest one the republic had ever fielded, to Apulia.116 According to Livy, the consuls disagreed concerning the choice of the right strategic approach to such an extent that they decided to alternate their command daily. Finally, Varro, against the strong advice of his colleague, leads the Roman army on the battlefield;117 a decision Hannibal appreciated since he “had conceived a hope that the consuls would give him an opportunity of fighting in a place that was formed

112 Liv. 22,45,5 – 22,50,3. On the battle of Cannae and the preceding campaign see e. g. Lazenby 1978, pp. 74 ff.; Seibert 1993, pp. 191 ff.; Goldsworthy 2001; Daly 2002; Beck 2006 (all with further references). 113 Liv. 22,45,6 – 46,7. Cf. Pol. 3,113. 114 Liv. 22,35,3; 22,38,8 – 40,4. 115 22,25,18 – 26,3; 22,33,6 – 7; 22,34,1 – 35,1. Cf. Bernard 2000, pp. 139 ff.: Geist 2009, pp. 78 ff.; Levene 2010, p. 170. 116 This division emphasized by the description of the profectio of both consuls, where Livy notes (Liv. 22, 40,4) that “Paulus set out, escorted by the foremost senators”, while “the plebeian consul”, that is Varro, whose name is not explicitly mentioned in this passage, “was escorted by his own friends, the plebeians — in point of numbers the more imposing throng, though it contained no persons of distinction.” Cf. Bruckmann 1936, p. 75; Johner 1996, pp. 80 f. Note also that Q. Fabius Maximus who gives L. Aemilius Paullus advice before the campaign suggests that his colleague Varro was the real enemy (the hostis) rather than Hannibal. Cf. Levene 2010, p. 189 with n. 57. 117 Liv. 22,45,4 – 5. Cf. Bruckmann 1936, p. 82; Burck 1950, 97; Geist 2009, p. 80.

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by nature for a cavalry action, in which arm he was invincible.”118 As Hannibal had foreseen, his cavalry units on both wings play a highly important role in the subsequent battle.119 Therefore, the theme of discordia and its fatal effects again forms an important motive in Livy’s war narrative and also serves as one explanation for the Roman defeat.120 Paullus, however, remains loyal to the state and follows Varro on the battlefield where their army faces ultimate disaster.121 The patrician consul commands the right wing of the Roman battle order, the Roman cavalry, which soon faces great pressure by the Celtic allies, who the Carthaginians were able to recruit.122 After a description of the course of fighting in the different sections of the field, which starts at Paullus’ wing, Livy returns to the consul who is now severely wounded and who has moved to the centre of the Roman army where he and his men “at several points restored the fight”. However, they finally “let their horses go, as the consul was growing too weak even to control his horse.”123 Although Paullus and his men now realize that Hannibal’s victory is inevitable, they still withstand, but are cut down by their enemies.124 At this point, as in earlier battle accounts, Livy interrupts the description of the course of fighting in general and focuses in a single scene on the consul Paullus.125 In this scene, a Roman military tribune named Cn. Lentulus finds L. Aemilius Paullus “sitting on a stone and covered with blood.”126 The tribune bids the consul to take his horse and save his own life, “as the only man without guilt in this day’s disaster”, in 118 Liv. 22,44,4 (Hannibal spem nanctus locis natis ad equestrem pugnam, qua parte virium invictus erat, facturos copiam pugnandi consules, derigit aciem lacessit que Numidarum procursatione hostis.) 119 See Liv. 22,47,1 – 3. On the importance of the cavalry units in Hannibal’s army and their impact on the course of battle at Cannae see Daly 2002, pp. 178 ff. 120 Cf. e. g. Burck 1950, pp. 93 f.; Geist 2009, pp. 79 f. 121 Liv. 22,45,5. 122 Liv. 22,47,1 – 3. 123 Liv. 22,49,1 – 5 (Parte altera pugnae Paulus, quamquam primo statim proelio funda graviter ictus fuerat, (2) tamen et occurrit saepe cum confertis Hannibali et aliquot locis proelium restituit, protegentibus eum equitibus Romanis, omissis postremo equis, quia consulem et ad regendum equum vires deficiebant. (3) tum denuntianti cuidam iussisse consulem ad pedes descendere equites dixisse Hannibalem ferunt ‘Quam mallem, vinctos mihi traderet’. (4) equitum pedestre proelium, quale iam haud dubia hostium victoria, fuit, cum victi mori in vestigio mallent quam fugere, victores morantibus victoriam irati trucidarent, quos pellere non poterant. (5) pepulerunt tamen iam paucos superantis et labore ac vulneribus fessos.) 124 Liv. 22,49,4 – 5. 125 Cf. Gärtner 1975, p. 16 (“Jetzt öffnet sich gleichsam nach bewegtem Spiel auf der Vorderbühne der Vorhang für eine Einzelszene.”). 126 Liv. 22,49,6 – 11 (Cn. Lentulus tribunus militum cum praetervehens equo sedentem in saxo cruore oppletum consulem vidisset, (7) ‘L. Aemili’, inquit ‘quem unum insontem culpae cladis hodiernae dei respicere debent, cape hunc equum, dum et tibi virium aliquid superest comes ego te tollere possum ac protegere, (8) ne funestam hanc pugnam morte consulis feceris; etiam si hoc lacrimarum satis luctus que est’. (9) ad ea consul: ‘Tu quidem, Cn. Corneli, macte virtute esto; sed cave frustra miserando exiguum tempus e manibus hostium evadendi absumas. (10) abi, nuntia publice patribus, urbem Romanam muniant ac, priusquam victor hostis advenit, praesidiis firment; privatim Q. Fabio . Aemilium praeceptorum eius memorem et vixisse [et] adhuc et mori. (11) me [et] in hac strage mili-

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order to not “make […] this battle calamitous by the consul’s death.”127 Of course, Paullus refuses to take the help of the young tribune but rather chooses secure death by the hands of the approaching enemies. Paullus also gives a reason for his choice. Apparently, he aims to teach his fellow citizens a lesson. Lentulus is to bring the message of the consul’s death and defeat to Rome, where the Romans are in turn to follow the reasonable advice of the seasoned Q. Fabius Maximus. Paullus himself prefers to die in the midst of his slaughtered soldiers so he can spare himself a public accusation or to “stand forth the accuser of my colleague, blaming another in defence of my own innocence.”128 A careful reader of Livy would have expected Paullus’ fate, since the consul’s speech refers here to an earlier passage in the same book, where Paullus, foreshadowing his own death, states that he would “sooner expose his life to the swords of the enemy than to the suffrages of his angry fellow citizens.”129 For Livy’s readers, however, the lesson that is to be learned from the outcome of the battle, from Paullus’ fate and his speech is clear: the defeat demonstrated the results of supporting demagogic leaders and armchair generals such as Varro, and where this would inevitably lead the Romans.130 After giving Paullus’ full speech in oratio recta, Livy again concentrates on the description of the fighting itself. After the death of their one skilful and experienced leader, however, the Roman cause is lost. Waves of countless enemies drive back the Roman soldiers, among them Lentulus, while Paullus vanishes in the midst of battle where he dies together with thousands of other Romans and Italians. Varro, on the other hand, manages to escape.131 Finally, as part of the usual formula of his battle descriptions, Livy reports the numbers of casualties and prisoners on both sides.132 The flight of a general from the field seems to be a further disgrace for the Roman side who has already lost tens of thousands of soldiers on the battlefields of Lake Trasimene and Cannae. However, in Varro’s case, Livy, and most probably already his predecessors, found a way to integrate this flight into their war narrative and to interpret it in such a way that the Roman reaction to the defeat of Cannae appears as yet another demonstration of their outstanding moral quality.133 On his return to Rome, Livy describes how Romans from “all layers of society” (ab omnibus ordinibus) gave the defeated consul Varro a warm welcome at the gates and “gave him thanks because he had not despaired of the state; whereas, had he been

127 128 129 130 131 132 133

tum meorum patere exspirare, ne aut reus iterum e consulatu sim accusator collegae existam, ut alieno crimine innocentiam meam protegam’.). On this passage cf. Gärtner 1975, pp. 15 ff. Liv. 22,49,6 – 8. Liv. 22,49,9 – 11. Liv. 22,40,4. Cf. Beck 2006, pp. 213 ff. Liv. 22,49,12 – 14. Liv. 22,49,15 – 18. Cf. on the following Burck 1950, p. 102; Rosenstein 1990, pp. 139 f.; Jaeger 1997, p. 646; Geist 2009, pp. 81 f.

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the commander of the Carthaginians, there was no punishment he would not have been compelled to suffer.”134 This scene stands in stark contrast to a passage earlier in the same book, where Livy reports the departure of both consuls, Varro and Paullus, from Rome to their army before the Cannae-campaign began.135 Here, the populus Romanus appears as deeply divided, since Varro is only accompanied by the poor plebs, while the nobiles and their followers escorted Paullus. It is a passage in which the discord among the Romans in general becomes visible and seems to foreshadow the tragic events that are to follow. Now, after the battle, this discord seems to be gone, and one may suspect that the Romans rediscovered concordia because of their defeat. In the following books, Livy presents a much more united populus Romanus which seems to have learned its lesson on the battlefields at Lake Trasimene and Cannae and, consequently, will finally defeat the Carthaginians and their foremost general Hannibal.136 In conclusion, we have seen that Livy’s battle descriptions, while not always seeming to be outstandingly reliable with regard to questions of historical accuracy, regularly consist of a number of standard elements, such as reports of battle formations, prodigies before the fight, or the number of casualties on both sides. Throughout his descriptions, Livy likes to focus on single characters, usually the Roman commanders, and their actions which, although appearing to have a great influence on the course of the fighting, do not seem to be the only decisive factors. Furthermore, the focus on the Roman leaders gives Livy the opportunity to underline both the willingness of some to sacrifice themselves for the greater good of the res publica, and the fatal consequences of poor leadership and of open opposition to the Senate. Of particular importance is the theme of concordia, which forms a key for understanding many parts of Livy’s descriptions of battles and campaigns and which is, furthermore, present in numerous other passages of the Ab Urbe condita. This seems to reflect the experience of Livy and his first readers, who were born in an era of civil discord and even civil war.137 While Livy’s readership could read each battle description as a single episode, they will reach a deeper understanding and a fuller interpretation only when they are willing to read these passages as elements of a broader narrative of the deeds of the Roman people “in war and in peace.”138 Only then will they be able to interpret both

134 Liv. 22,61,14 – 15 (quo in tempore ipso adeo magno animo civitas fuit, ut consuli ex tanta clade, cuius ipse causa maxima fuisset, redeunti et obviam itum frequenter ab omnibus ordinibus sit et gratiae actae, quod de re publica non desperasset; (15) qui Carthaginiensium ductor fuisset, nihil recusandum supplicii foret.). 135 See Liv. 22,40,4 and cf. above n. 116. 136 Cf. Ridley 2000, pp. 30, 38. 137 On the development and importance of the ideology of concordia in Rome since the mid-second century see Burckhardt 1988, pp. 70 ff. 138 Cf. recently esp. Levene 2010; Pausch 2011.

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good and bad examples of the Roman commanders and soldiers, which may not always be of historical trustworthiness, but which are in remarkable accordance with the aims of Livy’s historical work, formulated in the preface to Ab Urbe condita.139

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Richardson, James H. 2012. The Fabii and the Gauls. Studies in historical thought and historiography in Republican Rome. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner. Ridley, Ronald T. 2000. Livy and the Hannibalic War. In The Roman Middle Republic. Politics, Religion and Historiography, c. 400 – 133 B. C. Papers from a conference at the Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, Sept. 11 – 12, 1998, C. Bruun ed., 13 – 40. Rom: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae. Rosenstein, Nathan. 1990. Imperatores Victi. Military Defeat and Aristocratic Competition in the Middle and Late Republic. Berkeley: University of California Press. Rosenstein, Nathan. 2006. Recruitment and its Consequences for Rome and the Italian Allies. In Herrschaft ohne Integration ? Rom und Italien in republikanischer Zeit, M. Jehne and R. Pfeilschifter eds, 227 – 241, Berlin: Verlag Antike. Roth, Jonathan P. 2006. Siege Narrative in Livy: Representation and Reality. In Representations of War in Ancient Rome, S. Dillon and K. E. Welch eds, 49 – 67. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sabin, Philip. 2000. The Face of Roman Battle. Journal of Roman Studies 90: 1 – 17. Salmon, Edward Togo. 1967. Samnium and the Samnites. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schulz, Raimund. 2012. Feldherren, Krieger und Strategen. Krieg in der Antike von Achill bis Attila. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta. Seibert, Jakob. 1993. Hannibal. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Stoll, Oliver. 2016. “Vae Victis” ? Das kaiserzeitliche Rom und sein Umgang mit Niederlagen, In Niederlagen und Kriegsfolgen – Vae Victis oder Vae Victoribus ? Vom Alten Orient bis ins Europäische Mittelalter, L. Meier and O. Stoll eds, 91 – 120, Berlin: Frank & Timme. Strasburger, Hermann. 1982. Der Geschichtsbegriff des Thukydides. In Studien zur Alten Geschichte, W. Schmitthenner and R. Zoepffel eds, 777 – 800, Hildesheim: Georg Olms. Walsh, Patrick G. 1961. Livy. His Historical Aims and Methods. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Walter, Uwe. 2003. AHN MACHT SINN. Familientradition und Familienprofil im republikanischen Rom. In Sinn (in) der Antike. Orientierungssysteme, Leitbilder und Wertkonzepte im Altertum, K.-J. Hölkeskamp, J. Rüsen, E. Stein-Hölkeskamp and H. Th. Grütter eds, 255 – 278, Mainz: von Zabern. Walter, Uwe. 2004a. Memoria und res publica. Zur Geschichtskultur im republikanischen Rom. Frankfurt am Main: Verlag Antike. Walter, Uwe. 2004b. “Ein Ebenbild des Vaters”. Familiale Wiederholungen in der historiographischen Traditionsbildung der römischen Republik. Hermes 132: 406 – 425. Will, Wolfgang. 1983. Imperatores Victi. Zum Bild besiegter römischer Consuln bei Livius. Historia 32: 173 – 182. Wiseman, Timothy Peter. 2008. Unwritten Rome. Exeter: University of Exeter Press.

Conversus ad pacem … (Flor. 2.34.65 = 4.12.65): Battle Descriptions in Florus Reconsidered1 Sven Günther

Virtus and Fortuna are the driving forces of history in Florus’ History, which is entirely structured and dedicated to the sequence of wars and battles.2 The descriptions of battles, based on these principles, form a basic narrative in Florus, and were therefore rightly studied systematically.3 However, besides specific narrative techniques that are used to construct these battle narratives,4 I argue in the following that one can also observe developments in these battle narratives throughout Florus’ work. As I shall show, parallel to his leitmotif of a growing up of the populus Romanus in four steps that eventually ends in his work with the transition from the third to the fourth stage under Octavian/Augustus,5 the battle descriptions also change, particularly during and after the civil war period. The paper thus focuses, first, on the struc1

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The Latin text as well as the English translation is taken from Forster 1929 in the Loeb Classical Library. Textcritical problems are discussed in the footnotes where necessary. The two different division of books and chapters in the two manuscript-classes is reflected here by giving both references. Cf. Flor. 1.1.2 = 1 praef. 2. On the relationship between virtus and fortuna, cf. Scholtemeijer 1974, who sees a close connection between virtus and libertas; with their decline in the Late Roman Republic, i. e. the iuventus of the populus Romanus, fortuna becomes the driving force; hence — and this is very speculative — Florus criticizes Trajan’s time where iuventus, the period of decline of virtus and libertas, occurred once again. Hose 1994, pp. 98 – 100, sees no connection to libertas, and criticizes Alonso-Núñez 1983, p. 17, who also first sees libertas, then pax as the driving force in Florus. On libertas, cf. Hose 1994, pp. 119 – 120. (in respect of the principate bringing peace and stability instead of having libertas, so similar to Alonso Núñez, ibid.); Günther 2016 (on the style and structure esp. in Flor. 1.17 = 1.23 – 25, the main source for the libertas-motif). Flamerie de Lachapelle 2010a, p. 146 on the importance of virtus in battles (and for the judgement of victories). On the structure of Florus’ work: Hose 1994, esp. pp. 96 – 103. Particularly on the preface: Facchini Tosi 1990. Flamerie de Lachapelle 2010a; briefly Hose 1990, pp. 83 – 85. Flamerie de Lachapelle 2010a, foremost brevitas leading to a specific structure of each description whereby a set of elements is used; omission / ellipsis / condensation, transposition, comparison effacement and dissociation occur in various forms. Cf. Flor. 1.1.4 – 8 = 1 praef. 4 – 8. Cf. esp. Hose 1990, pp. 119 – 123 (with further literature). I will not deal any further with the hypothesis of Neuhausen et al., based on an idea of Titze at the beginning of the 19th century, on a first version of Florus with only three life-stages (infantia, adulescentia, iuven-

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_12

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ture, style and motifs of battle descriptions before the Late Roman Republic, with a case study of the beginning of the Second Punic War. Secondly, it compares this prime example with two battle narratives during the last phase of the Late Roman Republic and the beginning of the Roman Empire, Carrhae in 53 BC and the Spanish Wars of Augustus in 26/25 BC. Based on these examples, the close interdependency of the decline of vigor, virtue and morality of that period observed by Florus, and his, thereupon, designed narrative of wars and battles, can be concluded.

A Sound Battle-description: The Beginning of the Second Punic War and the Struggle against Immoral Infiltration The Second Punic War (218 – 201 BC) is an important point in the expansion of Rome, and thus the core of many historiographical narratives, often emphasizing the turn of Roman morality after the victory over Hannibal and the end of the metus Punicus, latest after the destruction of Carthage during the Third Punic War (149 – 146 BC). However, Florus’ teleology and historiographical conception gives these events some space but does not emphasize it as a crucial or decisive point for the decline of Rome. It is mainly luxuria that drives the decline, and this vice, which causes others, is closely connected for him with the epoch-year 133 BC and, as a starting date, with the war against Antiochus III of Macedonia (192 – 188 BC).6 Hence, he even questions the expansion of Rome above a manageable degree.7 Therefore, the beginning of the Second Punic War is still in the heyday of Roman strength though at that time heavily challenged by Hannibal after his successful siege of Saguntum and crossing of the Alps. Florus describes the first battles — victorious for Hannibal and disastrous for the Romans — in an artistic arrangement of four battles: Ticinus, Trebia, Lake Trasimene, Cannae.8 This climax is as obvious as is the insertion of side-narratives into the four battles: first at Ticinus, the Scipio-episode already showing the final result of the Punic Wars (§ 10 f.); second at Trebia, the importance of climatic factors that is then shortly afterwards the turning point of Hannibal’s fate (§ 12); third at Lake Trasimene, the expanded use of the weather contus), composed at the death of Augustus or right after, though it might influence the perception of the third life-stage, and of the argument of decline in the Late Roman Republic in particular. For a summary of this radically different view on Florus’ life and work, cf. now Koch 2014; Neuhausen 2015 (with the older literature). 6 Cf. Flor. 1.47.1 – 14 = 3.12.1 – 14. For the partition of epochs and the connections to Florus’ teleology, cf. Hose 1990, pp. 103 – 109. 7 Flor. 1.47.6 = 3.12.6: Ac nescio an satius fuerit populo Romano Sicilia et Africa contento fuisse, aut his etiam ipsis carere dominanti in Italia sua, quam eo magnitudinis crescere, ut viribus suis conficeretur. / “Indeed I know not whether it would not have been better for the Roman people to have been content with Sicily and Africa, or even to have been without these and to have held dominion only over their own land of Italy, than to increase to such greatness that they were ruined by their own strength.” 8 Cf. Flor. 1.22.10 – 18 = 2.6.10 – 18.

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ditions by the Carthagians so that even divine forecasting signs are not respected by the general (§ 13 f.); and fourth, the perfect combination of weather conditions, landscape, and army, used by Hannibal to crush the Roman armies (§ 15 – 19). The eventual volte-face in favor of the Romans is ascribed to either the fatum of the Roman future empire or Hannibal’s bad decision, and (!) the aversion of the gods whereby only Hannibal’s wrong decision is further explained.9 Then again (§ 21), nicely shown by the chiasm “Cum victoria posset uti, frui maluit” (“When he might have exploited his victory, he preferred the enjoyments”) the climatic factor comes into play — and shows that here the Carthaginians are not immune to luxurious settings which overstretch their capacity of expansion, just as the Romans at a later moment would experience the negative consequences of their indulging into luxuria.10 In contrast, at this point the Romans react rightly in harmony, even offering their own luxurious goods for the sake of war.11 They then gradually fight back, and win.12 This contrast surpasses all other aspects of ancient historiographical works, such as chronology, conjunction of events, and strategic or political aims of the individual generals, and serves only the aim of showing the success of the populus Romanus.13

Towards Luxury, towards Decline: Florus on Battles in the Late Roman Republic The superiority that is favored by fatum and the gods, and so gains fortuna in crucial situations, particularly after virtus has declined,14 helps the populus Romanus expand its rule. However, as soon as luxury and all the following vices infiltrate the Roman 9

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Cf. Flor. 1.22.20 = 2.6.20: Sed tum quidem illum, ut dici volgo solet, aut fatum urbis imperaturae aut ipsius mens mala et aversi a Carthagine di in diversum abstulerunt. / “However, at the time, as is generally said, either the destiny of Rome as the future ruler of the world, or Hannibal’s mistaken judgment, and the hostility of the gods to Carthage, diverted him elsewhere.” Flor. 1.22.21 f. = 2.6.21 f.: Cum victoria posset uti, frui maluit, relictaque Roma Campaniam Tarentumque perrexit; ubi mox et ipsius et exercitus ardor elanguit, adeo ut vere dictum sit Capuam Annibali Cannas fuisse. (21) Si quidem invictum Alpibus indomitumque armis Campani — quis crederet ? — soles et tepentes fontibus Baiae subegerunt. / “When he might have exploited his victory, he preferred the enjoyments which it offered and, neglecting Rome, marched to Campania and Tarentum, where the vigour both of himself and of his army soon languished to such an extent that it has been remarked with truth that ‘Capua was Hannibal’s Cannae.’ (22) For, though it is scarcely credible, the sunshine of Campania and the hot springs of Baiae overcame him who had been undefeated by the Alps and unconquered on the battle-field.” Note the nice, consonant word-play “Capua” and “Cannae” with Hannibal in between; also the final tricolon “invictum … — indomitum … — … subegerunt”. Flor. 1.22.23 – 26 = 2.6.23 – 26. For the whole narrative of the Second Punic War, its arrangement and possible sources, see Klotz 1940; Steinmetz 1982, pp. 130 – 133. Cf. Steinmetz 1982, pp. 132 – 133, who criticizes Florus’ approach by applying a too modern standard of historiography to this kind of narrative. Thus, cf. Flamerie de Lachapelle 2010a, pp. 147 – 148. on the use of this intentional structuring for the “moral” narrative. Cf. Hose 1994, p. 100.

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minds, all the characteristics and symptoms of decline occur, which Florus not only describes precisely in his already mentioned recapitulation (Flor. 1.47 = 3.12.1 – 14) but uses as one narrative feature in illustrating the battles in the Late Roman Republic. Foremost, the critique he utters is connected with individual leaders of the Late Roman Republic.15 This shift is remarkable because in the first part of his work individuals and their behavior had taken a back seat in favor of the populus Romanus as one body and person.16 Like the misjudgment of Hannibal after his first victories in the Second Punic War, those Roman leaders can now conduct glorious battles and wars but often overstress Virtus and Fortuna. So, Florus’ criticisms arise against an unsound expansion that only benefits individual interests and does not integrate the conquered parts into a corpus imperii, on different levels according to the degree of civilization.17 Crassus’ Parthian campaign with the decisive and destructive battle at Carrhae 53 BC is a perfect example of Florus’ model.18 Contrasted with the successes in Caesar’s Gallic War the Roman people as the subject suffer the defeat due to the cupiditas of Crassus who wishes to enrich himself with the Parthian gold, and thus acts against men and gods (§ 2).19 This desire, that even seeps through his whole body (§ 5: Regiis inhians ille thesauris / “(Crassus,) who coveted the royal treasures”), lets him neglect different kinds of human and divine warnings,20 and even breach a treaty. He is also tricked: under his command the army gives up its secure position and is then totally surrounded by the Parthian enemies in the plain of Carrhae — a move reflected in the sentence structure (§ 7: Tum in mediam camporum vastitatem eodem duce ductus exercitus, ut undique hosti exponeretur / “Next, again under the same guidance, the army was conducted into the midst of vast plains, to be exposed to enemy attacks from every side”) — and consequently defeated. When Crassus is nearly captured, even the attempted rescue by Crassus’ tribunes turns into a disaster. His dishonorable death is shown vividly in the stylistic composition (§ 9: Ipse in conloquium sollicitatus, signo dato vivus hostium in manus incidisset, nisi tribunis reluctantibus fugam ducis barbari ferro occupassent / “The consul himself, invited to a parley, would on a given signal have fallen alive into the hands of the enemy, had not the barbarians, owing to the resistance of the tribunes, used their swords to prevent his escape”). The final result relates to the beginning: Crassus’ desire for gold is fulfilled by pouring gold in his cut-off head (cf. § 5 again: inhians), a mockery that is judged

15 One can see a similar focusing on individuals and their immoral behavior in Sallust, Bellum Catilinae and Bellum Jugurthinum, for instance. 16 Cf. Hose 1994, pp. 90 – 92. 17 Cf. ibid., pp. 110 – 118. 18 Cf. Flor. 1.46.1 – 10 = 3.11.1 – 10. 19 On different motifs, and a comparison with the common features of the Crassus’ image drawn by the literati after Cannae, cf. Weggen 2011, 211 – 214. Cf. Flor. 2.13.10 – 11 = 4.2.10 – 11 on Crassus’ permanent strife for getting more. 20 On the warning of Metellus, and the connection to Lucan, cf. Weggen 2011, p. 212.

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not to be undeserved (§ 10: ludibrio fuit, neque indigno / “and treated with mockery which was not undeserved”). The same motif, cupiditas, can also be found later on, in the case of Mark Antony’s Parthian battle. While Ventidius Bassus compensates, at least partly, Crassus’ defeat by fighting back the Parthians, in coalition with Labienus,21 through a stratagem (Flor. 2.19.1 – 7 = 4.9.1 – 7), Antony, although having made a treaty with the Parthians, is said to have followed his desire for titles when attacking the Parthians.22 Again, a crushing defeat and a lucky rescue of parts of the army follows.23 However, this does not stop Antony’s vanity and desire but fires it even more, so that his consequent end is already visible.24 And so, later, Octavian/Augustus is the first, who does not only overcome him, but achieves the return of the Roman standards from the Parthians, too.25

The Decisive Battlefield: Spain As already noted, Florus puts very much emphasis on Spain and its contribution to the formation of the imperium Romanum.26 If one turns away from the usual views, the teleological perspective — Spain being the paradigm of the new corpus imperii — and the biographical conclusions drawn from Florus’ focus — the identification with the poet and rhetorician of the same name—,27 very important features of Spain with regard to the battle-scheme are revealed.

21 Who was, in fact, led by C. Cassius Longinus, the (pro-)quaestor of Crassus at Carrhae. On Cassius’ office, cf. the discussion in Broughton 1986, p. 51. On this literary bridge, cf. Weggen 2011, pp. 213 – 214. Ibid. on the balancing, e. g. the beheading of Pacorus as a revenge for Crassus’. 22 Flor. 2.20.1 – 10 = 4.10.1 – 10. The desire is expressed in § 2: Sed — inmensa vanitas hominis — dum titulorum cupidine Araxen et Euphraten sub imaginibus suis legi concupiscit … / “But such was the exceeding vanity of the man that, in desire for fresh titles of honour, he longed to have the Araxes and Euphrates inscribed beneath his statues … .” Thus, he does not respect any rules of a bellum iustum: … neque causa neque consilio ac ne imaginaria quidem belli indictione … / “… and, without any pretext or design and without even a pretended declaration of war … .” 23 On the rescue and the connection with divine mercy and the help of a survivor of Carrhae, cf. Flor. 2.20.4 f. = 4.10.4 f. with Weggen 2011, p. 214. On the dictum of a Parthian that this rescue forecasts the fama of the Romans (Flor. 2.20.7 = 4.10.7; note that gentium can relate to both, victores and fama !): Flamerie de Lachapelle 2010b, pp. 276 – 277. 24 § 10: … tandem perfugit in Syriam, ubi incredibili quadam mentis vaecordia ferocior ahquanto factus est, quasi vicisset, quia evaserat. / “… he at last reached Syria in flight, where, by an extraordinary perversion of mind, he grew even more self-confident, for all the world as if, by escaping, he had won the day.” 25 See Flor. 2.21 = 4.11 – 12 for the final war, against Antony and Cleopatra. The return of the standards of Crassus’ army by Augustus is described in Flor. 2.34.63 = 4.12.63. Cf. below on the context and implications. 26 Cf. Hose 1994, p. 117. 27 Cf. ibid., p. 117 (teleology) and pp. 127 – 128. (identification). On the Florus’ problem, cf. ibid., pp. 53 – 61 (with all references and further literature).

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After a prelude in the Second Punic War, with Scipio Africanus the Elder showing his virtue at last,28 for first time Spain comes into focus as an entity after the Third Punic War and operations in Greece, ending with Corinth in 146 BC.29 Putting Numantia in a row after the destruction of Carthage and Corinth, Florus from the beginning marks the frame of the two chapters to come;30 in the following, he stresses the non-hostile attitude of Spain towards Rome, its geographical advantages (well-protected) and the long period of fights that happened there from the Second Punic War up to Augustus.31 Subsequently, Florus describes the individual campaigns, starting with a short recollection of the expeditions in the Second Punic War and the creation of a province by Scipio Africanus the Elder whose foresight — contrary to Hannibal — of keeping the achieved status is praised.32 The list of campaigns ends in this chapter with Popilius who displays an eagerness to finish the campaign, and thus is said to have ordered the poisoning of the fiercest enemy of the Romans, Viriatus.33 Popilius, who actually was not involved in this assassination (it was Q. Servilius Caepio),34 forms again the bridge for Florus to come to Numantia. Popilius is left out in this story — likely to arrange, and contrast, the two, increasing, defeats and, for the Romans, shameful treaties of Q. Pompeius and C. Hostilius Mancinus in a tricolon with the following victory of Scipio Africanus Minor, and the emotionally narrated suicide of the Numantians after a long siege.35 While this final “battle” forms the glorious end of the “golden” age, and the turning point to the “iron” age of the imperium36 there are striking similarities to the perception of the actual last battles in Spain under Augustus. It is the Cantabrians and their desire to rule other tribes that first starts a war again.37 All is told in tricola: a threefold divided Roman army defeats the Cantabrians in three campaigns;38 the coda tells of the siege of Mount Medullus, with a similar fate as that of the Numantians.39 At

28 Cf. Flor. 1.22.36 – 40 = 2.6.36 – 40. Scipio is already recovering the whole of Spain (§ 38), after the defeat of the two other Scipiones, and shows his sanctity by not violating young captives (§ 40). 29 Third Punic War: Flor. 1.31 = 2.15; Achaean War: Flor 1.32 = 2.16. 30 Cf. Flor. 1.33.1 f. =2.17.1 f. 31 Cf. Flor. 1.33.3 – 5 = 2.17.3 – 5. 32 Cf. Flor. 1.33.7 – 9 = 2.17.7 – 9. Hannibal’s failure to keep the achievements: Flor. 1.22.20 = 2.6.20. On the whole complex and the sententiae of Florus connected with it, cf. Flamerie de Lachapelle 2015, p. 112 (ad Flor. 1.33.8 = 2.17.8), pp. 118 – 119., esp. pp. 125 – 126. 33 Cf. Flor. 1.33.17 = 2.17.17. 34 Cf. Broughton 1951, p. 482. 35 Cf. Flor. 1.34.5 – 8 = 2.18.5 – 8 on Pompeius, Mancinus and finally Scipio. Afterwards, Flor. 1.34.9 – 17 = 2.18.9 – 17 the destructive siege of Numantia. 36 Cf. Flor. 1.34.1 – 5 = 2.19.1 – 5 with Hose 1994, esp. pp. 103 – 106. 37 Cf. Flor. 2.33.47 = 4.12.47. 38 Cf. Flor. 2.33.48 – 50 = 4.12.48 – 50. 39 Cf. Flor. 2.33.50 = 4.12.50. Before Numantia (see above n. 35) also Sagunt suffers, and liberates itself, in the same way: Flor. 1.22.6 = 2.6.6.

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last, Caesar (Augustus) is called to the scene by three (two legates and Agrippa),40 and conducts the final stroke, also in three steps;41 then, he even is the one who is refusing the offer of a triumph, again in a form of tricolon.42 The last challenge, the Asturians, is narrated by Florus as a kind of approximation. This tribe is equally well prepared as the Romans — a well-selected camp, with three army-units attacking the three Roman camps simultaneously.43 However, due to treason the Romans are able to disturb the plan, and win the day.44 Nevertheless, the last refuge of the insurgents, Lancea, does not become a second Saguntum, Numantia or Mount Medullus. Though demanded, it is not burnt down by the Romans due to the mercy asked for by the general with an interesting reasoning (Flor. 2.33.58 = 4.12.58): ut victoriae Romanae stans potius esset quam incensa monumentum. / “… that it would form a better monument of the Roman victory if it were left standing than if it were burnt.” With that saving, all the battles under Augustus, and the rebellion in Spain, come to an end.45 All is now developing in consonance: loyalty ( fides) and peace (pax), based on the character of the Spanish (ingenium) and the measures conducted by Augustus (consilia); the breakup of the potentially threatening mountain-bastions and the settlement in the plain; the establishment of the council (concilium) and the capital (caput) there; the rich natural resources (gold, chrysocolla, vermillion et al.) and the imperial order to mine them; the first accomplishment of knowledge in respect of those resources by the demand of others.46

40 Cf. Flor. 2.33.51 = 4.12.51. 41 Flor. 2.33.52 = 4.12.52: Mox ipse praesens hos deduxit montibus, hos obsidibus astrinxit, hos sub corona iure belli venundedit. / “Himself arriving quickly on the scene, he brought some of the inhabitants down from the mountains, secured the fidelity of others by taking hostages, and sold others, by right of conquest, into slavery.” 42 Flor. 2.33.53 = 4.12.53: Digna res lauro, digna curru senatui visa est; sed iam tantus erat Caesar, ut triumpho augeri contemneret. / “His success was considered by the senate to be worthy of a laurel crown and a triumphal chariot; but Caesar was so mighty that he despised any glory that a triumph could bestow.” On the problematic transmission of the last part of the sentence, and possible solutions, cf. Kruse and Scharf 1996, p. 494, n. 24. 43 Again, all in tricola: Flor. 2.33.54 f. = 4.12.54 f.: Astures per id tempus ingenti agmine a montibus niveis descenderant. Nec temere sumptus barbaris videbatur hic impetus; sed positis castris apud Asturam flumen trifariam diviso agmine tria simul Romanorum adgredi parant castra. (55) Fuissetque anceps et cruentum et utinam mutua clade certamen cum tam fortibus, tam subito, tam cum consilio venientibus, … / “The Asturians meanwhile had come down from the snow-clad mountains in a vast host. This attack seems not to have been undertaken without consideration by the barbarians; but they pitched their camp at the river Astura and, dividing their forces into three parts, prepared a simultaneous attack on the three camps of the Romans. (55) With such brave enemies attacking suddenly and with so well-conceived a plan the struggle would have been doubtful and bloody — and I would I could think that the losses on both sides would have been equal …” 44 Cf. Flor. 2.33.56 = 4.12.56. 45 Cf. Flor. 2.33.59 = 4.12.59. 46 Cf. Flor. 2.33.59 – 60 = 4.12.59 – 60.

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Conclusion: No Battles Anymore ? Florus and the Imperium Romanum The harmonious end of the fights in Spain leads Florus to his final chapter, in which we find no battles anymore. By having defeated all the gentes in the four wind directions, the Roman rule finally becomes a corpus imperii, a Roman Empire.47 And Augustus is the one who not only conquers but really keeps it.48 With the embassies of foreign states outside the Roman rule, namely the Scythians, Sarmatians, the Chinese, Indians, and even the Parthians, Florus may still locate these events in Spain, where Augustus received legates from different nations.49 However, this causes the next and critical change. With the closing of the Janus-temple and the turn-around to peace, the battles end, and in the scope of Florus for a long time up to Trajan who is finally reviving the almost leached body of the populus Romanus.50 What is more, Augustus also achieves the containment of the vices, nicely shown by putting them in the middle of the sentence:51 Hinc conversus ad pacem pronum in omnia mala et in luxuriam fluens saeculum gravibus severisque legibus multis coercuit, ob haec tot facta ingentia dictus imperator perpetuus et pater patriae. “Next, devoting himself to securing tranquillity, by many strict and severe enactments he restrained an age which was prone to every vice and readily led into luxury. For all these great achievements he was named Perpetual Imperator and Father of his Country.”

Both the settling of the external and internal affairs are honored with the imperator perpetuus-title, which — in the form of the dictator perpetuus-title offered in 22 BC — 47 Cf. Flor. 2.33.61 = 4.12.61. On the notion of a “Römisches Reich” (“Roman Empire”) in Augustan times, cf. Bernstein 2010. 48 So, Florus’ conception (see also nn. 5 and 53, with further references and literature) is very similar to Augustus’ own, expressed in Plut. apophth. Caes. Aug. 8 (= mor. 96b) = Bringmann and Wiegandt 2008, p. 294 (254 F), translation by the author: ἀκούσας δὲ ὅτι Ἀλέξανδρος δύο καὶ τριάκοντα γεγονὼς ἔτη κατεστραμμένος τὰ πλεῖστα διηπόρει τί ποιήσει τὸν λοιπὸν χρόνον, ἐθαύμαζεν εἰ μὴ μεῖζον Ἀλέξανδρος ἔργον ἡγεῖτο τοῦ κτήσασθαι τὴν ἡγεμονίαν τὸ διατάξαι τὴν ὑπάρχουσαν. “When he, however, heard that Alexander, at the age of thirty-two years having subjected to himself the greatest (part of the world), was in doubt what he should do in the left time, he wondered whether Alexander should not think it to be a bigger task to bring an accrued hegemony in order than to gain it.” On the consequence for the empire-thought, cf. Bernstein 2010, p. 65. 49 Cf. Flor. 2.33.62 – 64 = 4.12.62 – 64; for the embassies: Iust. 42.5.6 – 9 (Parthians); Oros. 6.21.19 – 20 (Scythians and Indians). On these legacies, the arrangement of Florus and the resemblance of Alexander the Great, cf. Bessone 1996; Scheid 2007, pp. 79 – 80.; Cooley 2009, pp. 249 – 251. Cf. also Kruse and Scharf 1996, p. 495, with the focus on the consequences for the status of a Roman colonia granted to Tarraco. 50 Cf. Flor. 2.33.64 – 65 = 4.12.64 – 65. On the revival after long decline: Flor. 1.8 = 1 praef. 8, pace Koch 2014; Neuhausen 2015. On the discussion of when the revival occurred, i. e. the reading of revirescit or reviruit in Flor. 1.8 = 1 praef. 8, cf. Hose 1994, pp. 120 – 121.; contra Scholtemeijer 1974. 51 Flor. 2.33.65 = 4.12.65.

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Augustus did actually not accept, and the pater patriae-title.52 It is also not astonishing that he exceeds Romulus with these achievements and receives — wrongly in the chronological order but proper in respect to the narrative structure of Florus towards an apotheosis of the first emperor — the title Augustus instead of Romulus. For while Romulus founded the city, started the first war-battles and functioned, after his miraculous death and re-naming to Quirinus (!), as the first organ of the gods announcing the Roman rule over the gentes, Augustus was still alive and could conduct in a divine manner on earth what the gods had predicted; hence the name, and title.53 Similar to this final junction and harmony of war and peace, external and internal affairs, persons and gods, and likely Virtus and Fortuna, I showed the development of the battle-narratives. Composed with different elements and a strong sense of literary technique, Florus intentionally styles his Roman History not merely according to time and place — though particularly the latter is sometimes decisive — but towards his main aim, the corpus imperii. Hence the vices that undermine the morality of enemies and Romans (e. g. Hannibal/Crassus), whence Virtus and Fortuna, the gods and fatum helping in critical situations, whence the historical teleology leading to the final concordance of space, time, and one person: Augustus, the terminator of both, war and vices.

Bibliography Alonso Núñez, J. M. 1983. Die politische und soziale Ideologie des Geschichtsschreibers Florus. Bonn: Habelt. Bernstein, F. 2010. Das Imperium Romanum – ein ‘Reich’ ? Gymnasium 117: 49 – 66. Bessone, L. 1996. Floro e le legazioni ecumeniche ad Augusto. Athenaeum 84: 93 – 100. Bringmann, Kl. and Wiegandt, D. (eds) 2008. Augustus. Schriften, Reden und Aussprüche. Texte zur Forschung 91. Darmstadt: WBG. Broughton, T. R. S. 1951. The Magistrates of the Roman Republic. Vol. I: 509 B. C. – 100 B. C. American Philological Association, Philological Monographs 15/1. New York: The American Philological Association. Broughton, T. R. S. 1986. The Magistrates of the Roman Republic. Vol. III: Supplement. American Philological Association, Philological Monographs 15/3. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press.

52 On the rejection of the dictator perpetuus-title, cf. RGDA 5.1: Dictaturam et apsenti et praesenti mihi delatam et a populo et a senatu, M. Marcello et L. Arruntio consulibus non accepi. Further references and literature in Scheid 2007, pp. 34 – 35. (ad loc.); cf. also Hose 1994, p. 122 with n. 12 (further literature on Florus’ mistake or unclear expression). In fact, dictator perpetuus is in the manuscripts but was conjectured by Th. Mommsen to imperator perpetuus. On this, see Halm 1872, p. XIX. 53 Romulus as deity: Flor. 1.1 = 1.1.18; name, title and meaning of Augustus: Flor. 2.33 = 4.12.66. On the characterization and evaluation of Augustus, and the structure of that last chapter, cf. Hose 1994, pp. 122 – 123.

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Cooley, A. E. 2009. Res Gestae Divi Augusti. Text, Translation, and Commentary. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Facchini Tosi, C. 1990. Il proemio di Floro. La struttura concetuale e formale. Bologna: Pàtron. Flamerie de Lachapelle, G. 2010a. Les récits de batailles dans l’œuvre de Florus: enjeux narratifs et idéologique. Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 36 (1): 137 – 152. Flamerie de Lachapelle, G. 2010b. Les discours directe dans l’œuvre de Florus. Ancient Society 40: 265 – 290. Flamerie de Lachapelle, G. 2015. Les sententiae chez Florus. Wiener Studien 128: 107 – 127. Forster, E. S. 1929. Lucius Annaeus Florus, Epitome of Roman History. In Lucius Annaeus Florus, Epitome of Roman History/Cornelius Nepos. E. S. Forster and J. C. Rolfe trans. Loeb Classical Library. VII-351. London and Cambridge MA: William Heinemann LTD & Harvard University Press. Günther, S. 2016. Concordiam discordiam in forma inclvdere – qvomodo L. Annaevs Florvs de seditionibvs plebis in re pvblica Romana primae aetatis scripserit. Vox Latina 52 (205): 327 – 329. Halm, C. (ed.) 1872. Iuli Flori Epitomae de Tito Livio bellorum omnium annorum DCC libri duo. Leipzig: Teubner. Hose, M. 1994. Erneuerung der Vergangenheit. Die Historiker im Imperium Romanum von Florus bis Cassius Dio. Stuttgart and Leipzig: Teubner. Klotz, A. 1940. Der Zweite Punische Krieg bei Florus. Rheinisches Museum für Philologie N. F. 89 (2): 114 – 127. Koch, H. 2014. Neue Beobachtungen zum Geschichtswerk des Iulius Florus als eines spätaugusteischen Autors. Acta Classica Universitatis Scientiarum Debrecensis 50: 101 – 137. Kruse, Th. and Scharf, R. 1996. Taracco Triumphans oder die Caesaren des Florus. Hermes: Zeitschrift für klassische Philologie 124 (4): 491 – 498. Neuhausen, K. A. 2015. Augustus und Florus vor 2000 Jahren: zur Wiederentdeckung und Rekonstruktion der Originalfassung des Geschichtswerkes des Iulius Florus (14/15 n. Chr.). Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 55 (1 – 4): 317 – 255. Scheid, J. (ed.) 2007. Res Gestae Divi Avgvsti/Hauts Faits du Divin Auguste. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Scholtemeijer, J. 1974. Lucius Annaeus Florus: ’N analise van strukturele temas ’n nuwe perspektief. Acta Classica 17: 81 – 100 (with English summary). Steinmetz, P. 1982. Untersuchungen zur römischen Literatur des zweiten Jahrhunderts nach Christi Geburt. Palingenesia 16. Wiesbaden: Steiner. Weggen, K. 2011. Der lange Schatten von Carrhae. Studien zu M. Licinius Crassus. Studien zur Geschichtsforschung des Altertums 22. Hamburg: Verlag Dr. Kovač.

The Impact of Violence as Heroization Technique in Basini’s Hesperis, Naldi’s Volaterrais and Filelfo’s Sphortias Dennis Pulina

The anger of Achilles is the proclaimed program of the Iliad: the wrath of the best warrior of the Greeks. His heroism, like the heroism of all Homeric heroes, is essentially founded on warlike abilities. Analyzing the battle scenes in the Iliad, Hellmann concludes that individual fame and honor are the absolute aims of heroes’ actions.1 In a meaningful speech, Sarpedon (Il. 12, 309 – 328), the king of Lycia, establishes best performances in war as a main characteristic of heroes and looks at everlasting fame through death in war.2 There is also a concise passage of particular interest, likewise quoted by Hellmann, in which Achilles’ mother Thetis prophesies to her son two alternative destinies: either the return from war, which is tied to a long life, or death, which brings everlasting and imperishable fame (Il. 11, 410 – 416). Achilles chooses the latter, which shows doubtlessly that it was just in their mortality that these men saw the opportunity for eternal heroism, a way of transcending death. The fact that social standing is directly related to individual skills and performance3 implies that any efforts to avoid fighting are unheroic, in particular when others fight triumphantly in the hero’s place. The necessity to legitimize dominion is the necessity to wage war, the reason for calling these heroes “warrior aristocrats”. Hellmann emphasizes from his observations that the Homeric elite “justify their privileges through special achievements especially in war. Power generally does not appear to be rigidly institutionalized; it must be constantly justified and secured”.4 Regarding the value of violence, Horn illustrates that military prowess is the reason for Achilles’s title ἄριστος Ἀχαιῶν (best of the Achaeans), not prudence or rhetoric.5 1 2 3 4 5

Hellmann 2000, p. 74. See also Horn 2014, pp. 48 – 53.139 – 144. For a detailed analysis of the speech of Sarpedon and some studies on its implications on heroism see Horn 2014, pp. 31 – 146, as well as the study of Strauss Clay 2009. See Horn 2014, pp. 48 – 49. Hellmann 2000, p. 88. Horn 2014, p. 53 with reference to van Wees 1992, p. 72.

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_13

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War and violence then became a basic element of Latin epics. Although there is, for example, less violence in Virgil’s Aeneid, this is not less aesthetically sketched than in the Homeric epics.6 The hero, here too, remains a brave and successful warrior, even if the narrative attributes further heroic qualities to his character such as reason and prudence — a heroic ideal, which Odysseus already embodies — as well as the renowned skill of enduring labores. Social aspects of the hero in his role as dux in a community are also a not insignificant part in heroic acting and leadership.7 Apart from a mythical past as setting of most Latin epics of antiquity, personalities of history — generals and rulers — more frequently become heroic protagonists of such poetry. Epic poets learned from Claudian how to apply the Virgilian model to contemporary rulers. In early-modern Europe then, the Latin epic flourishes as an outstanding instrument of praise for the ruler — in a time when his glory and honor still depend to a large extent on military deeds. In its extreme and most brutal form, a need to wage war can be found in the condottieri of the Italian Quattrocento, where violence is simply a business. For the condottieri, therefore, Kortüm has chosen the term “violence trader”,8 because they function within a market of violence and thus depend on its supply and demand. He emphasizes the inevitable consequences of this, which are that the violence trader has to look for customers for his product, that he faces competition, and last but not least, that in this context, a period of peace is simply deficient and damaging to his interests.9 Hence it is plainly evident that a strong performance on the battlefield, which equals success, is indispensable and prestigious.10 This article will provide an analysis of the scale of violence concerning the heroization in three famous Latin epic poems of the Early-Modern period. Besides generic traditions including a recurrent repertory of Latin epic poetry as well as temporal circumstances, violence is to be expected as an essential part of the heroic narrative, more precisely of the hero’s agency. Nevertheless, one should question, whether there is not more to it. Considering that a good ruler — i. e. especially the hero of a panegyric epic poem — has to embody Christian values, and against the background of increasing economic and diplomatic interests, the following study will investigate 6

An overview of the violent scenes after Aeneas’s arrival in Latium is given by Dominik 2009, p. 127. Cf. on the aesthetics of violence in Homer Bohrer 2013, pp. 22 – 24. Id., p. 22: “Im Homerischen Kampf geht es um den sogenannten ‘kydos’, ein quasi ‘göttliches Prestige’, das der kriegerischen Gewalt eine Faszination verleiht, die den Menschen erschreckt, aber auch in seinen Bann zieht. […] Abgesehen davon, dass der Homerische Achill auch eine Gestalt der Trauer ist und das Bewusstsein seines frühen Todes ihm einen tragischen Zug verleiht, ist seinem Auftritt in Waffen mehrfach jener epiphane Erscheinungscharakter mitgegeben, der die mörderische Gewalt, die ihn kennzeichnet, abhebt vom banalen Akt des Tötens, selbst wenn Homer ihn in Szenen schieren Tötens zeigt”. 7 For details about this, see Schauer 2007, p. 33, esp. note no. 60, as well as Thurn 2010, p. 9, esp. note no. 1. 8 Kortüm 2010, p. 127. 9 See ibid., p. 127. 10 Cf. ibid.

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the link and the evaluation of violence versus non-violence and morality in those epic poems. For this, a definition of violence needs to be given first: It is understood here as in Popitz’s pioneering definition as “a power action, leading to the intended bodily damaging of others, no matter whether for the actor it finds its meaning in its being carried out (as mere power of action) or, translated into threats, is supposed to establish the durable subjection of the other party (as binding power of action)”.11 This definition is, of course, at odds with the ambiguous ambivalence of this concept, which is defined differently in every culture, every society, every political system, every religion, and which is defined by each individual.12 For this reason, the study of the extent of violence-based heroizability and heroization in a whole century of Latin epics can only be done by making a few base assumptions. The focus will therefore be on physical violence and the psychological effects it immediately causes. Beyond the inseparable emotional compounds of the physical violence in battles, psychological violence, meaning words, gestures, the withdrawal of essentials for life, etc.,13 will not be explicitly considered in this analysis. Under these assumptions, three famous 15th century epics are to be examined that tell of the following three condottieri as epic heroes: Francesco Sforza (1401 – 1466), Federico da Montefeltro (1422 – 1482) and Sigismondo Malatesta (1417 – 1468). For Sforza, Francesco Filelfo wrote the Sphortias which recounts the events taking place from August 1447 (when Filippo Maria Visconti — the Duke of Milan and Sforza’s father-in-law — died) until the end of 1448.14 The unfinished work was originally meant to cover the events up until March 1450, when Sforza moved to Milan as the new duke, but perhaps the death of Filelfo’s hero prevented the poet from finishing his work.15 The Florentine poet Naldo Naldi16 wrote the four-volume Volaterrais on Federico da Montefeltro, the leader of the Florentine troops in the fight for alum rights against the insurgent Volterra. This epic partly tells of Lorenzo de’Medici, whose heroism also has to be discussed. The Hesperis, written by Basinio Basini, spans 13 books and tells of the period between Sigismondo Malatesta’s victory at Piombino in 1448 and the siege of Vada in 1453.17 Basini’s epic highlights Sigismondo’s quarrel with Alphonso, King of Aragón and thus of much of Southern Italy, as well as with his son.

11 12 13 14

Popitz 2017, p. 29. See Heitmeyer and Hagan 2002, p. 19. See Imbusch 2002, p. 38. De Keyser 2015, p. xii. In the introduction to this edition, which the cited passages of this study follow, there are further explanations of Filelfo and Sforza. There is also a summary, ibid., pp. XXXIII – XLIII. 15 See ibid., p. XII. 16 Detailed information on the poet can be found in Peters 2016, pp. 322 – 335, as well as an overview of the story ibid., pp. 336 – 340. 17 See ibid., p. 175. A summary of the Hesperis is given in ibid., pp. 176 – 191.

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As a starting point, the impact of violence in the three epics discussed here can be contextualized on the basis of a statement by Jupiter to his wife Juno in the Hesperis, which clarifies the position of this work within the tradition of Latin epics: the Italians are said to be descendants of the Romans and thus stand in the shadow of their glorious ancestors. This means that they have to fulfill an inherited obligation of military probation and dominion by demonstrating the same struggle and the same strength. They are inherently measured against them, and the godfather himself explicitly expects them to live up to their legacy. Hesp. 1,473b – 478a Quid adhuc, gratissima conjux, Quid dubitamus adhuc prisca de gente Quirites Et superesse viros, valeant qui fortibus armis Italiam tegere, et veterum superare parentum Fortia facta; vides quali virtute feratur Spumifero Sismundus equo ? Why, my dear wife, why do we still doubt that the Quirites of the old race and men are still left, capable of protecting Italy with powerful weapons, and still surpassing the brave deeds of their ancestors; do you see how virtuous Sigismondo is carried by his frothing horse ?

Within this passage, heroic agency is explicitly intertwined with violent warfare, together with the protection of the country and the claim of dominion. Virtue is meant as a warlike ability superior to that of their ancestors, based on fortia arma. This word choice already displays the connection between fortia facta and fortia arma. Furthermore, Sigismondo does not ride majestically elegant on a horse, but is carried by an angry animal, which impressively demonstrates the expected hero’s character insofar as the animal’s savagery can be ascribed to the rider. Besides, his ability to ride the horse shows his body control. Moreover, vides emphatically emphasizes an exemplarity: Juno — and with her the reader — should look at Sigismondo and discover a characteristic of the heroic in his behavior. The fact that this is a rhetorical question furthermore suggests that the events of the epic will highlight the correctness of Jupiter’s assessment. That this statement comes straight from the godfather finally illustrates a universal validity and already indicates a focused heroism based on warlike abilities. Such expectations on martial heroism bringing glory and honor are also mentioned by the environment of the hero, not only by the gods. In the Sphortias, for instance, the deceased Filippo Maria Visconti appears in Francesco’s dream and urges him to conquer Piacenza as punishment for the fact that the city does not support the Milanese. Filippo promises Francesco the following reward for his effort: Clarum tibi nomen in orbe / Efficies nostrasque feres ad sydera laudes (Sphor. 2,791b – 792).18 18 “You will give yourself a famous name in the world and will raise our glory to the stars.”

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Since a major role of violence in the concept of heroism19 has to be assumed from these observations, three points will allow closer access to the explicit and implicit idea of the heroic: firstly, the symbolism of violence (a not inconsiderable part of the hero’s attraction), secondly, the concrete action in the fight, and finally, the hero’s morality and virtue. Beginning with the symbolism of violence, i. e. visible violence such as weapons, we are immediately confronted with pulchra or fulgentia arma of the hero, as we know them from ancient epics. A passage of the Hesperis illustrates the importance of shining armor: Hesp. 1, 300 – 310a Arma humeris magni circumdat ponderis, omnes Ante alios longe lucenti splendidus auro. Ut canis aurati fulgens decus Orionis Sidera multa micat superans, et crine minaci Ipse sub ardenti moribundus nascitur aestu, Debilibusque serit morbos mortalibus atros, Multigenumque animal, permixto et sanguine cretum Omne perit, periere canes in montibus albi: Talis erat fulgens pulchris Sismundus in armis Aureus, ut fulvo radiarent cuncta metallo Agmina. He puts heavy weapons around his shoulder and shines more brilliant and golden than anyone else. As the brilliant ornament of the golden Dog of the Orion exceeds many stars in his splendor, as it rises and sets with his threatening curl under the burning summer heat, and streams the weak man with incurable diseases — and every creature of different sorts, that was born by the mixing of blood, vanished and even the white dogs died in the mountains: So golden was Sigismondo and brilliant in the beautiful weapons that all the troops were illuminated by the brilliant metal.

The phrase pulchra arma refers back to ancient literary models, in particular to the legendary weapons of Achilles, which Hephaestus had forged for him,20 but also on the Virgilian counterpart, where Venus asks Vulcanus for weapons for Aeneas.21 Shining weapons are an expression of both power and violence, and this passage demonstrates the fascination with them quite well. The comparison with the brightest star of Orion emphasizes something celestial and divine in the hero, and the ad19 Heroism consists of different factors and research has to ask for the balance or evaluation of these elements. A very useful typology of the hero can be found in Schlechtriemen 2016, pp. 17 – 18. 20 Cf. Il. 18, 478 – 479.609 – 613. 21 Aen. 8, 370 – 386.

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miration and deep amazement at his appearance lend the warrior a kind of charisma through his weapons, as well as something humanly incomprehensible. All of this highlights the hero’s exceptionalism. To give an impression of the widespread use of this typical heroic attribute, in Hesp. 1, 421, Sigismondo is accentuated as primus pulchris in armis and is at this point compared with a bull leading young cattle to slaughter (Hesp. 1, 420 – 425). This image of the hero is explicitly arranged as intended by Jupiter and connected with the ornament for the people: talem te rector olympi / tum, Pandulphe, dedit populis decus esse Latinis. (Hesp. 1, 424b – 425).22 At the beginning of the Volaterrais, there is an excursus showing how Florence flourishes thanks to the Medici. This is attributed in particular to the warlike success represented by fulgentia arma and is directly coupled to the virtus: Sic […] / praecipue Virtus colitur fulgentibus armis / et Pax et socios Victoria parta per agros (Volat. 1, 43 – 45).23 This passage refers to Lorenzo de’ Medici. The passive expression colitur fulgentibus armis reduces the hero to his weapons: virtue, peace and victory arise and perish depending on the abilities of a successful warrior, for whom the shining weapons become a metaphor. Further characteristic features of the heroic, especially the rationalized, moderate handling of power and violence, are in this case totally ignored by the narrator. The splendor of the weapons here determines the splendor of the hero, in both senses of the word. The position of this statement at the very beginning of the epic raise the reader’s expectations of heroic behavior and heroic deeds. Apart from the fact that iridescent weapons are among the typical elements of Latin epics, they inevitably contribute to a heroization inasmuch as they take the hero out of the collective and put the focus on him. This explains why, in the Hesperis, the descriptions of these weapons are only used selectively by the narrator. Whereas the enemy is a considerable hero too, only the true and victorious hero is sketched with such weapons, even though the enemies undoubtedly possess no less splendid ones. The weapons only get part of the heroization, once they are in possession of the Sigismondo. Just during his triumph in Florence, the captured brilliant weapons are presented (Hesp. 6, 172 – 175). Although the narrator even remarks that these reins were once gloria and decus of the rider (Hesp. 6, 177 – 178), Alphonso does not benefit from this implicit heroization. The glory of the enemy — now emphasized through the narrator’s comment — is instead transferred immediately to Sigismondo, while the Aragonese king is deprived of his former prestige.

22 “The king of Olympus has then given you, Sigismondo, to be an ornament to the Italian people.” 23 “Thus, especially the virtue, the peace, and the victory gained over the neighboring regions, are worshiped in shining weapons.”

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Next to this implicit violence expressed in weapons, some aspects of its explicit use in the context of battles will be discussed in the following considerations — beginning with the description of a two-man battle between Sigismondo and Alphonso, who are shown as equipotent.24 In the course of the fight, Alphonso throws a hasta, which remains stuck in Sigismondo’s shield. Sigismondo then throws a telum penetrabile, which splits the king’s shield upwards and slightly injures him on his chest (Hesp. 1, 600 – 608). Particularly striking is the word choice for Alphonso’s wounds: et altum / gustavit leviter violato pectore corpus (Hesp. 1, 607b – 608).25 It seems to give him a taste for how a wounded body feels, as if he did not know. It was previously affirmed that Alphonso had already taken many lives with that hasta (Hesp. 1, 601), so that by describing him as particularly powerful and almost invincible, the reader must highly appreciate Sigismondo’s performance. After this success, the socii experience great relief (Conclamant Itali, laetumque ad sidera tollunt / murmur; Hesp. 1, 609 – 610a).26 Although this is only a marginal victory, it induces the narrator to call Sigismondo Malatestai certissima gloria gentis (Hesp. 1, 611). The narrator himself seems to intensely experience an affect of admiration and his reverence leads the reader to also be gripped by the hero’s deed. During that battle, the sword of Sigismondo breaks, which finally reveals Sigismondo’s true force and strength: Hesp. 1, 625b – 629a Non ipse caduco Ense, nec amissis iuvenis deterritus armis Saevior ingreditur pugnam, et sese horridus ira Suscitat, ac Regem dextra petit alta minantem vulnera; Neither frightened by the breaking of the sword, nor the loss of his weapons, the young man begins the struggle only with more anger, and incites himself — furious from anger — and rushes with his right hand towards the king, who threatens him with deep wounds.

24 Hesp. 1, 583 – 588: Hinc Malatesta potens, illinc Taraconius heros. / Spectantes populos magnus stupor occupat omnes. / Olli indignantes secum, saevumque frementes / Obsistunt contra dubio sub Marte laborem, / Vulneraque inter se minitantur multa, ruuntque / Alter in alterius geminatis ictibus arma. Likewise Hesp. 1, 598 – 599: Haud aliter Taraconis honos et gloria magnae / Italiae ingentes duris versantur in armis. (“There stands the mighty Malatesta, opposite the Lord of Aragón. A great rigidity affects all people present. They are outraged, clamorous and face the wild trouble in a dubious war; they threaten each other with many wounds, and one of them plunges into the arms of the other, and both thrust”; “The glory of Aragón and the honor of the great Italy is not acting differently with his hard weapons”.) 25 “And the sublime body [sc. Alphonsus] tasted a slightly wounded breast.” 26 “The Italians cry out and raise a happy roar to heaven.”

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Sigismondo attacks Alphonso’s throat, defeats him, and drags him by the throat like prey (trahitur manibus Sismundi digna potentis / Praeda; Hesp. 1, 632 – 633a).27 Alphonso pleads for his life and Sigismondo spares him in exchange for his promise to withdraw. The hero’s success does not depend on weapons, but he is able to lapse into a wild violence as depicted in saevior and horridus ira, if necessary. Reminding the reader of the anger of Achilles, this passage does not only equate the early modern hero with the Homeric with regards to skill and emotion, but shows that boundless rage can also be compared to animal savagery involving a great struggle between life and death. Beyond the explicit description of the hero’s actions in battle, comparing the hero with aggressive animals is another important heroization technique: in the twelfth book of the Hesperis, Alphonso’s son Ferdinand meets with Sigismondo’s troops, where the latter, still further enraged by the death of a companion, struggles on his horse like a wild eagle which skillfully snaps its prey out of the sky (Hesp. 12, 123 – 128). On the one hand, there is a kind of divinisation resulting from the comparison with this animal, the sacred bird of Jupiter. On the other hand, the example shows that the hero, if necessary, is able to access the rampant savagery of an animal in battle, including all of its extraordinary physical abilities. A similar passage can be found in the third book of the Volaterrais, at the beginning of which a iuvenis Florentinus dies in a disturbance in Volterra. Federico then enters the city like a lion, breaking the fence around the prey and seizing the sheep, or like a wolf hunting for lambs (Volat. 3, 47 – 52). Although wrath is not a main theme of these epics, but limited to the slaughter scenes, all passages impressively demonstrate that success in battle is still the fundamental necessity of the heroism depicted here. The hero is totally violent, which means that he has mastered his weapons, but can, if necessary, also defend himself without them and is always as self-confident as he is undaunted (nec deterritus; Regem petit alta minantem / vulnera). This undauntedness as an expression of the hero’s fearlessness can be found in all the epics as an important part of the heroic. The following passage from the Sphortias illustrates this heroic intrepidness very pointedly: when the Venetians begin a bombardment, everyone except Francesco frightens (Ii cecidere metu; stat solus Sphortia princeps / inconcussus humi; Sphor. 9, 338 – 339).28 For Francesco’s men, the verb cadere is used, which expresses in particular “to die”. The bombardment thus kills them in the most literal sense of the proverb “to die from fear”. Contrary to his soldiers, Francesco stands firmly, unshaken and stable on the ground. Neither shock due to the bombardment nor anxiety make him tremble. In both passages, the “ability to harm”29 is manifested but so is the “exposedness to harm”30 (regem […] alta minantem vulnera). The hero is able to endure violence and take the risk

27 28 29 30

“He is being carried off as prey that is worthy of the hands of the mighty Sigismund.” “These fell to the ground in fear; Only Prince Sphorza was standing unshakable on the ground.” Popitz 1992, p. 26. Ibid.

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of suffering it without fear, which is deeply rooted in the myth of Achilles and the idea of imperishable fame through death. Since Popitz identifies killing as the “ultimate limit”31 of violence, the epic hero, ready to endure the most extreme violence, displays a fearless attitude towards all kinds of it and uses this to attain absolute power. He thus escapes the conclusion implied by Popitz, that “the power to kill produces the helpless fear of being killed”.32 The impact of killing and being killed on heroism has a further facet. Every human being has the opportunity to evade the power of another over oneself by ultimately committing suicide — so that suicide is also “perfect power”.33 One account of two traditionally equal opponents worth looking at can be found in the Hesperis, where Sigismondo defeats Alphonso, whose behavior can also contribute to the reconstruction of the intrinsic idea of the heroic. When he is defeated, he obeys the fata who advise him to withdraw. However, it is not long before he regrets this. He wants to commit suicide three times from shame, but Apollo saves him. Alphonso’s motive is clearly spelled out by the narrator: metusque iraeque pudore permixtae (Hesp. 4, 6 – 7).34 After his attempts at death by his own sword and after being rescued by the god, Alphonso gives a reason thereof and points out that the perfect power that comes from killing another human being or just oneself is an ability all true heroes must be capable of: Hesp. 4, 22 – 24 Quin nihil est, nisi morte manum foedare cruenta: Una salus haec est, haec fortibus una voluptas; Hic modus, haec una est variorum meta laborum. There is no other way than to stain my hand by bloody death. This is the only salvation, for brave men this is the only pleasure; This is the measure, this is the one goal of quite different troubles.

For Alfonso, the hero has only victory or death. Not only must he be ready to die in battle, but in the event of defeat he heroically has to escape the opponent’s victory by suicide. For this focus on a certain range of warlike abilities generic motifs do not provide a satisfactory reason. One assuredly has to keep in mind that these epics have a historical basis, even if they transcend reality in many aspects and are subject to poetic license. A condottiere like Sigismondo Malatesta can scarcely be portrayed in a warlike 31 32 33 34

Popitz 2017, p. 32. Ibid., p. 34. Ibid. “Fear and anger mixed with shame.”

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manner without an appeal to anger and cruelty. Besides, the temporal circumstances do not allow a rejection of the hero’s success in war nor limited or insufficient praise of it. There is also the poet’s dependence on his client to consider.35 But in his warlike abilities, the preeminence of the protagonist-hero in comparison to the enemy and the environment is not very far-reaching. The three epics rather sketch their protagonists in further character points, in which they clearly stand out not only against their men and their environment, but even against the gods, who always appear to be struggling and aggressive. In the following considerations, some qualities and virtues are explored, defining the hero in the context of his violence and thus coloring the use of it. They will show that he is portrayed as a rational and charitable man. He becomes a kind of civilized hero, never allowing himself to be controlled by his affection — and he will never start a war over such an emotional reason. It is therefore worthwhile to return to the conflict between Sigismondo and Alphonso in the Hesperis: After Sigismondo defeated Alphonso without weapons, he spares him and allows him to withdraw with the assurance of renouncement. This is not only a striking example of the Virgilian parcere subiectis, but sparing the defeated corresponds to the contemporary ideal of the most important virtues for a ruler to possess. Being lenient, showing clementia, is highlighted not only in influential mirrors for princes of the late Middle Ages36 but also in the Early Modern period. Due to the growing impact of Seneca’s De clementia in the 15th century37 as well as the importance of leniency as a Christian ideal,38 Latin panegyric poetry on princes needs to show in some way a lenient hero. Proof of this is found in Hesp. 6, 20 – 22: after the defeat at Populonia, the captured Spaniards are carried away in chains like cattle, among them Iphitus, who complains and condemns this disgrace (Felix ille, mori laetis cui contigit annis; Hesp. 6, 22).39 At the same time, the intended humiliation of leading them away in chains is violence in two respects — physically and psychically — which clearly separates the victor and the victorious from the vanquished. Sigismondo now responds to Iphitus’ words with clementia:

35 D’Elia 2016, p. 223 emphasizes a contemporary critique on the praise of Malatesta; for instance: “Both [i. e. Iannus Pannonius, a Hungarian humanist, and Pius II.] question the sincerity of Sigismondo’s literary circle: ‘When you read about the Malatesta triumphs and the splendid deeds of Sigismondo, you read nothing but the empty lies of frivolous poets, for whom hunger alone is their muse’ [without reference]”. 36 For details s. Hohlstein 2007. 37 An overview on the influence for Seneca’s De clementia in the late Middle Ages as well as in the Renaissance is given in Braund 2009, pp. 77 – 79. 38 Cf. Matth. 5,5: “Happy are the gentle: for the earth will be their heritage”. 39 “Happy is he who manages to die in the happy years.”

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Hesp. 6, 23 – 32 Dixerat, et gemitus crebros captiva remittunt Pectora, quos Victor dictis sic ipse benignis Solatur, moestumque levat sermone timorem. “Magnanimi Celtae, tuque o modo queste superbam, Iphite, fortunam; quae vos dementia mortem Vana timere iubet ? Non hic mea gloria, campo Quo victor fueram sed eo; nec bella tulissem, Celta tibi, nisi Rex nostras venisset ad oras. Nec vobis haec est iniuria debita; verum Alphonso, atque animis regnantum semper avaris. This he had said, and the captured bodies give out numerous groans, who the victor himself consoles with the following kind words, and he relieves the dark fear by his speech: “You courageous Spaniards and you, who has just lamented the great power of destiny, Iphitus: What vain insanity tells you to fear death ? Not here is my glory, but in the field on which I had been the victor; and I would not have begun a war against you, Spaniard, unless the king had come into our region. And this injustice is not directed against you, but against Alphonso and the minds of those rulers who are always avaricious.

It is particularly striking that Basinio refrains from choosing violent words for Sigismondo; it would have been easy to use more aggressive expressions such as a form of ingredi instead of venisset. Furthermore, one could have endowed the king with violent attributes, but instead, the choice of words and the content itself demonstrate that Sigismondo shows respect for the prisoners — he treats them as fellow human beings. Taking the prisoners away in chains is nothing unusual, but Sigismondo recognizes the humiliation. The hero asserts that being led away like this is not meant as a personal humiliation for the warriors, since they were only carrying out their mission. It is displayed as an ultimate reaction to Alphonso’s invasion. By renouncing his own fame (non hic mea gloria) and thus relinquishing an even greater victory by humiliating himself, he tries to avoid psychological suffering, to remove the psychological element of the violence. Besides, his speech culminates in a remarkable sententia, saying that rulers who are driven by their desires and act without respect end up losing. Alphonso is a valuable example of the fact that of two equally martial heroes, the least honest loses. Leniency is one element of honest acting and only honest warriors can become true heroes. This can also be seen in other contexts, such as that of the princeps Insubrum, Filippo Maria Visconti. Sigismondo reports to Pope Eugene in the fourth book of the Hesperis that Filippo will no longer be of any help to Alphonso after his defeat. Sigismondo, however, explicitly expounds on the character of the Milanese ruler, emphasizing that he is dishonorable (Hesp. 4, 509 – 510), and also has an unbridled desire

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for war (Hesp. 4, 510 – 511). All of this, Sigismondo continues, is not befitting of a man (contra hominum morem; Hesp. 4, 512). In the first book of the Sphortias, the French, led by Charles d’Orléans, move into Milan. Charles sends ambassadors to try to appeal to the reason of the Milanese not opposing him and his troops. The Milanese, however, whom Charles considers arrogant (Sphor. 1, 507 – 508), are unreasonable, and so Charles delivers a sharp speech to his people: Sphor. 1, 522b – 529 Cunctis animo monstrate manuque Quam Francos fraudare suo sit inutile iure ! Pandite signa truces ! In apertos agmina campos Ducite ! Nulla quidem pietas nec foedera sunto In genus impurum, miseris nec parcite victis ! Supplicibus iugulum stricto recludite ferro ! Non est hostis enim sed latro, quisquis ab omni Humano se iure vocat nec curat honestum. Show all, with your courage and your energy, how disadvantageous it is to deprive us French of our right ! You wild men, spread out the signs ! Take the army to the open field ! No respect, no treaties should be against the unclean race, do not spare the wretched vanquished ! Cut the throat of the humble with a sharp sword ! It is not an enemy, but a robber who does not respect any human right nor the honorable.

In the end Charles loses. The narrator does not explicitly deheroize such warlike, but ethically reprehensible warriors. Men like Charles show excellent prowess in battle, but at the same time, their actions and words reveal their deficient and erroneous characters. Nevertheless, in the end, these people lose, and the reader of these epics is able to rethink such war-focused, heroic ideas and, at best, reject them as often as possible, understanding that a true hero must first be an ethical and feeling person, characterized in particular by modestia and clementia. There is also an emphasis on leniency in the Volaterrais: Scala, in his eulogy on Federico, points it out. He praises him for the fact that when he was handed a victory, he was kind to the enemy.40 The victory alone was enough to satisfy him; he did not feel the need for cruelty or revenge, and instead consoled the enemy, which means the same as Francesco Sforza’s remark non hic mea gloria. This satisfaction with a victory in itself characterizes the hero of the Sphortias: Nam mihi vel satis est quod praesim; caetera vobis / Esse volo (Sphor. 1, 332 – 233), Francesco says.41

40 See esp. Volat. 3, 192 – 199. 41 “Because it is really enough for me to be your leader; the rest is yours, so my will.”

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Reading these texts not only descriptively, but also normatively, one quickly detects the principles of the bellum iustum, as they were proclaimed especially by Cicero, Augustine and Thomas Aquinas.42 The three criteria of a just war, auctoritas principis, iusta causa, and intentio recta, are held up throughout. Since Francesco’s ambitions to rule Milan in the Sphortias do not fit these criteria, the apparatus of the gods legitimizes his deeds.43 More specifically, it is Jupiter who decides that Francesco will become head of Milan. Those who stand in his way are therefore opposed to the divine will, which causes a iusta causa and refers conclusively to the auctoritas principis. In addition to the restriction of using violence to the necessary extent, these criteria require making efforts to achieve diplomacy and avoid war, a fact that was not compatible with the condottiere context. There is evidently a gaping discrepancy between historicity and the constructed epic world, where the heroes are presented as mites or even mitissimi, avoiding violence wherever possible. It is a question of a reasonable measure, modestia or temperantia, which stand opposite the wild amor belli.44 For example, before Francesco begins the conquest of Piazenca, he tries to reach a diplomatic solution (Sphor. 3, 15 – 26). Making another attempt to avoid a battle, the hero invites the inhabitants of Piacenza to surrender for their own protection, because he is — rightly — certain of his victory: sentit adesse diem qua sit victoria tandem / in manibus iam certa suis (Sphor. 3, 98 – 99a).45 This certainty causes him to feel sympathy for the inhabitants of the city, so he speaks to them in a friendly manner (Sphor. 3, 98 – 99), which is why the narrator calls Francesco doctissimus heros (Sphor. 3, 96). However, the inhabitants of Piacenza respond to the hero’s appeal with fire, and so he must go into battle. The application of violence is therefore the result of the inhabitants’ lack of awareness, and also their refusal of the divine will (Sphor. 2, 790 – 791). Furthermore, the resulting violence is justified in the following part of the epic as being destined by fate (Sphor. 3, 166 – 174). 42 Cf. Thomas, Summa Theologiae 2,2 quaest. 40, art. 1. 43 For details s. Peters 2016. 44 In addition to an explicit mention of the amor belli / bellandi or amor Martis, the fighters prove, especially by their behavior, to be easily susceptible to violence. When Alfonso’s forces are weakened in the siege of Populonia, he gives a speech to them (Hesp. 2, 444 – 447), that is obviously empty: […] O iuvenes, nunc nunc pugnate; quis, inquit, / Primus erit vestrum medios animosus in hostes / Qui ruat, aut muros tyrrhenae protinus urbis / Scandat, et ancipites trahat atra in funera Lydos ? “Oh you young men, fight now, fight ! Who,”, he says, “will be the first to bravely crash into the midst of the enemy, or break the walls of the Tyrrhenian city and drag the fickle Lydians to their dark death ?”. His words do not envisage any material reward or glory; they only call for sheer violence. Nevertheless, the men’s reaction to it is overwhelming. They are obsessed with achieving glory, so they shout and start fighting (Hesp. 2, 448 – 451): In contrast to the soldiers, the hero has to be the voice of reason (Hesp. 11, 456 – 458): Tagus warns Alphonso about Sigismondo: Tum certare manu, tum me bellare iuvabat: / Nunc autem, imparibus quoniam concurrimus armis, / Sismundum nobis notum, sociosque tremisco. “Once I had fun struggling with my hand, once I enjoyed fighting: but now, because we meet with unequal weapons, I am afraid of Sigismondo, who is known to us, and his companions”. 45 “He feels that the day has come when the already certain victory is in his hands.”

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In that respect, the conflict of one’s own desired violence and their overestimation is conceivable. Popitz points to the boundlessness of violence in the minds of human beings and the harmless thinking about being violent: “We can ignore, practically at our own will, any resistance, any risk, any limitation upon our own force. In our imagination our own violence is capable of colossal success”.46 The hero thus has a rational appraisal of his own violence, and can even recognize his potency in his opponent, instead of fighting blindly, controlled by emotions. When Piacenza is taken, Francesco emphasizes that sacrilege and plundering temples, as well as raping women, are completely forbidden (Sphor. 3, 199 – 200). According to Popitz, in a situation where boundless imaginations could lead to de facto boundless violence, the hero urges his forces not to rape women — something which inflicts psychological violence on them as well as on their husbands or children. Prohibiting the plundering of temples also aims to prevent violence against those who find hope and consolation in their religious community. This type of behavior is the exact opposite of, for example, that of the warlord of the Volterraneans in the Volaterrais, who is aroused by the furiae and permits his soldiers everything (especially Volat. 3, 147: nec dubitet sacros violare Penates) and who, at the end of the day, loses against Federico da Montefeltro. In his eulogy in the fourth book of the Volaterrais Bartolomeo Scala explicitly outlines the gloria iustae militiae (Volat. 4, 177 – 179). It is to this end, the iusta militia, that a hero uses his immense force, the vires indomitae (Volat. 4, 181).47 Francesco Sforza’s men, however, do not obey their leader’s instructions (Sphor. 3, 649 – 663). They plunder and commit arson, women are raped and churches are desecrated. This makes Francesco despondent and he cries (Sphor. 3, 679). In addition, he offers a reward for naming the criminals, and now protects the women of Piacenza against his own men (Sphor. 3, 682 – 684). The hero speaks to them succinctly and urges his warriors to reconsider violence and war. He is aware of the damage inflicted by his violence, and obeys, according to his faith, the laws of bellum iustum. Sphor. 7, 278 – 284 O socii, res dura nimis Mavortia virtus. Nam praedas mortesque parit tristisque ruinas, nec tamen iniuste. Nam bello plectere sontis,

46 Popitz 2017, p. 32. 47 With the same formulation (vires indomitae), another great warrior is characterized in the Volaterrais: Alexander the Great (4, 149 – 153). Scala prophesies to Federico that he will be said to have followed great examples. Among these great men of the prophecy the name of the Macedonian comes first. According to Scala, Alexander’s praise is based on the attributes maximus armis and maximus latum orbem domuit, i. e. on martial abilities, whereas he is also renowned for his prudentia. He had a good teacher who gave him an intellectual basis for his successes (Volat. 4,153). Naldi tries to tie Federico’s heroism to the ancient heroes’ exceptionality, in this case by an explicit reference to Alexander’s intellectual faculties.

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si nequeas aliter, per praelia, vulnera, caedes lexque piumque sinit. Verum meminisse pudoris atque Dei par est, qui nos genuitque valetque reddere victores et ab omni clade tueri. My companions, the virtuousness in war is too hard a matter. It namely produces prey, death and sad debris, but not without reason. The law also allows the pious to punish the guilty with war, if one cannot do otherwise, through battles, wounds and death. But it is appropriate to remember the shame and God, who created us, and who has the power to elect the victors and protect them from all harm.

Whereas the three poets use the ancient pagan gods for their epic world, Francesco speaks here explicitly of the one Christian God who created man. In the end, the fear of God (pium), or the awareness that victories are granted only by him, also separate the true hero from others. A comprehensive study on the relationship between the Christian god and pagan gods in Early-Modern Latin epic poetry is missing. It would be necessary to examine to what extent the hero subscribes to the Christian faith, and what the relationship is between the hero and pagan gods or the Christian God, respectively — especially since the Christian God commands charity while the pagan ones still fight each other. At this point, a brief indication to this question should be given by discussing a passage where the hero resists the gods and tries to avoid divinely ordained violence: At the beginning of the Volaterrais, the focus is on the behavior of Lorenzo de’ Medici in dealing with the insurgent Volterra. According to Juno’s wish, the prince of Florence has to interfere in the conflict with the city. Iris delivers Juno’s message to Lorenzo. She emphasizes that Federico da Montefeltro’s help will be required, because no one else is more famous and skilled in dealing with weapons (Volat. 1, 392). As Juno clearly points out, a military intervention is necessary (Volat. 1, 393 – 395). Through Federico’s leadership one could be free from worry, she continues. That the goddess calls Federico dux supremus (Volat. 1, 401) can be judged as a direct criticism of Lorenzo’s behavior. In contrast to Federico, the latter is called mitissimus (Volat. 1, 408). In exactly this way, he reacts to Juno’s wishes with reluctance, in order to avoid military intervention, and at first tries to reach an agreement diplomatically (Volat. 1, 408 – 411). In his speech to a delegation from Volterra, this meekness emerges in his choice of words: Nunc pectore firmo sit vobis praesens animus, timor omnis abesto ! (Volat. 1, 420 – 421).48 He reassures the delegation that he does not want them to be afraid. Since this is not successful, due to an intervention by Alecto, the dispute between the two cities threatens to cause war. While Lorenzo still chooses the diplomatic path, Jupiter has already sent Minerva to announce the imminent bat-

48 May courage be present for you in a strong heart, may all fear be absent.

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tle to Federico, so that he can be ready to act as soon as necessary (Volat. 2, 100 – 108). This is exactly what Lorenzo wanted to avoid. The godfather evidently does not place confidence in Lorenzo’s meekness, but sees war as the only possibility to resolve the conflict between the cities and is already designating Federico as a future victor (unde Fluentinam victor Federicus ad urbem / Ingenti partos referat virtute triumphos; Volat. 2, 104 – 105).49 Certainly, Lorenzo’s behavior does not correspond to the gods’ warlike nature, which deheroizes him superficially, and even affords him a certain hubris. If, however, this attitude is connected with the basic tenor of the epic, a special heroism is evident therein, as Lorenzo advocates a peaceful solution — which is more appropriate to a civilization characterized by diplomatic and economic interests. Peters takes a look at whether Lorenzo is at all intended as a second hero of the Volaterrais.50 He first outlines the historical context where, firstly, the confrontation of Volterra strengthened Lorenzo’s position that the wait-and-see attitude was due to various particular interests and that — contrary to a too-severe judgment of older research — this had created long-term personal structures.51 He then contextualizes the message delivered by Iris by comparing it to the passage in Aeneid 9 where Juno points out to Turnus that Aeneas’s absence provides a good opportunity to attack. Lorenzo is reluctant, thus clearly opposing Juno’s will.52 Based on the word choice in the Volaterrais, memor est Iunonis amicae / dictorum (Volat. 1, 404 – 405), and the Virgilian parallel, saevae memorem Iunonis ob iram (Aen. 1, 4), Peters justly presumes that Lorenzo has learned from the past and mistrusts Juno.53 Peters’ understanding related to Volat. 1, 406 – 408, that anyone — Lorenzo is meant here — thinking about how to deal with people who act in the worst possible way against their own or another community, must end up being wrong,54 and thus his criticism of Lorenzo’s hesitation, is flawed. The main arguments for this reading are, from Peters’ point of view, Jupiter’s intervention in the action, Federico’s immediate willingness to carry out this wish, and the presentation of Lorenzo in an elegy by Naldi (III,1),55 which also tells about the battle of Volterra, but differs in the hero’s behavior. The core problem, however, is the fact that Peters assesses Lorenzo’s heroism solely on the basis of resisting the gods’ will, so that he sees in this kind of hubris

49 “Hence, Federico as the victor will bring to Florence the triumph he has won through tremendous virtuosity.” 50 See Peters 2016, pp. 373 – 385. 51 See ibid., pp. 318 – 319. 52 See ibid., pp. 374 – 375. 53 See ibid., p. 375. 54 See ibid., p. 376. 55 It is an elegy which is meant to be explicitly heroic poetry, as the poet proclaims himself: Elegy III,1, 5 – 7: Non teneri, ut quondam, vobis referuntur amores. / Nec venit in vestros fabula ficta modos. / Dicendus vobis nunc est Laurentius heros. “You are not, as once, telling delicate love stories. Nor does any fictitious story enter into your metre. Now, you have to speak of the hero Lorenzo”.

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a deheroization.56 Peters is aware of the narrator’s praise of Florence, which, thanks to the Medici, flourishes as if in a golden age, but he does not question the contradiction resulting from his interpretation. Brown points out that Naldi had hoped for a position in Lorenzo’s office and calls him a “Medici eulogist”,57 whose epic pursued the clear intention of justifying the violent invasion of Volterra.58 One cannot imagine that Florence’s golden age is mentioned out of necessity and that the poet then goes over to an offensive criticism of the Florentine duke. One should instead notice that Lorenzo is very well adapted to the proclaimed heroism: First, his aforementioned hesitation, contrary to the divine will, can hardly be interpreted as a pessimistic assessment of Lorenzo’s heroism. To see a critique in the simple act of hesitation and thus view it as a deheroization would inevitably also contradict Federico’s hesitation in the following part, where he also wants to avoid a fight and tries to persuade the Volterraneans to give up (Volat. 2, 244 – 251). Additionally, it is rather the behavior of the gods concerning Lorenzo’s hesitation that is the questionable point. The gods are often led by a desire for war, and in this case, they do not approve of a clear renunciation of violence. But avoiding violence fits into the civilized heroic concept that stands out extremely clearly in the passages examined here. Lorenzo’s resistance belongs to a category of courage that is not typical of warrior heroism but serves here to distinguish him as a hero. One must not forget that the narrator perceives his strategy as very promising. The embassy in Florence was convinced by Lorenzo’s words (Volat. 1, 464 – 465). It is only through Alecto’s intervention that a peaceful overture is prevented and in the end, the battle becomes necessary only due to a superhuman intervention by the Furies. Lorenzo’s prudent approach was not wrong at all — in fact, it was justified. The narrator clearly emphasizes the negative consequences for the city stemming from its denial of the prince’s diplomatic attempts. Secondly, it should be borne in mind that the military action against Volterra was very devastating.59 It is precisely Lorenzo’s dominant position that was strengthened by the subjugation of Volterra.60 The responsibility for the atrocities, however, is — due to the clever composition of the epic — no longer on Lorenzo himself. That the prince is not consulted at the onset of the war — the point that Peters emphasizes — just erases the blemish of warmongering in Lorenzo’s heroism. The prince’s image as a peacemaker, which is

56 Peters 2016, p. 379 compares the presentation of Lorenzo in the epic to Naldi’s elegy III, 1 and asserts, that in this elegy, he perfectly plays the role of an energetic hero, which Federico assumes so clearly in the Volaterrais. 57 Brown 2000, p. 43. 58 Ibid., p. 44. 59 Ibid., p. 42: “By contrast, Volterra was subjected to ‘Draconian’ punishment: the city was made part of the contado instead of the district of Florence; some fifty citizens were exiled or imprisoned, and others lost their homes to make way for a mammoth prison, the Maschio, which towered over the city as a symbol of Volterra’s new subjugated status; and as a final sign of its subjection, the alum mines were transferred to Florence as a regalian right of the conquering city”. 60 See Peters 2016, p. 318.

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clearly demonstrated by the narrator’s praise of a golden age, is not damaged. Rather, his rebellion against the mighty gods must be viewed as an outstanding heroization. The idea of the heroic in these epics deviates from historical heroism. The tremendous praise emphasizes an extremely honorable personality that, despite a necessary warlike heroism, is based on the more or less far-reaching renunciation of violence for an aim of ethically correct behavior. The discrepancy, exemplified by the historically unrealistic behavior of Sigismondo Malatesta, has recently been pointed out by D’Elia, who speaks of an “antiwar rhetoric”61 in the Hesperis. For example, he cites Hesp. 11, 316 – 369, where an old man called Seneucus tries to stir up the troops and steal them from Sigismondo by arguing that war would be to no avail and the soldiers would die in vain for the glory of their leader.62 The narrator describes Seneucus as a liar — and he surely is — but there is no doubt, that Seneucus’ criticism of war is meant to be didactical for the reader, a new impulse for rethinking war.63 The old man’s assessment, however, is to be understood only against the backdrop of a more civilized idea of war. The hero is not conceivable without his warriorism, and the criticism lies solely in the fact that he can be more, has to be more. The historical persons are undoubtedly warriors in terms of their abilities and success, and it is inconceivable that such an epic, a commissioned work, would not praise these attributes. It is also unlikely that any second, pessimistic voice would crop up in the descriptions of heroism that praise war. Nevertheless, Robin and Kallendorf have provided some arguments for such a voice in the Sphortias, which, however, were rejected by Burkard and then by De Keyser.64 It is not possible to weigh every argument further here, but two examples will reveal the problem of interpreting a second voice and will provide an alternative reading. Kallendorf sees a hidden criticism in a comparison of Francesco Sforza with a wolf, the “lust for booty is hardly flattering”,65 as a misunderstanding of Sphor. 1, 681 – 684. He argues for his hypothesis with reference to De morali disciplina, a theoretical work by Francesco Filelfo.66 In this, Filelfo reprimands Aeneas as furiis accensus et ira (Aen 12, 946), and Kallendorf suspects that this blame is transferred to Francesco.67 Burkard rejects this opinion by showing that Kallendorf ’s reference does not prove that Filelfo actually criticizes Aeneas, but only that he is astonished at a certain inconsistency in the characterization of the Virgilian hero.68 Although De Keyser proved that Kallendorf does not mean Sforza 61 D’Elia 2016, p. 234. 62 See ibid., pp. 234 – 239, along with the whole chapter “Questioning Virtue in Malatesta Literature” (ibid., pp. 223 – 252). 63 Cf. ibid., p. 236: „ [Seneucus’ accusations] strike a discordant note in a laudatory and often sycophantic work dedicated to his patron”. 64 See De Keyser 2016. 65 Kallendorf 2007, p. 52. 66 See ibid. 67 See ibid. 68 See Burkard 2010, p. 42.

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in his argument but rather Niccolò Piccinino (so that “Sforza is not the wolf at all but rather the sole defender capable of stopping the predator Piccinino”),69 this passage is nevertheless very interesting for the question of heroism. The comparison with wild animals goes back to the Homeric epics, where heroes are compared to, for example, lions, especially in battle, both with regard to their behavior and their emotions.70 The passage in the Sphortias shows the hero’s ability to face a wild beast, but the hero can also, as shown in the Volaterrais above, become a wild beast in combat. This is an essential component of martial heroism, of the hero’s agency, which cannot be seen as disgraceful. The point in question is not the violence itself but the occasion for it. In the epic, violence is part of a iusta militia; it does not show the hero’s core — then it would certainly be a clear critique — but the ability to apply such forces when necessary. However, this violence is embedded in a system of virtues the ruler possesses. No one, not even Francesco himself, would have been offended, because his violent deeds are not at all belittled. The criticism of the hero can only take place in a contextualization of acts of violence by emphasizing the ethical dimension. Another difficult passage concerns the capture of Piacenza. Kallendorf maintains that there are many passages in which Sforza is shown in a “favorable light”,71 but also rightly identifies some ambivalent statements in the Sphortias. On the one hand, the gods do not approve of Sforza’s lenient behavior (superis damnantibus ipsis; Sphor. 3, 12), in which Kallendorf sees a critique. This is not unfounded, but compared to Lorenzo’s behavior in the Volaterrais, it seems to be more appropriate to value a reluctance against boundless violence as especially heroic. Furthermore, Kallendorf puts the burden of the perfidious behavior of Sforza’s soldiers in the conquest of Piacenza on the leader himself, although he had previously exhorted his soldiers to behave ethically and punished them after learning of their mistakes.72 Kallendorf acknowledges the punishments and the protection of women, but he posits, “But we cannot help but wonder: is a commander not responsible for what those under him do ?”.73 Sforza’s behavior is neither reprehensible, nor is it condemned by the narrator. Regarding the words impietas (Sphor. 3, 673) and nefas (Sphor. 3, 411), “this closing passage [of book 3] actually describes how, after Sforza has chastised his soldiers, the women leaving the churches and the liberated prisoners of war fall into each other’s arms. Therefore, all enjoy their regained freedom, yet hard to bear was the loss of their [material] goods’”.74 Disobedience from his warriors certainly throws the hero’s authority into question, but it is precisely through their misconduct that the hero can demonstrate his character and his commitment to his enemies — a highly honorable attribute. Directly after finding out about their behav69 70 71 72 73 74

De Keyser 2016, p. 401. About the lion and the metaphor for the behavior of Homeric heroes see Scott 1974, pp. 61 – 62. Kallendorf 2007, p. 53. See ibid., pp. 53 – 54. Ibid., p. 54. De Keyser 2016, p. 398 with reference to Sphor. 3, 799 – 800.

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ior, Sforza reacts (Sphor. 3, 678 – 681). In many of those passages, he may at first seem unheroic because his lenient character does not fit into the common definition of martial heroism; one must also perceive a more modern concept of heroism, skillfully interwoven with the tradition of the Latin epic. The concept of heroism in these three Neo-Latin epics develops many ancient ideas of the heroic in their social aspects. Extraordinary martial abilities remain essential but are not sufficient for the contemporary demands on a hero. The diverse character traits discussed here create a distinction between just a hero of war, who loses in the end, and the winner whose heroism encompasses a fundamental ethical moment in his actions. The modest use of violence coupled with constant ethical virtue designs a civilized heroism. In it, the true hero differs from his opponent and from his soldiers. There is also an opposition to the gods. Nevertheless, heroism is by worshippers and it is up to the reader to recognize a new type of hero appropriate to citizens of a civilized society. However, that the people in the hero’s epic environment don’t yet perceive this development, is again evident in the Hesperis. Sigismondo’s warlike successes, for example, cause the Venetians to ask for help expelling Filippo Maria Visconti from Bergamo. On his arrival in Venice, Sigismondo was greeted by the Venetian Apseudes with the following words: Hesp. 4, 351 – 357 Optime dux Italum, coelo quem Jupiter alto Miserit, ut terras donarit munere tanto; O fama iam clare vaga, sed clarior armis, Ausonidum spes certa Virum, quem cernimus omnes, Atque libenti animo caris amplectimur ulnis, Vive diu, memorande Puer: tua magna futura est Vis animi: nosco mentem, venturaque bella. O best leader of the Italians, who sent Jupiter from the high heaven to give such a great gift to the earth. O you, who are already famous everywhere for your reputation, but still more famous for your weapons, o you certain hope for us Venetians, as we take you to be, and whom we joyfully surround with our dear arms, live long, you, who are worthy of our remembrance: the power of your spirit will be great: I know your mind and the coming wars.

The arma are explicitly named in this passage, which not only give Sigismondo glory, but also make sure that he will receive more orders for his product, violence. Even more striking is the word puer, strongly reminiscent of Virgil’s use of it for Augustus, the peacemaker, who was also called so by Cicero (e. g. Philippica 4, 3). In calling Sigismondo not only puer, but also a gift of heaven, one can finally think of Jesus. That the hero is guided by more differentiated principles exaggerates his wisdom and accentuates his exceptionalism.

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This discrepancy between the hero and his admirers becomes extremely obvious when even a Christian views the warlike aspect as partially divine. In the seventh book of the Sphortias, one of Sforza’s people asks about the actual contribution of God and finally concludes that all is God’s will. This warrior recalls the hero’s deeds in battle (especially Sphor. 7, 32 – 332), which are extraordinary for a man (for example Sphor. 7, 234 – 327), and calls them miracula, which God worked through him (Sphor. 7, 337 – 339). This reasoning elevates Sforza to the level of a saint, which is an extreme perversion of violent acts. This by no means heroizes violence, but cynically shows the questionable nature of war heroes to the humanistically educated reader.

Bibliography Basini, Basinio. 1794. Opera praestantiora 1. Rimini: Typographia Albertiniana. Bohrer, Karl H. 2013. Warum ist Gewalt ein Ästhetisches Ausdruckmittel ? In Ästhetik und Gewalt. Physische Gewalt zwischen künstlicher Darstellung und theoretischer Reflexion, Christoph auf der Horst ed., 21 – 39. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Seneca, L. A. 2009. Seneca: De clementia, Susanna M. Braund ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brown, Alison. 2000. The Language of Empire. In Florentine Tuscany. Structures and Practices of Power, William J. Connell and Andrea Zorzi eds, 32 – 47. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Burkard, Thorsten. 2010. Kannte der Humanismus ‘den anderen Vergil’ ? Zur ‘two voices’Theorie in der lateinischen Literatur der frühen Neuzeit. In Vestigia Vergiliana. Festschrift für Werner Suerbaum, Thorsten Burkard et al. eds, 31 – 50. Berlin et al.: De Gruyter. Strauss Clay, Jenny. 2009. How to be a Hero. The Case of Sarpedon. In ᾿Αντιφίλησις: Studies on Classical, Byzantine and Modern Greek Literature and Culture, E. Karamalengou and E. Makrygianni eds, 30 – 38. Stuttgart: Steiner. De Keyser, Jeroen. 2016. Picturing the Perfect Patron ? Francesco Filelfo’s Image of Francesco Sforza. In Portraying the Prince in the Renaissance. The Humanist Depiction of Rulers in Historiographical and Biographical Texts, Patrick Baker et al. eds: 391 – 414. Berlin and Boston: De Gruyter. D’Elia, Anthony F. 2016. Pagan Virtue in a Christian World. Sigismondo Malatesta and the Italian Renaissance. Cambridge et al.: Harvard University Press. Dominik, William J. 2009. Vergil’s Geopolitics. In Writing Politics in Imperial Rome, William J. Dominik et al. eds, 111 – 132. Leiden: Brill. Filelfo, Francesco. 2015. Sphortias. In Francesco Filelfo and Francesco Sforza: Critical Edition of Filelfo’s Sphortias, De Genuensium Deditione, Oratio Parentalis, and his Polemical Exchange with Galeotto Marzio, Jeroen De Keyser ed., 1 – 219. Hildesheim et al.: Olms. Heitmeyer, Wilhelm and Hagan, John. 2002. Gewalt. Zu den Schwierigkeiten einer systematischen internationalen Bestandsaufnahme. In Internationales Handbuch der Gewaltforschung, Wilhelm Heitmeyer and John Hagan eds, 15 – 25. Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag.

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Hellmann, Oliver. 2000. Die Schlachtszenen in der Ilias. Das Bild des Dichters vom Kampf in der Heroenzeit. Stuttgart: Steiner. Hohlstein, Michael. 2007. Clemens princeps. Clementia as a Princely Virtue in Michael of Prague’s De regimine principum. In Princely Virtues in the Middle Ages: 1200 – 1500, István P. Bejczy and Cary J. Nederman eds, 201 – 217. Turnhout: Brepols. Horn, Fabian. 2014. Held und Heldentum bei Homer. Das homerische Heldenkonzept und seine poetische Verwendung. Tübingen: Narr. Imbusch, Peter. 2002. Der Gewaltbegriff. In Internationales Handbuch der Gewaltforschung, Wilhelm Heitmeyer and John Hagan eds, 26 – 57. Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag. Kallendorf, Craig. 2007. The Other Virgil. ‘Pessimistic’ Readings of the Aeneid in Early Modern Culture. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kortüm, Hans-Henning. 2010. Kriege und Krieger 500 – 1500. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Naldi, Naldo. 1974. Volaterrais. In Naldo Naldi: Bucolica, Volaterrais, Hastiludium, Carmina Varia, W. L. Grant ed., 59 – 115. Florence: Olschki. Peters, Christian. 2016. Mythologie und Politik. Die panegyrische Funktionalisierung der paganen Götter im lateinischen Epos des 15. Jahrhundert. Münster: Monsenstein & Vannerdat. Popitz, Hermann. 2017. Phenomena of Power. Authority, Domination and Violence. Gianfranco Poggi tr., Andreas Göttlich and Jochen Dreher introd. Columbia: Columbia University Press. Robin, Diana. 1991. Filelfo in Milan. Writings 1451 – 1477. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Schauer, Markus. 2007. Aeneas dux in Vergils Aeneis. Eine literarische Fiktion in augusteischer Zeit. München: Beck. Schlechtriemen, Tobias. 2016. The Hero and a Thousand Actors. On the Constitution of Heroic Agency. helden. heroes. héros 4.1: 17 – 32. Scott, William C. 1974. The Oral Nature of the Homeric Simile. Leiden: Brill. Thurn, Nikolaus. 2009. Heros Aeneas und Iuno, die Hera. Der Wandel des Heldenbegriffes von der Antike zur Neuzeit. In Vestigia Vergiliana. Festschrift für Werner Suerbaum, Thorsten Burkard et al. eds, 9 – 30. Berlin et al.: De Gruyter. van Wees, Hans. 1992. Status Warriors. War, Violence and Society in Homer and History. Amsterdam: Gieben.

A Battle of Emperors ? Contemporary Poetic and Prose Descriptions of Austerlitz (1805)

Johanna Luggin

1

A battle to remember—a battle remembered

For centuries, at least in the Western and certainly in the Middle and Western European tradition, history was written and taught along a chain of major political events: enthronements and deaths of emperors, conquest and capture of territories, civil strife, revolutions, etc. While war and strife do not play a role in every such instance, numerous battles do feature prominently in the histories and the formation of the identities of almost every Western region. Such actions have gained a place in the commemorative culture, the culture of memory of the peoples of the respective region,1 be it because they were decisive in a war against a pernicious enemy, because they ended the horrors of civil strife, because the winner gained important territories, because they present a most unexpected victory, or, not least, because of a disastrous defeat.2 The mention of commemorative culture already implicitly suggests what is discussed in the chapters of this volume in relation to several epochs and cultures: that battle descriptions are highly problematic when it comes to their historical content but hugely interesting as reflections of the interests of various parties involved in their making—the battle opponents, the author of the report, the target audience, etc. A closer look at these descriptions, taking the special and unique character of each work into account, can therefore offer us a fresh look at even the most well known military fight. 1

2

The concept of cultural memory was proposed by Halbwachs 1950 and most successfully by Assmann 1992, being further developed in, among others, Assmann and Shortt 2011 and Erll and Nünning 2008. Despite having passed the zenith of academic attention around ten years ago, this does still seem appropriate for the purpose of this paper. The socio-cultural implications of defeat have become the focus of attention of many, mostly interdisciplinary studies in the last years. See Karl 2014; on military defeat, see Meier and Stoll 2016; on the concept of “decisive battles”, see Harari 2007.

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_14

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For the Western and Central parts of Europe, among the crucial military conflicts of early modern times which have influenced the collective memory of numerous nations are certainly the Napoleonic Wars (1803 – 1815). They have been stylised as the collective resistance of the European nations against the horrors of the tyrant Bonaparte, as well as, from the perspective of military history, the first campaigns of modern day warfare.3 Therefore, a volume on battle descriptions cannot very well pass over the Napoleonic Wars. Napoleon Bonaparte (1769 – 1821), First Consul of the Revolution and subsequently Emperor of the French, besides being most influential for the modern European political landscape, can be seen as a transitional figure in modern day warfare. He is also one of today’s most famous strategists: his military tactics and most prominent victories feature in many books on warfare4 and in numerous internet sources.5 Bonaparte’s reign and his military campaigns are viewed as a changing point in military history from the pre-Napoleonic era, where armies fought, won and lost in open field or pitched battles with an army which was very much one huge unit, to modern nineteenth century warfare, to the corps d’armée, which Napoleon adopted formally in 1800.6 This resulted in a new quality of warfare, which took the enemy’s strategists by surprise for some time. It divided the army into smaller units, which were much more flexible than before and highly mobile.7 Even though this view of a revolutionary Napoleonic warfare is heavily contested in studies on the history of warfare, stating that Napoleon only made slight changes to the structure of the pre-imperial revolutionary army and tactics,8 Bonaparte and his counsellors certainly knew how to laud and praise the emperor as a brilliant strategist and innovator in renewing not only the French state, but also the French army. In 1805, during the War of the Third Coalition in the German lands, Napoleon’s Grande Armée consisted of seven corps, all of which comprised divisions of different arms. Thus, each core had its own cavalry, infantry and grenadiers. This resulted in higher flexibility and higher mobility, as each corps was supposed to be able to act and react on its own and support itself for at least a day without the help of additional

3 4

5 6 7 8

Cf. Paret 1986; Black 2004, esp. pp. 174 – 191. The literature on Napoleon Bonaparte as a strategist and on his military campaigns is numerous and varied. It would go well beyond the scope of this book chapter to mention more than some of the most influential studies, which include: Chandler 1967; Chandler 1973; Rothenberg 1978; Duffy 1979; Rothenberg 1982; Chandler 1987; Esdaile 1995; Ross 1996; Gates 1997; Muir 1998; Englund 2004; Goetz 2005; Bruce et al. 2008; Schneid 2012 provides a useful bibliography. E. g. http://www.napoleon-series.org/military/organization/c_kevarty2.html (2019-17-2); http://www. wtj.com/articles/napart/ (2019-17-2). Black (2004), p. 184; Liaropoulos 2006; Bell 2007. Ross (1996), pp. 88 – 93; Madec 2008. Cf. Quimby 1957, who discusses the role of Jacques Antoine Hyppolite de Guibert’s works on military strategy; Ross (1996), pp. 88 – 89.

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troops.9 Indeed, it was in the War of the Third Coalition and the campaign in the German lands in 1805 that the virtues of the new corps, the new Grande Armée, were decisive in Napoleon’s victories.10 This chapter will offer a glimpse into a huge field of treatments of the many battles fought during the campaigns of Napoleon and his officers. It focuses on contemporary accounts in prose and verse of one famous Napoleonic combat, the battle of Austerlitz, or Battle of the Three Emperors, taking a closer look at the ‘official’ French prose account and comparing it to a little known Latin poetic treatment of Austerlitz, revealing both the close connections of such formally diverse texts and their surprising individual traits.

2

Battle accounts of Austerlitz

The War of the Second Coalition against the French emperor had officially ended after the Peace Treaties of Luneville (1801) and Amiens (1802). However, Napoleon’s continually aggressive foreign policy led to another conflict, the War of the Third Coalition of 1805, in which he would face the allies Great Britain, Austria and Russia. When in August of 1805 the Austrian army moved into Bavaria and the Russian army was headed towards central Europe, Napoleon reacted by setting his Grand Armée towards the East, defeating part of the Austrian army at Ulm in October and the remaining Austrian forces, as well as parts of the Russian army, at the battles of Dürnstein and Hollabrunn in Lower Austria in November. Following the retreating allied forces towards Brno, the French emperor provoked a decisive engagement which was fought on 2 December 1805 in the vicinity of Austerlitz, now Slavkov u Brna, a small town near Brno in Moravia (Czech Republic).11 This battle is regarded as one of Napoleon’s tactical masterpieces. It was styled by him as one of his greatest military achievements and has been ranked as the equal of the battles at Arbela (331 BC),12 Cannae (216 BC) and Leuthen (1757).13 Also—and most interestingly for the context of this volume—it featured prominently in literary and artistic works not only by contemporaries, but throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Figures 1 and 2 show two examples of contemporary paintings of the French victory at Austerlitz, which were part of a commission from the emperor himself to several painters to depict one episode of his great battle. Francois Gérard’s work from 1810, entitled Bataille d’Austerlitz, 02 décembre 1805, depicts the victorious 9 10 11 12 13

Cf. the schematic illustration in Madec (2008), p. 964; Chandler (1967), p. 144 – 191; 332 – 367; Ross (1996), pp. 88 – 93. Cf. Ross (1996), p. 92; Tulard 2006, p. 174. For an assessment of the Habsburg army in the Napoleonic Wars, see Rothenberg (1973); Ross (1996), pp. 126 – 157. Chandler (1967), p. 314. On this famous battle cf. Reinhold Bichler’s chapter in this volume. Farwell 2001, p. 64; cf. Chandler (1967), pp. 433 – 439.

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Figure 1 Baron Francois Gérard, Bataille d’Austerlitz, 02 décembre 1805; 1810, Versailles, châteaux de Versailles et de Trianon.

© RMN-Grand Palais (Château de Versailles)/image RMN-GP: MV2765

General Rapp, leader of the French cavalry, presenting the enemies’ standards to emperor Napoleon (Fig. 1). Another artist, Louis-François Lejeune, had been commissioned to portray the emperor’s preparations before the action (Fig. 2) and did so with his piece Bivouac de Napoléon Ier à la veille de la bataille d’Austerlitz. Au milieu de la plaine de Moravie sur la route d’Olmütz (1er décembre 1805). Literary accounts of the Battle of the Three Emperors expand this role of Austerlitz as a combat which was not only a battle to remember, but indeed a battle which—not least through propagandistic endeavours—found its way into the collective memory of contemporaries from the nations involved in the Napoleonic Wars.14

14 Cf. Lenormant 1847; Holtman 1950; Hanley 2005.

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Figure 2 Louis François Lejeune, Bivouac de Napoléon Ier à la veille de la bataille d’Austerlitz. Au milieu de la plaine de Moravie sur la route d’Olmütz (1er décembre 1805); 1808, Versailles, châteaux de Versailles et de Trianon.

© RMN-Grand Palais (Château de Versailles)/Gérard Blot/Jean Schormans: MV6858

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Official French prose accounts

The first report of the glorious French victory at Austerlitz in Paris was issued on 12 December 1805, informing the people of the great losses of the enemies’ forces and the few on the French side: 40,000 had been taken prisoner, 80 cannons had been seized and the Russian and Austrian emperors had been humiliated: Paris, le 20 frimaire. M. le conole Lebrun, aide-de-camp de l’Empereur, dépêche par Sa Majesté, à la fin de la bataille qui a eu lieu, le 11 frimaire, entre Brünn et Olmutz, a annonce les résultats suivant: Quarante mille prisonniers; Soixante-dix pieces de cannon; La garde de l’empereur de Russie mise en déroute et une partie prise, ainsi que plusieurs officiers et un colonel; Les deux empereurs de Russie et d’Autriche sure le point d’être pris, et se sauvant en toute hâte à Olmutz: Plusieurs officiers-généreux pris, entre autres un prince Galitzin; Le reste de l’armée russe dans la déroute la plus complete; La bataille appelée, par les soldats, la bataille des Trois-Empereurs; L’armée française a peu perdu.15

This was the starting point of many a literary work on the Battle of the Three Emperors, so-called, as Le Moniteur declares, by the French soldiers. In contrast to many of the other battles mentioned in this volume, the surviving contemporary written reports of Austerlitz are numerous and varied.16 They range from accounts written by eye witnesses—the most prominent ones by participants in the combat, promising to portray the events of the action in as much detail and with as much objectivity as possible—to poetic endeavours, panegyric carmina, hymns, odes and epyllia to praise the victorious emperor and urge him to finally restore peace to the European nations. A selection of these reports will be presented and analysed in the following chapters, from both the French and the allied sides, from both ends of the spectrum, focusing first on eyewitness reports in prose before going on to poetic accounts from authors not directly involved in the military campaign. The Emperor of the French himself made an exceptional effort to document his major victory, demanding that the most distinguished players of his army, the marshals who took part in the combat, send him detailed accounts of all their commands and all actions of their corps and battalions.17 Therefore, we are in the exceptional position to be able to turn to prose descriptions written by, among others, the French marshals Louis-Alexandre Berthier (1753 – 1815), Louis-Nicolas Davout (1770 – 1823), Joachim Murat (1767 – 1815) and Nicolas Jean-de-Dieu Soult (1769 – 1851) in the days and months following the combat.18 Not surprisingly, considering the general diffi15 Le Moniteur, 12 December 1805; Ed. Langéron 1998, p. 155. 16 By contemporary, I mean written and issued in Napoleon’s lifetime or shortly thereafter—certainly before the middle of the nineteenth century. On the role of Le Moniteur and other papers and journals for Napoleon’s propaganda cf. Holtman (1950), pp. 44 – 75. 17 Cf. the preface of the Relation 1879, pp. 5 – 6; Garnier 1998, pp. I – IV. 18 Ed. Garnier (1998).

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culty of grasping let alone depicting such a confusing event as a battle, and the individual intentions of the respective generals when writing their insights, their accounts of the combat at Austerlitz differ in many respects. While all the marshals try to portray themselves as determined but prudent generals, some descriptions show a more dispassionate character, while others display suspenseful episodes or interventions by the respective narrator. The first general to deliver his report to the emperor was marshal Davout, commander of the III Corps, who had played an important role in the action and allegedly finished his short account as soon as the fighting was over. He wrote three descriptions of the battle in total, all of which strive to appear as objective, concise summaries of the most important events on the battlefield, without much flourish.19 In contrast, Berthier, chief of staff at Austerlitz, who had already provided an influential description of the famous Battle of Marengo (1800) which had not gained the emperor’s favour, made an effort to redeem himself by providing an enthralling and eulogistic account of Napoleon’s virtues as a military leader at Austerlitz.20 The same characteristics can be attributed to marshal Soult’s long battle description, which recounts many diverse episodes and events before the action as well as in the aftermath, the commander’s speeches, interludes evoking an emotional reaction from the reader, and more.21 At the time when his generals sent him their reports, Napoleon himself had already issued a detailed battle description of the Battle of the Three Emperors, its preparations and preliminaries, and its aftermath, in the 37 Bulletins de la Grande Armée from 24 September until the end of December 1805, published in the imperial journal Le Moniteur universel, a highly propagandistic report medium of the First Empire. In the 30th Bulletin, dated 3 December 1805 (the day after the combat), Napoleon presented the action at Austerlitz to his people. This would become the most influential prose account of Austerlitz and would shape a great many of the later descriptions. For the following interpretations of other accounts of the combat, it will be useful briefly to outline the key features of Napoleon’s narrative about Austerlitz as presented in the 30th Bulletin.22 Having arrived in the plains between Brno and Austerlitz the day before the battle, 1 December 1805, with his I, IV and V Corps, as well as his guard, grenadiers and cavalry, and seeing that the allied forces had occupied the strategically located elevation of the Pratzen Heights (Fig. 3), Napoleon decided that the time to act had come: he wanted to provoke a decisive engagement, so he feigned retreat, purposely deceiving 19 20 21 22

Garnier (1998), pp. 3 – 11. Berthier 1805; Garnier 1998, pp. 39 – 70. Garnier (1998), pp. 16 – 30. Goujon 1820, pp. 93 – 106. The 30th Bulletin was furthermore edited in Correspondance de Napoléon XI, n. 9451, pp. 446 – 453 (citations of the Bulletin in this chapter refer to this print, if not stated otherwise). Garnier (1998) also includes it on pp. 31 – 38. On the bulletins in general, see Holtman (1950), pp. 90 – 105; Mathews 1950; Bertaud 2005.

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Map of the situation at the Battle of Austerlitz at 9am, 2 December 1805.

© Department of History, United States Military Academy

the enemy by seemingly weakening his army’s right wing.23 Thus, the emperor anticipated an attack by the allied forces from the Pratzen Heights and planned to withstand it while waiting for reinforcements for divisions on the right. Two days before, Napoleon’s marshal Louis-Nicolas Davout and his III Corps were still approximately 130 km away from Brno, in the vicinity of Vienna. Not only did Davout have his ca. 25,000 soldiers approach Austerlitz in a forced march over 50 hours, but as soon as they joined the rest of the French forces from the southwest on the day of the battle at around nine in the morning, they joined the combat and were decisive in its outcome on the French right wing.24 Napoleon’s strategy proved successful. On the morning of 2 December 1805, around 7 am, when the sun was rising over the Pratzen Heights, as the tradition has

23 This plan was distributed by the marshals; see Correspondance XI, n. 11140, pp. 870 – 871. 24 Chandler (1967), pp. 413 – 421; Chandler (1973), pp. 65 – 66; Ross (1996), pp. 89 – 96.

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it,25 a large part of the Russian forces under Count von Buxhoevden launched an attack from the hill on Napoleon’s seemingly weak right wing, while the rest of the Austrian and Russian forces, save the reserve and imperial guard, were to hold the French centre and left in check.26 This Napoleon had anticipated. Deliberately holding back several lines, he had concentrated his forces in the centre and on his left, partly hidden from the allied troops. The action unfolded according to the French emperor’s plan of action. The first attack from the hill on the French right wing weakened the allies’ centre on the Pratzen Heights, which was immediately attacked by divisions of Marshal Soult’s IV Corps, while Davout and his troops, who had just arrived as reinforcements on the right wing, cut off and encircled the Russian left wing. Meanwhile, the French troops on the left under the marshals Bernadotte and Lannés held back the enemy and prevented him from aiding their companions on the Pratzen Heights. The capture of the Heights and the encirclement of the allied left wing decided the battle. After failed attempts by the allied cavalry and reserve troops to come to the rescue of their right wing and centre, a large part of the Russian and Austrian armies fled and many were killed or captured (Fig. 4).27 Napoleon had achieved a glorious victory through his battle strategy and his army’s flexibility in shifting positions, combining forces and adapting to the enemy’s movements. The emperor had not only won the battle, but Austerlitz also ended the War of the Third Coalition: Austria signed the Treaty of Pressburg on 26 December 1805.28 This first official account of Austerlitz, issued on the order of the emperor himself, was very much a propaganda text, published in what was essentially a propaganda journal for Bonaparte and his imperial system. Its readership consisted mainly of followers of the emperor, the political elite and ordinary citizens with some education. Because of the organ of publication, the highly biased character of the report in the Bulletin must have been clear to every reader.29 Still, this account shaped an overwhelming number of later reports and descriptions of the combat, including contemporary and even eyewitness accounts from both the French and the allied sides. Some of these influences are discussed below.

25 The Bulletin mentions the rising sun and the beauty of the day, as if it were a lovely autumn morning, to underline the significance of this day and as a portent of the outcome of the action: Correspondance XI, p. 450. The motif of the rising sun over the Pratzen Heights was supposedly taken up by Napoleon before the battle of Borodino in 1812, giving the phrase “the sun of Austerlitz” the proverbial meaning of good luck. Cf. the book titles Le soleil d’Austerlitz (Clermont 1943); Napoléon. Le soleil d’Austerlitz (Gallo 1997); Sous le soleil d’Austerlitz (Faure 2005). 26 The allied accounts of the battle, in their need to defend themselves in the light of the devastating defeat, often blame the imprudent and confusing plan of action, which had allegedly been forced upon most of the commanders by one ill-judged general. See Langéron (1998), pp. 32 – 37. 27 Correspondance XI, pp. 450 – 452; on similar strategies employed by Napoleon, see Chandler (1967), pp. 185 – 191. 28 Cf. Chandler (1967), pp. 413 – 433. 29 Cf. Bertaud (2005), p. 10: “Les Bulletins de la Grande Armée s’adressent à leur tour tout autant à la postérité qu’aux contemporains, militaires ou civils, français ou étrangers.”

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Figure 4 Map of the situation at the Battle of Austerlitz at 2pm, 2 December 1805.

© Department of History, United States Military Academy

Interestingly, when reading through the description in the 30th Bulletin, one finds several aspects and episodes alluding to other older but nonetheless prominent battle depictions. Napoleon, who admired Greek and Roman historians—Caesar, Tacitus, Livy and his favourite, Plutarch—seemingly modelled his account of Austerlitz on many a battle description he had read in the works of the ancients, not least in The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans. Plutarch’s biographies were very popular at the beginning of the nineteenth century, even inspiring several modern continuations, recounting the lives of contemporary “noble men”.30 Accordingly, Bonaparte’s allusions to the biographer of the Roman imperial period can be interpreted as an

30 See, among others, La Bèdoyére 1827, p. 41, who claims that Napoleon had even collected lives of noble Corsicans in the tradition of Plutarch; Fröhlich 1892; Telesko 1998, esp. pp. 136 – 173, who shows Napoleon’s instrumentalisation of the ancient world focusing on contemporary painting; Englund (2004), pp. 19 – 23, for comparisons between Napoleon and Caesar see pp. 214 – 215, 146 – 147, 241; cf. Manzini 2004, esp. pp. 189 – 217; Frazier 2013; Guerrier 2012; Fögen and Warren 2016, esp. pp. 71 – 112.

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attempt both to please the erudite reader and to place himself among the great men of history. On the other hand, the account of Austerlitz shows striking similarities in several episodes with battle descriptions in Julius Caesar’s Commentarii de bello civili on the Roman civil wars.31 Three examples will suffice to show the relationship of the Bulletin with these and other ancient battle accounts. (1) In several episodes before the start of the action—a crucial part of every battle description, as this is an ideal place for the author to give an account of his or her own character, foreshadowing the outcome of the action and underlining the significance of the conflict, etc.32—the French emperor presents himself as a strong military leader, showing virtues which are deemed appropriate for a commander. He is preparing for the decisive battle with prudence and foresight. We find here what had become topoi of battle descriptions in ancient times:33 while his opponents hesitate to engage in battle and are forced to action by their allies, Napoleon has a clear plan which also anticipates the reactions of the opposing army.34 Such a strong characterisation of the leaders of the opposing sides is reminiscent of the portrayal of Julius Caesar and his enemy Pompey before the decisive Battle of Pharsalus in the Roman Civil War 48 BC by several ancient sources. Caesar himself, in his Commentarii, showed Pompey and the opposing generals as insolent and arrogant, but also as insecure leaders,35 while painting himself as a steady, prudent commander with enough foresight to foresee the enemy’s strategies.36 A similar characterisation is found in Plutarch’s accounts of the battle, which were known to Napoleon and presumably a part of the educated readership of Le Moniteur.37 (2) On the eve of the battle, the Bulletin tells us, Napoleon is taken by a desire to visit the soldiers’ posts incognito, but is immediately recognised by his men, who begin to praise their leader. Bonaparte then engages in conversation with one of his oldest grenadiers who, with much ardour and pathos, promises, in the name of all his companions, to fight for his emperor and bring him glory:

31 Ed. A. Klotz 2 1992. Bonaparte, like other “Great Men” in European history, were celebrated and even fashioned themselves frequently as new Caesars, taking both Julius Caesar as an outstanding general and Emperor Augustus as his politically successful heir as reference points; see Rowell (2012). For the similar (self-)fashioning of Benito Mussolini, see Lamers et al. (forthcoming). 32 This is demonstrated in several chapters of this volume Bichler, Gronau and Gronau, Stoll. 33 Cf. Mause 1994, pp. 183 – 204; Lendon 1999; Lendon 2005; Gerlinger 2008; Bichler 2009; Luggin 2010; Luggin 2011; Bichler, Stoll, Lentzsch, Guenther in this volume. 34 Correspondance XI, p. 448. 35 Caes. BC III 85, where Pompey first has to be persuaded to engage in battle at all, then arrogantly praises the power of his cavalry, which would turn out to be the division responsible for his defeat; cf. Luggin 2010, pp. 34 – 36. 36 Caes. BC III 85; cf. Gerlinger (2008), pp. 77 – 90, on Caesar’s providentia. 37 Plutarch, Pomp. 67 – 72 and Plutarch, Caes. 40 – 47, where Pompey is shown at Pharsalus as an insecure, passive leader, cf. Luggin (2010), pp. 83 – 90, 74 – 75.

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Sire, tu n’auras pas besoin de t’exposer. Je te promets, au nom des grenadiers de l’armée, que tu n’auras à combattre que des yeux, et que nous t’amènerons demain les drapeaux et l’artillerie de l’armée russe pour célébrer l’anniversaire de ton couronnement.38

What is more, in the morning, riding along the first line right before the combat starts, the emperor addresses several regiments in a short but engaging speech, which results in such vehement cries of “Vive l’Empereur” that these screams give the signal for battle.39 These episodes again remind us of Julius Caesar’s account of Pharsalus in the Commentarii (and later authors taking up this episode), where Caesar, right before the start of the combat, addresses his soldiers on the field: this inspires one of his oldest centurions, Gaius Crastinus, to deliver an emotional speech to his fellow soldiers to fight until death for their leader and their cause.40 This role model of a courageous and loyal soldier not only magnifies the glory of an emperor commanding such an army, but also functions as a symbolic example of individual glory representing the distinction of the whole army. It is in line with Napoleon’s aim of stressing his soldiers’ honour and decisive role in the battle in the appended documents of his account.41 (3) The combat at Austerlitz itself is portrayed in a very condensed form, sketching only a few events and focusing on the role of individual generals commanding their corps one after the other, from the far right wing under Davout to the right wing under Soult and the left wing under Lannés, before, after a brief moment of crisis on the French side, coming to Bernadotte in the centre and the end of the action (cf. Table 1).42 The French emperor does play an active role in one instance, at the aforementioned point of crisis: perceiving that his fourth line is in peril, he intervenes directly and immediately sends a division of his guard to aid these troops, thus turning the tide of battle in his favour: Un battalion du 4e ligne fut chargé par la garde impériale russe à cheval, et culbuté; mais L’Empereur n’était pas loin: il s’aperçut de ce mouvement; il ordonna au maréchal Bessières de se porter au secour de sa droite avec ses invincibles, et bientôt les deux gardes furent aux

38 Correspondance XI, p. 449. 39 Correspondance XI, pp. 450 – 451. Curtius Rufus designs a similar episode around the victory of Alexander the Great at Issos, where Alexander, like Bonaparte, gives an engaging speech to his soldiers right before the battle, who are so inspired and passionate after his words that they gladly open the battle: Curt. III 10.3 – 10. 40 Caes. BC III 90. This is also taken up in Plutarch’s accounts of Pharsalus, where he calls the centurion Crassianus (Pomp.) and Crassinius (Caes.), respectively. Cf. Lendon 1999, pp. 279 – 281; 304; Bichler (2009), pp. 28 – 29; Luggin (2010), pp. 70, 76, 83, 90, 93; Bär 2012, pp. 257 – 258. 41 The appendix in Goujon’s 1820 edition of the bulletins includes an address to the soldiers after the action, praising their decisive role in this important victory: Goujon (1820), pp. 104 – 105. 42 The combat covers around two pages of text: Correspondance XI, pp. 451 – 452.

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mains. Le succès ne pouvait être douteux: dans un moment la garde russe fut en déroute. Colonel, artillerie, étendards, tout fut enlevé.43

This episode of crisis, again, can be compared to the exemplary behaviour of a chiefin-command in ancient battle descriptions, such as in the tradition of the battle of Gaugamela, where Alexander the Great reacted to a desperate call for assistance by his general Parmenion.44 Moreover, a possible point of reference for the account in the Bulletin is again Caesar at Pharsalus, where his cavalry is in peril and needs its commander’s immediate attention. Caesars prudent reaction—he sends his fourth line, which he had formed before the combat when he had already perceived the enemy’s order for battle and anticipated his strategy. Napoleon’s report evokes these virtuous deeds of great commanders on the battlefield, and the mention of the fourth line might even be a direct reference to Caesar’s account.45 These three examples showing similarities between Napoleon’s first account of Austerlitz and ancient battle descriptions, especially of Julius Caesar’s great victory at Pharsalus, underline the dependence of even modern battle descriptions on a much older tradition and again show the biased character of this report of Bonaparte’s victory. The emperor, however, was not satisfied with the report in the Bulletin alone. He wished to obtain a more detailed account of his successful campaign, including the great victory at Austerlitz. He therefore commissioned the reports of all his highest generals mentioned above. These he used in the official account of the battle, which was finished and sent to the publisher in 1810 under the title Relation de la bataille d’Austerlitz, gagnée le 2 Décembre 1805 par Napoléon contre les Russes et les Autrichiens. It is adapted from the description in the 30th Bulletin, with additional episodes and details taken from the generals’ reports.46 Of course, the works presented so far were all very obviously biased works, not to say propaganda texts. Nonetheless, these official versions of the Battle of the Three Emperors, especially the account in the 30th Bulletin, proved influential not only for other French reports but also for modern descriptions of Austerlitz—for example, in biographical or historiographical works on Bonaparte and his military achievements.47 One episode from the aftermath of the battle was especially prominent: the

43 Correspondance XI, p. 451. 44 See Arrian’s Anabasis Alexandri III, 14 – 15 and Curtius’ Historiae IV, 15.6 and 16.4 – 16.5; cf. Bichler (2009), pp. 22 – 24; Bichler in this volume, Stoll in this volume on Thucydides’ account of a crisis in the battle of Mantineia. 45 This episode is taken up in the following ancient accounts of Pharsalus: Caesar, Commentarii de bello civili III, 89.4, 93.3 – 4; Lucan, Pharsalia VII, 506 – 520; Plutarch, Life of Caesar 45, Life of Pompey 71. 3 – 4; Appian of Alexandria, Civil Wars II, 78; cf. Luggin 2010, pp. 38 – 40 (Caesar), 81 (Lucan), 67 – 77, 90 (Plutarch), 112 (Appian). 46 Tranchant de Laverne 1879. 47 Cf. Englund (2004), pp. 275 – 278.

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desperate flight of the Russian battalions, who had been defeated by Marshal Davout, over the frozen lakes of Satschan and Mönitz to the south of the battlefield, and the alleged deaths of twenty thousand soldiers in these waters after the ice broke under the weight of too many men. This episode, reported in the imperial account of the 30th Bulletin,48 has been repeated in countless works, from contemporary accounts to modern historiographical texts, even though its historical reality was contested early on.49

2.2

Opposing opinions: Langéron and Stutterheim

These French accounts of Austerlitz were soon criticised by contemporaries, not surprisingly, especially by the opposing side. General Louis Alexandre Andrault de Langéron (1763 – 1831), born in Paris but an expatriate since the years of the French Revolution and a very successful commander in the Russian army, fighting under emperor Alexander I until his degradation after the Battle of Austerlitz, issued his own views on the battle in Moravia, together with his official report to the Russian emperor.50 Apart from trying to explain the defeat of the allied armies by putting most of the blame on the Russian emperor Alexander I, the general tried to redeem himself by defending his own actions in the combat which had led to his fall into disgrace.51 Besides using as sources for his own text the allied accounts written by Russian commander Mikhail Kutuzov and Austrian lieutenant von Stutterheim (see below), Langéron repeatedly alluded to the report in the 30th Bulletin de l’armée.52 Another report from the allied camp not only offers an additional viewpoint in relation to Austerlitz, but also explicitly discusses apparent problems with such descriptions. Austrian lieutenant field marshal Karl Freiherr von Stutterheim (1774 – 1811) published his own report of the battle anonymously in Hamburg 1806, addressed to the Austrian army but written in French to guarantee a wider dissemination—and, one probably has to add, to be read by the French maintaining different views on this combat. The same year, a German translation was issued and, a year later, an English

48 Goujon (1820), p. 451 – 452. 49 Cf. Stutterheim 1806a, p. 122; Rose 1902, p. 537: “There is perhaps no incident in the history of modern warfare in which the evidence of bulletins and memoirs has been so long accepted as conclusive, only to meet with denial from those who have investigated the local evidence”. 50 Langéron (1998); the edition includes annotated versions of Freiherr von Stutterheim’s report (see below), as well as the report by Russian general Kutusov and several extracts from Le Moniteur universel. 51 Alexander had already passed away when Langéron issued his account, so he was an easy target. Stutterheim, on the other hand, especially blamed Austrian general Weyrother (pp. 16 – 17, 25 – 26). 52 Langéron (1998), VII.

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version.53 This eyewitness account of Austerlitz shows the events from the perspective of the allied armies and a note on the title page encourages the reader to consider it as the official Austrian account.54 Les notions imparfaites, parvenues au public sur les détails de la bataille d’Austerlitz, sont tellement contradictoires et si peu satisfaisantes pour les militaires de l’Europe, que l’on croit leur devoir les eclaircissemens suivans, qui pourront servir à fixer leurs idées sur celle époque mémorable.55

Apart from the fact that it presents us with a fresh view of Austerlitz from the perspective of the allied side, Stutterheim’s work is especially interesting in the context of this volume because of its preface, where the author shows an awareness of the problematic and subjective character of battle descriptions. He promises to do better than others before him, stating that: Dans tous les temps, comme dans tous les pays, les nations et les armées ont été conduites par l’opinion. De là il s’en est suivi, qu’il a toujours été de la politique des gouvernemens de rehausser, par tout ce qui pouvoit servir à enflammer l’esprit national, l’éclat même des plus belles victoires […] Lé militaire qui dit ici ce – qu’il a vu, ne veut ni flatter un gouvernement, ni captiver l’opinion d’une armée. Il écrira la vérité, telle qu’il a cru la voir, ou la démêler, et oubliant le parti qu’il a servi, il parlera avec impartialité, franchise, et sans passion ou prévention quelconque, des événemens qui se sont passés sous ses yeux.56

In this section, Stutterheim not only promises an objective eyewitness account—even calling himself “soldier” and not referring to his high military rank—but clearly alludes to an ancient author as his role model in narrating history, namely Tacitus and his famous programme of relating history sine ira et studio (Tacitus, Annales 1.1).57 Tacitus also served as a role model for a description of the campaign around the Battle of the Three Emperors in Latin. While French and other vernaculars were already important languages of everyday life as well as of correspondence at the beginning of the nineteenth century, Latin was still of great importance for European literature, especially in international contexts such as the Napoleonic Wars in which numerous countries were involved, and in traditional and formal contexts such as laudatory and historiographical literature after a military victory.58 Bonaparte’s pri-

53 Stutterheim (1806a); Stutterheim 1806b; Stutterheim 1807. 54 Stutterheim (1806a): “Cette Relation […] est faite par le Général Major Stutterheim, et peut être regardée comme la Relation officielle de la Bataille d’Austerlitz par les Autrichiens.” 55 Stutterheim (1806a), p. 7. 56 Stutterheim (1806a), pp. 7 – 8. 57 Cf. Heldmann 2011, esp. pp. 86 – 104. 58 Cf. Sacré 2014.

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vate interest in ancient literature and culture encouraged Latin literary production about him. Thus, the Genoese Gian Carlo Serra wrote Commentarii de bello Germanico, the first part, published in Paris in 1806, concerning the War of the Third Coalition, in which the battle of Austerlitz had a prominent role. This account shows many similarities with the description in the official Bulletin and the other French prose accounts mentioned, while—as the title of the work already indicates—heavily alluding to both Caesar’s Commentarii and the works of Tacitus.59

2.3

Carmina for the Emperor: poetic battle accounts

The Battle of Austerlitz not only featured prominently in numerous prose reports and accounts, but also in poetic works, such as eulogies on the French emperor and his army. Such poetic accounts, written about and many times also dedicated to Bonaparte, were produced in large numbers by French scholars, politicians and churchmen, but also by authors from the German lands, Italians, etc. A substantial number of texts written in Latin has been collected and edited, comprising some 150 pieces, while many others will hopefully be published in the near future.60 The War of the Third Coalition, the aggression of the French and the British, respectively, the Ulm campaign and the battles near Vienna inspired many authors to compose odes, festive poems and many more panegyric works. In this mass of Latin poetry on Bonaparte, some examples feature the Battle of the Three Emperors. The first poem addressed to Napoleon on occasion of the victory at Austerlitz, entitled Stances à S. M. l’Empereur et Roi, was published in the Parisian propaganda journal, Le Moniteur universel on 19 December 1805, a week after the news of the French success had reached the capital.61 For the remainder of this chapter, I would like to focus on the longest poetic battle description of Austerlitz in Latin known so far, written by the Dutch mathematician and prolific poet Simon Speyert van der Eyk (1771 – 1837).62 He composed a poem on the occasion of the French victory in Moravia in 20 Alcaic stanzas, the Ode ad Napoleonem Magnum, Primum Gallorum Imperatorem semper Augustum, cum Austriacorum Ruthenorum coniunctos exercitus devicisset die 2. Decembris 1805 (Ode to 59 De Pol 2015. 60 Cf. Krüssel 2011, 2015; I would like to express my heartfelt thanks to the editor, Hermann Krüssel, for not only helping me with the material he had already published before our conference on battle descriptions, but also pointing me towards titles and even providing me with his yet unpublished notes on and translations of further Latin works. Without the help of this expert in Latin literature about Napoleon, I would not have dared venture into this field. 61 Ed. Krüssel (2015), pp. 406 – 407. 62 Van der Eyk not only composed occasional poetry addressed to Napoleon; he also composed long poetic texts about philosophical and scientific topics such as astronomy, mechanics, physics, and the physiology of the human mind. See Van der Aa 1859, pp. 297 – 298; Suringar 1870, pp. 20 – 23; Krüssel (2015), pp. 408 – 409.

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Napoleon the Great, first Emperor of the French, forever majestic, for he defeated the united armies of the Austrians and Russians on 2 December 1805”).63 Van der Eyk’s Ode to Napoleon is fashioned in the style of the Augustan poet Horace, as is shown by its genre (ode), by its metre, the Alcaic stanza, which is usually reserved for grand topics like politics, and its panegyric intention. This might not seem the natural choice for a poet writing about a battle in a Latin text, war being a theme traditionally treated in epic poetry.64 A closer look at the circumstances, however, shows that even though van der Eyk does not offer a typical poetic battle description, the form of his work is appropriate for contemporary laudatory poetry. Van der Eyk’s work appeared in print probably in early 1806, even though the exact date is unclear.65 The author had already dedicated an ode to Napoleon in 1802, after the Peace of Amiens,66 and praised Bonaparte in other poetic works.67 He is one of many representatives of noble and erudite men in Napoleonic client states such as the Batavian Republic who showered the French emperor with panegyric poetry, usually published in their hometown and read by an erudite public interested in politics.68 The metre and style of Horace were very often used at this time for congratulatory or occasional poetry in general. Epic poetry even for such events as wars and battles was not en vogue any more as it had been in the centuries before, which is reflected, for example, in the works which Dennis Pulina discusses in this volume.69 To use the model of Horace at this time implied a panegyric intention for a leading political figure or patron: while Horace had addressed many poems to Emperor Augustus and Augustan nobility,70 van der Eyk, the professor from Leiden University, praised Napoleon as “novus Augustus”.71 When

63 Ed. Krüssel (2015), pp. 407 – 417. 64 Günther 2016, p. 223, but cf. Mause 1994, pp. 183 – 204, on the emperor as virtuous general in ancient panegyric literature. 65 Krüssel (2015), p. 409. 66 Simon Speyert van der Eyk, Ode ad Napoleonem Bonaparte, Primum Gallicae ‘Reipublicae Consulem, Pacis Instauratorem, 1802; cf. Krüssel (2015), pp. 89 – 95. 67 E. g. in a Latin hexameter poem with scientific content, a variant of Latin didactic poetry, which the author presented at the end of his appointment as rector of Leiden University in 1808, De ingenii humani praestantia (Leiden 1808), ll. 871 – 876. 68 Collected, edited and translated by Krüssel (2011), (2015). As the editor mentions, he has collected more than 28,000 lines in around 300 Latin poems on Napoleon, of which approximately a third is already published in the two volumes. 69 See Pulina’s chapter in this volume. Though Krüssel (2011), p. 13, mentions one epic poem on Napoleon, the Bardus Hercyniae, this seems to be the exception to the rule, and it is a Latin translation by Francesco Bottazzi of an Italian epic poem by Vincenzo Monti. In addition, as people were getting weary of the horrors of war—not least because of the emperor’s general draft and the toll it took on many parts of society—warfare did not always seem such a glorious theme any more and was, even in panegyric literature, often combined with the hope for lasting peace, as in van der Eyk’s poem. See Forrest 1989; Ross (1996), p. 91; Krüssel (2015), pp. 409. 70 Günther (2016), pp. 261 – 266. His Ode IV in nineteen Alcaic stanzas could be one of the more important models of van der Eyk, as it discusses the victories of the Romans which shall bring peace to the Roman youth. 71 Cf. n. 31 Krüssel (2011), pp. 10 – 14.

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it comes to the topic of war, the choice of Horace as the reference point has an additional connotation, which especially concerns the last strophe of the Ode ad Napoleonem, where his hope for peace is expressed. Horace, in his second book of odes, recounted his experience on the battlefield at Philippi 42 BC, where Marc Antony and Octavian fought against the murderers of Julius Caesar, saying that he fled the battlefield, leaving his shield behind.72 This negative attitude towards war might have influenced van der Eyk, who hoped for lasting peace for his country and neighbours, in choosing to praise the French emperor in a Horatian poem. With this ode, however, van der Eyk not only praises the emperor, but offers a full battle description of Austerlitz, even if in a poetic form. To elaborate this, we shall first have a look at the structure and content of the poem (see the text and translation appended below): The first three stanzas introduce the combat, presenting its background and underlining the historical importance of this day. The description of the action then takes up 14 stanzas (4 – 17), followed by three stanzas (18 – 20) which again address the historical significance of this engagement and look towards the future of Europe after this victory. Thus, this rather long poem in Alcaic metre shows an axisymmetric structure, with three stanzas at the beginning and the end serving as a discussion on the preliminary action and aftermath, respectively. In most prose accounts, these parts of a battle description, immediately before and after the combat, take up more room than the depiction of the combat itself and offer the author the possibility of shaping the description according to his or her intentions—implementing moralising episodes, incorporating events which show individuals or groups as exceptionally virtuous, pious, disciplined, or unsure, weak, cruel, etc. This is the place where long and dramatic speeches are given in front of the generals or the soldiers, where portents are recorded, and when usually exaggerated and unrealistic numbers are given of both the combatants and the losses.73 In his poetic depiction of Austerlitz, van der Eyk foregoes these topical elements of battle description since antiquity and focuses instead on emphasising the magnitude of the event.74 After all, 2 December was not only the day of the battle at Austerlitz, but was also the one-year anniversary of Napoleon’s coronation at Notre Dame Cathedral,75 which the author alludes to in the first two lines of the text in an elaborate wordplay with the polysemy of secunda […] dies / mensis Decembris, meaning in this instance both “the second day of December” and “the fortuitous day”. The ambiguous meaning is repeated in the following lines, explaining that it simultaneously “announces the first anniversary of

72 Hor. carm. II 7, alluding to the early Greek poet Archilochos; cf. Fränkel 1975, pp. 136 – 137; Gregson 2010. 73 Lendon (1999); Gerlinger (2008), on losses pp. 215 – 222; Bichler (2009), pp. 18 – 22; Luggin (2010), esp. pp. 6 – 12; Bär (2012). 74 This is a conventional element of ancient battle descriptions; see Lendon (2005), p. 310; Bichler (2009), p. 19; Luggin (2010), pp. 42, 52 – 57, 86, 104 – 106, 121 – 124. 75 Cf. Englund (2004), 243 – 246.

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Napoleon’s crown and the new triumphs” (prima Natales coronae / nuntiat atque novos triumphos).76 In the second stanza, pathetic fallacy and antitheses show nature to be on the side of the French emperor: while for the Russians and Austrians this “abominable day rises from gloomy darkness” (nefanda nigris tenebris dies / surgit), the sun shines benevolently upon the French camp and army.77 Apart from pathetic fallacy and topical mention of the early beginning of the combat, this passage reflects the weather reports in the above presented prose accounts of Austerlitz. Most of them mentioned the brightness of the day, more appropriate for autumn than winter, alongside the morning mist which hung in the valley and the surrounding hills, supposedly preventing the allied troops from clearly perceiving the movements of the French army. Only when the sun broke through, shining upon Napoleon’s army, did they see that the emperor had moved his corps.78 In the third stanza, the significance of the day is repeated, using secunda […] dies in another variant and introducing the leaders of the fighting parties (tres imperantes), alluding to the name “Battle of the Three Emperors” given by the soldiers as recorded in the 30th Bulletin. The last three stanzas are structured similarly, referring back to the beginning: in a circular composition, the author again mentions the historical importance of this day using yet another variant of secunda […] dies, before he closes his ode with two stanzas, one a tirade against the remaining enemy of the English, the other an emotional apostrophe to a personified Peace, imploring her to return to Europe indefinitely.79 These verses before and after the action give the reader no detailed information about the place, circumstances or situation, but serve to provide an emotive and lofty framework for the description of the battle, appropriate for van der Eyk’s panegyric poem.80 The reader would expect, then, for it to be similar in the depiction of the combat itself. While employing epic similes, metaphors, antitheses, personification and other rhetorical ornament appropriate both for narrating events in the genus grande, the high level of style, and for the genre of panegyric poetry, van der Eyk, in addition, provides the reader with convincing details about the fighting armies in the midst of such tropes and figures.81 A close inspection of this detailed information about the combat reveals the strong dependency of this ode on the official report of Austerlitz as laid out in the 30th Bulletin. In strophe 5, recounting the opening of the battle following Napoleon’s signal (Imperator praelia Gallicus / iubet), at least some detail about the preparation of the com76 77 78 79 80

On the junctura novos triumphos cf. Tibull I 7.5; Statius, Thebaid IX 579. Krüssel (2015), p. 416. Cf. above n. 25. Krüssel (2015), pp. 416 – 417. On ancient models of Latin panegyric literature for the emperor, see Rhetorica ad Herennium III 6.10 – 7.15; Mause (1994); Whitby 1998; Rees 2012. 81 Cf. Kennedy 1994, pp. 6, 26, 125.

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bat is given in an analepsis, explaining that the French emperor had just recently deceived the enemy, feigning retreat (nuper fugam qui, fraude ficta / decipiens simularat hostem).82 The next two stanzas focus on the first attack as reported by the French prose accounts, the Russian forces (Latinised Rutheni) charging down the Pratzen Heights towards the French right wing under commander Soult. The attack is portrayed with the use of an epic simile: the onslaught of the forces towards each other is compared to a torrent breaking its banks and overflowing the land and is pronounced by the use of alliteration (Ruunt Rutheni; Ruit relictis), anaphora (ruunt; Ruit), and anadiplosis (Saxa super, super arva).83 The subsequent French counterattack is described in stanza 8, where “the French withstand this assault and turn around their combined troops against the enemy’s forces”. Strophes 6 – 8 thus reflect the events in the first stages of the battle as depicted in Napoleon’s official account: the allied forces on the left wing and centre attack, but the French right wing is able to withstand the onslaught with the help of Marshal Davout’s III Corps and put part of the enemy to flight, while parts of Marshal Soult’s and Marshal Bernadotte’s troops seize the Pratzen Heights.84 The clashing of armies on the battlefield is depicted further in stanzas 9 – 13. The simile of the torrents of water is taken up again, now taking the French forces instead of the Rutheni as the point of comparison; and while the French were able to withstand the onslaught of this torrent, the allied forces fail to do so spectacularly: “Alexander’s troops are conquered with deadly weapons” (11: Alexandri et catervae / letiferis subiuguntur armis). This culminates in a depiction not found to this extent in the prose accounts of Austerlitz—the horrible deaths of the enemy’s forces on the battlefield (12):85 Caduntque multo cum duce milites;86 Ubique caedes, clamor et horror est, Ubique questus vulneratorum Horribiles resonant per auras. (Soldiers fall together with many a general. Everywhere is slaughter, screaming, dread, everywhere the terrible wails of the wounded resound.) 82 This is just one example of several instances in the poem, where van der Eyk uses alliteration and other sound devices to emphasise characteristics of the events, in this case the importance of Napoleon’s strategy; cf. str. 2 (Nefanda nigris), str. 4 (Solare sidus), str. 6 (Ruunt Rutheni […] saxa super, super), str. 7 (Ruit relictis et rapere), str. 8 (perferentes praecipites), str. 17 (Inducias tum territus […] Ipse Imperator). 83 Krüssel (2015), p. 416; cf. Lucretius V, 948 – 949 for a possible inspiration. 84 See above p. 277. 85 Cf. Correspondance XI, pp. 453: “Jamais champ de bataille ne fut plus horrible. Du milieu de lacs immenses, on entend encore les cris de milliers d’hommes qu’on ne peut secourir.” 86 Napoleon mentions 12 or 15 killed generals from the allied camp and at least 15,000 Russian soldiers; see Correspondance XI, p. 452.

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The slaughter is furthermore presented in a tricolon, showing, in a climax, the death of agmina […] catervas […] acies, phalanges (13: “crowds, troops, lines, battalions”).87 With stanza 14, we reach the climax of the battle description, the hand-to-hand combat of the opposing armies. After the Russians were not able to overthrow the French on the right flank and the allied troops were not capable of doing so on the left, they had weakened their own centre and the French attack there, on the Pratzen Heights, proved successful. The vicious hand-to-hand combat is emphasised by the polyptoton virum vir, repeated twice and both times in the middle of the verse; another polyptoton (turmaeque turmas) exhibits the masses fighting this battle.88 These passages reflect a remarkable feature of this poetic, panegyric description of Austerlitz—the equalisation of individual players fighting the battle and the display of masses instead of individuals (cf. below). The next three strophes of the poem recount the decisive action at Austerlitz which led to the famous victory of the French: Napoleon’s strategy to encircle the enemy’s left wing while cutting off and taking over its right and centre is depicted in stanza 15, where “the Russian is encircled on all sides by the French and the Austrian raises defeated his hands” (Gallis Ruthenus cingitur undique, / tenditque victas Austriacus manus). The next two strophes briefly recount the aftermath of this disastrous development: both the allied forces surrender, signalling the end of the action, and an armistice is put into effect. Overall, a close reading of the ode reveals the author’s considerable knowledge of the decisive events during the battle. The poem depicts the crucial actions and, at the end of stanza five, allusions to Napoleon’s strategic preparations, manifesting the same perspective and the same chronological order as the official prose account of Austerlitz, starting with the Russian attack on the French right wing and the latter’s ability to withstand the onslaught, followed by a cannonade and a vicious hand-tohand combat in the centre; finally, we have the encirclement of the Russian forces and the flight and surrender of the Austrian armies. The poet accordingly plays with the prior knowledge a reader familiar with the report of the 30th Bulletin would have had: he would have been able to recognise the course of the battle and to appreciate van der Eyk’s combination of reported and seemingly authentic events with similes, metaphors and other allusions to ancient epic poetry about prominent battles and wars.89 Conversely, a reader not acquainted with the official report of Austerlitz was able to learn the most important strategic movements of the combat while enjoying van der Eyk’s poetic adornment of the action, but without receiving many details besides the crucial events.

87 Krüssel (2015), p. 416. 88 Krüssel (2015), p. 416. 89 On battle descriptions in the Homeric poems, see Fenik 1968; on battles in Statius’ epic poem Thebaid, see Gibson 2008.

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That it is not typical for a contemporary poetic description of this battle to display the details of the strategic movements is shown by other works—part of odes, hymns or similar panegyric poetry—dedicated to the French emperor. In the existing collections, no other poetic Latin text makes the portrayal of the combat its only focus as in van der Eyk’s text. In Charles Clément Roemer’s Adplausus Napoleoni Magno of 1806, for example, Napoleon appears as the hero of the battle (l. 69: […] at heros Napoleon adest), influenced by the protagonists of epic poetry.90 Like a natural force, he overruns the enemy’s armies, a simile well known from epic poetry and also used, as seen above, by van der Eyk. Here, however, the simile is used without mentioning any clear events happening on the battlefield.91 Even though Roemer’s poetic battle description does not display any event clearly, the poet embellishes his work with a famous quote from the French emperor, taken from the official prose accounts of Austerlitz. On the eve of the battle, Bonaparte watches the enemy and pronounces cras, […] cras / haec acies mea erit (…), as reported in the 30th Bulletin: “Avant demain au-soir, cette armée est à moi.”92 In French poetic accounts of the battle, we can find similar vivid language and elements from ancient epic poetry—for example, in Charles Hubert Millevoye’s La Bataille d’Austerlitz (Paris 1806). The young poet explicitly refers to the official reports, sections of which he presents as notes in an appendix to the printed poem, but his poetic account again focuses on the actions and deeds of individuals, especially generals, not on the masses of soldiers.93 Reactions to the Battle of Leipzig, where Bonaparte was defeated in 1813, complement this picture: while pathos, epic similes, figurative language, allusions and comparison to historical and mythical figures play a role in the Latin poems about this battle, the combat itself is not displayed in these texts. Most of them show the horrors of war in general, destroying the land as well as the people, or a defeated Napoleon after the devastating loss.94

3

Conclusion: A Battle of Emperors—or Nations ?

A comparison between the vernacular prose descriptions of the battle of Austerlitz and the poetic Latin depiction of the battle in van der Eyk’s poem shows many differences, not surprisingly, since the works differ in language, genre, general form and, to a certain extent, in aim, too. The vernacular prose accounts stem from a different tradition from the Latin ode. Still, the vernacular reports from the French side and van 90 91 92 93 94

Cf. Pulina’s chapter in this volume on interpretations of heroism in Early Modern Latin epic poetry. Krüssel (2015), p. 440. Correspondance IX, p. 448. Roemers ll. 71 – 72; Krüssel (2015), p. 440. Millevoye 1806; cf. review in L’Esprit des journaux, pp. 82 – 87. Cf. Meggle 1813; Oberlechner 1813; Frisius 1814. Again, my warmest thank you to Hermann Krüssel, who did not only point me towards the titles of these poems, but even provided me with the texts and translations of some of them.

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der Eyk’s poem were written with a panegyric intention or even as propaganda texts, to praise the victory of the emperor. The accounts from the allied camp, Langéron’s and Stutterheim’s, in contrast, were composed to oppose the biased reports of the French and justify their own or their side’s actions. Interestingly, when it comes to the course of the most important events before, during and after the battle, most of the accounts show striking similarities. The chronological sequence of the strategic movements of both armies seems to have been agreed upon since the first account in the 30th Bulletin. Even van der Eyk’s poetic description follows this model. One noteworthy difference between the Ode ad Napoleonem and the prose accounts, besides what can be ascribed to differences in genre traditions, is the central protagonists in the battle descriptions. In the prose reports and relations, the emperors and their generals play the decisive role, even if Napoleon does emphasise his soldiers’ virtue as playing an important role in his victory (see Table 1). While, in a classicising episode, the “unknown soldier” gets to play a role in Napoleon’s prose account before entering the battlefield, the mass of infantry and cavalry—and certainly the individual soldier—has no role to play. In any description of action, only generals are mentioned and seen. Also, in the description of the aftermath of these battles—the enumerating of dead and wounded—the soldiers are but a number, while generals are mentioned honourably. From the perspective of the prose accounts, whether written on the French or on the Austrian side, the battle of Austerlitz was, therefore, very much the Battle of the Three Emperors and their generals. If we have a close look at van der Eyk’s poetic account, the picture is a very different one (see Table 2). Even if Napoleon is the most important player—naturally, as he is the addressee of the lauding poem—his generals are not mentioned at all, and neither are the allied generals. Only at one point is Emperor Alexander’s name mentioned, but he is not introduced as a protagonist. Instead, the most important player on the battlefield is the mass of soldiers on both sides—the Galli, Rutheni, cohortes, catervae, acies, phalanges. The poem lacks the episodes of individual glory which are usually prominent in depictions of Austerlitz and in many other previous battle descriptions, in prose or verse, as many examples in this volume show. This change in the style and manner of describing a battle within a poem may have been caused by different developments, literary as well as non-literary. As mentioned above, in the centuries before the Napoleonic era, a battle description within a laudatory poetic Latin work would in all probability have been part of an epic poem on the achievements of the emperor. In the course of the eighteenth century, however, descriptions of political and military deeds made their way into smaller forms, occasionally lyric poetry, usually styled after the Augustan poets. A long description of a battle seems to have no place in such forms, but as van der Eyk chooses to make it the focus of his poem, he adapts his account to this form. In his choice to keep epic similes but abolish episodes of individual glory, he could have been influenced by the discourse, reflected in General Stutterheim’s account, surrounding the challenges of portraying such a chaotic event as a battle. Considering the changes in warfare,

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Table 1 Narrative elements in the 30th Bulletin

Actions of groups

Actions of individuals Prelude: Napoleon offers armistice; rejected by the enemy

Allied war council: enemy influenced by inexperienced generals Tactical considerations: Napoleon perceives the enemy’s armies and understands its strategy Strategic positioning of some battalions Soldiers recognise the emperor and praise him loudly

Napoleon visits his camp; the loyal grenadier’s oath to fight in his place Napoleon positions his generals Napoleon visits his posts on horseback in the early morning

The soldiers’ cries give the signal for battle Davout arrives at the right wing Soult takes the Pratzen with Vandamme and St. Hilaire Lannés fights on the left wing Heavy fighting and cannonades on the left

Enemy is already heavily weakened on the right and left

Crisis: the fourth line is attacked by the Russian guard

Reaction of Napoleon to the crisis: sends Bessières to help Bernadotte with the centre of the army advances against the enemy and is successful

Flight and surrender of the enemy’s forces Source: Own Figure.

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Table 2 Narrative elements in the Ode ad Napoleonem

Actions of groups

Actions of individuals

Prelude: importance of the day, view of battlefield and the three emperors with their armies, pathetic fallacy Generals flying to their units Napoleon gives signal for battle Attack of the Russians, French withstand it (simile of torrent) Counterattack of the French Cannon attack; death of the enemy’s soldiers Napoleon’s cohort breaks the enemy’s lines (second simile of torrent) Hand-to-hand combat, innumerable deaths

Hand-to-hand combat of individual, anonymous soldiers

Russians encircled, every army surrenders Austrian emperor asks for armistice; Napoleon grants it and safe conduct to the Russians Apostrophe to Napoleon, to England, invocatio to Peace Source: Own Figure.

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too—the mass enlistment following the French Revolution, the structure of Napoleon’s Grande Armée and the high number of war-weary soldiers and deserters at the time—and consequently the critical role the common soldier played in the Napoleonic battles, it seems to be an appropriate decision to push the individuals, the generals and nobility, into the background and let the mass of soldiers take the stage. The crucial question of the audience of the two texts might have additionally influenced van der Eyk’s decision to put emphasis on the glory of the common soldier instead of several generals and other individuals. While for Napoleon and his account in the Bulletin, it was of paramount importance to convey to the readers, mostly his subjects, both the heroic acts and virtues of his commanders and of the common soldiers, for the readers of a poem written by a Batavian professor in praise of the glorious victory of his Emperor, the military leaders besides Bonaparte were simply of minor interest. Van der Eyk could, therefore, very well focus on the mass of soldiers, a small part of which was also formed by his fellow countrymen from the Batavian Republic. Reading van der Eyk’s poetic account, the battle of Austerlitz does not seem to be a Battle of Three Emperors. On the contrary, in his description, it is very much a battle of masses, a battle of forces or a battle of nations, eight years before several armies would meet near Leipzig to fight what would actually be remembered as the Battle of the Nations.

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Appendix Ode ad Napoleonem Magnum, primum Gallorum imperatorem semper Augustum, cum Austriacorum Ruthenorum coniunctos exercitus devicisset die 2. Decembris 1805. (1)

Secunda Gallos exhilarat dies Mensis Decembris, Napoleoniae Quae prima Natales coronae Nuntiat atque novos triumphos.

(2)

Nefanda nigris haec tenebris dies Surgit Ruthenis, surgit et Austriae; At luce festiva coruscant Gallica castra, virum arma fulgent.

(3)

Secunda Gallis haec oritur dies: Tres Imperantes ducit in agmina, Magnam parat cladem duobus, At Tibi, Napoleon ! triumphum.

(4)

Ortum supremo margine vix erat Solare sidus, nemo moras ducum Nectit, suas ad quisque laeti Intrepidique volant phalanges.

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(5)

Mox Imperator praelia Gallicus Jubet, secundis ominibus valens, Nuper fugam qui, fraude ficta, Decipiens simularat hostem.

(6)

Insanientum cedere nescius Tum Gallus ardens sustinet impetum: Ruunt Rutheni, qualis amnis Saxa super, super arva ripis

(7)

Ruit relictis et rapere omni Secum minatur; durum et agrestibus Intentat armentis satisque Exitium violentus undis.

(8)

At rupe Galli firmius impetum Hunc perferentes praecipites citi Vicissim in hostiles cohortes Agmina conglomerata vertunt.

(9)

Tormenta saevo murmure personant Vomuntque flammas et rapidos globos; Sternuntur adversae phalanges, Cladibus ac pereunt nefandis.

(10) Qualis procellis saepe furentibus Ingens aquae vis dejicit aggerem Rumpitque pulsu, et campus unda Et seges obruitur rapaci: (11) Talis Ruthenos destruit ordines Rumpitque ferro Napoleonia Cohors, Alexandri et catervae Letiferis subiuguntur armis. (12) Caduntque multo cum duce milites; Ubique caedes, clamor et horror est, Ubique questus vulneratorum Horribiles resonant per auras.

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(13) Torrens globorum mille rapacium Prosternit, eheu ! saepe virum agmina, Mortique dat densas catervas, Mittit ad Orcum acies, phalanges. (14) Jamque in virum vir comminus irruit Armis, virum vir cuspide trajicit, Turmaeque turmas subsecutae Interimunt reliquas cohortes. (15) Gallis Ruthenus cingitur undique, Tenditque victas Austriacus manus; Ubique mors saevit, nec ulla spes miseris superest salutis. (16) Tandemque, Victor Napoleon ! tuis Devictus armis ante tuos pedes Exercitus procumbit omnis, Arma jacit, jacit atque signa. (17) Inducias tum territus Austriae Ipse Imperator colloquio petit; Invicte ! quas concedis illi, Praesidiumque voves Ruthenis.

(18)

Secunda Gallos perpetuo dies Mensis Decembris, Napoleon ! tuos Felix triumphos ac coronam, Austrolica et celebrabit arva.

(19) Tandemne disces, o tumida Albion ! Fastu feroces ponere spiritus ? Et desines vastare terras, Ut pelago dominere sola ? (20) Pax ! Nata coelis ! aurea pax ! redi ! Tandem quieti redde hominum genus ! Revise terras atque gentes Mox hilara stabili salute !

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Ode to Napoleon the Great, first and forever majestic Emperor of the French, on defeating the allied forces of the Austrians and Russians on December 2nd, 1805.95 (1)

It’s the second day of December, which cheers the French up, the day which announces the first anniversary of Napoleon’s crown and the new triumphs.

(2)

For Russians and Austria, an abominable day rises from gloomy darkness; but the French camp and arms of the men shine in a pleasant light.

(3)

This day rises in favour of the French: it brings three emperors into battle, preparing ruin for two, while bringing triumph to you, Napoleon !

(4)

The sun had barely risen on the farthest horizon, when there was nothing left stopping the generals from flying to their battalion, gladly and fearless.

(5)

Soon the French emperor gives the signal for battle, who is powerful due to propitious omens, and had just recently deceived the enemy, feigning retreat.

(6)

Then the fiery French, unknowing how to withdraw, withstand the onslaught of the frenzied: the Russians charging forward, like a torrent which, having abandoned its banks,

(7)

Rushes over rocks and fields and threatens to carry off everything with it; and with its stormy waves threatens the wild beasts with a violent death.

(8)

But steadier than a rock the French withstand this assault and turn around their combined troops against the enemy’s forces.

(9)

Cannons resound in violent roars, and spew out flames and swift globes. The hostile battalions scatter and die a dreadful death.

(10) Such as the water’s enormous force does often in raging storms rage, with its pressure bring down and brake dams, and fields and crops are covered by the torrential wave,

95 This translation depends heavily on Krüssel’s German (metrical) translation in Krüssel 2015, pp. 411 – 415.

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(11) So does Napoleon’s cohort break and by force of arms destroy the Russian lines, and Alexander’s troops are conquered with deadly weapons. (12) Soldiers fall together with many a general. Everywhere is slaughter, screaming, dread, everywhere the terrible wails of the wounded resound. (13) A flood of a thousand swift cannons, alas ! strikes down many times the crowds of men, kills off dense troops and sends to Hell whole lines and battalions. (14) Already one man throws himself with his arms on the other in close combat, one man pierces the other with his blade, troops (of cavalry) follow after another and do away with the rest of the cohort. (15) The Russian is encircled on all sides by the French and the Austrian raises defeated his hands. Everywhere rages death, and no hope to survive is left for the miserable. (16) And finally, victorious Napoleon ! Every army sinks down at your feet, defeated by your forces, and throws away its arms, throws away also its standards. (17) The Austrian emperor himself then is terrified and in a parley asks for armistice, which you, invincible ! grant him, and you vow safe conduct for the Russians.

(18) The second/favourable day of December will forever happily commemorate your triumphs, Napoleon ! your coronation and the fields of Austerlitz. (19) Will you finally learn, o presumptuous England ! to tone down your arrogant mind ? And will you cease to destroy countries, just to command the sea ? (20) Peace ! Child of the heavens ! Golden peace ! Return ! Bring rest to mankind at last ! Revisit the countries soon and exhilarate the nations with stable safety !

The Impossibility of Deliberate Action in Tolstoy’s Descriptions of Battle in War and Peace Sonja Koroliov

In his arguably greatest novel War and Peace, Tolstoy gives a range of detailed descriptions of battles fought in the course of Russia’s war against Napoleon. In 1804, Napoleon had declared himself emperor and had famously placed the crown on his head with his own hands, rather than receiving it from the Pope. One year later, in December 1805, he defeated the Russian and Austrian armies at Austerlitz1. In the first three books of War and Peace, which were published as a separate volume and serialised in Russkij Vestnik under the title 1805 in 1865, Tolstoy concentrates on these events and describes various battle scenes at Austerlitz and Schön Grabern, where Russians and Austrians fought side by side. The second part of the novel, published as part of the complete version in 1869, then contains accounts of the decisive battle of Borodino that had turned into a pyrrhic victory for Napoleon and ultimately led to the end of his Russian campaign. Tolstoy’s description of warlike action, the preparations for it, and actions at its edges, includes many of the protagonists from the other parts of the novel, in particular the episodes relating to the Rostov and Bolkonsky families, as well as a number of military personages both fictional and historical (like Napoleon or Kutuzov, the Russian commander-in-chief). Despite the progression and outcomes of the battles being very different, there are striking continuities not so much in the settings or details chosen for description (though there are parallels here too) as in Tolstoy’s overall conception of a battle as a type of action, or as a group of related actions. He does not shy away from describing the movements of troops, the flight of cannon-balls and the dying of men, but he is also, if not more, concerned with questions relating to the causation, epistemology, intentionality and responsibility in the context of warlike action — to him the question of how this action comes about, how it is caused and whether it could have been otherwise, constitutes a real problem which he tries to tackle both theoretically and 1

On the importance of timing and anniversaries cf. Foster 2013, pp. 44 – 45.

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_15

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as part of his fictional account in War and Peace. In the second part of the novel this interest becomes ever more obvious as the narrative is increasingly interspersed with essayistic episodes about the nature of war, the effects of power, or the role of individual decision-making. For Tolstoy, this problem of the coming about of action is also a problem of historiography and the methods we use to rationalize and explain the past. His theoretical approach to history was heavily criticized by his contemporaries and later commentators who were, in part, reproducing the contemporaries’ views. Turgenev accused him of charlatanerie,2 while Flaubert, who openly admired many parts of the novel (Turgenev had sent him a French translation) did not at all take to the theoretical passages included in it. In a letter to Turgenev, he remarks: “Il se répète et il philosophise”.3 With few exceptions, it has since become common usage to regard the passages in War and Peace that deal with history and historiography as unnecessary and annoying diversions from its otherwise brilliantly artistic narrative4. While some critics classed these passages as expressive of fatalism or social quietism, most simply ignored them and made no attempt to relate them to Tolstoy’s theoretical and fictional work5. Isaiah Berlin however, states in his 1953 essay The Hedgehog and the Fox — one of the most lucid reappraisals of Tolstoy’s theory of historiography ever written — that “Noone who reads […] War and Peace itself, can doubt that the author himself, at any rate, regarded this problem as the heart of the entire matter — the central issue round which the novel is built.”6 Berlin points out that one of Tolstoy’s many dissatisfactions with history as it was done in his day was its tendency to pick out one aspect, e. g. politics or economics, and relate all the events to be described to this chosen aspect, thereby disregarding the multiplicity of causes potentially available for description. To some extent, we find this eminently reflected in Tolstoy’s depictions of battle, one of whose most important aspects seems to be the complete and recurring breakdown of any unambiguous chains of causation between military planning and orders and the fulfillment of these plans or execution of these orders on the actual battlefield. This is shown on a personal level, as Tolstoy’s protagonists Nikolay Rostov or Andrei Bolkonsky enter into the war with certain plans as to how the battle will go for them, and both end up deeply disappointed. Thus, when Nikolay Rostov is involved in the fighting for the first time in his life at Schön Grabern, he finds himself at a loss what to do and is shocked at his own feelings of fear at being exposed to inimical fire unexpectedly:

2 3 4 5 6

In letters to Pavel Annenkov, cf. Bogoslovsky 1894, p. 41. Flaubert 1946, p. 218. Further criticism, e. g. by Shklovsky, focused on military events and Tolstoy’s supposedly deliberate, ideologised falsification of historical fact, cf Shklovsky 1928, chapters 7 and 8. Isaiah Berlin lists a great number of critical efforts in his essay, cf. Berlin 2000, p. 441. Berlin 2000, p. 442.

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Rostov […] had paused on the bridge, not knowing what to do. There was no one to hew down (as he had always imagined battles to himself), nor could he help to fire the bridge because he had not brought any burning straw with him like the other soldiers. He stood looking about him, when suddenly he heard a rattle on the bridge as if nuts were being spilt, and the hussar next to him fell against the rails with a groan. […] the fear of death and of the stretchers, and the love of the sun and of life, all merged into one feeling of sickening agitation. […] ‘It’s all over; but I am a coward — yes, a coward’ thought Rostov.7

The failure of planning, however, is even more obvious, and depicted with less sympathy and more irony, on the level of strategists, generals and commanders. Before the battle at Austerlitz, there is a lengthy meeting of the generals during which the Austrian general Franz von Weyrother explains his elaborate plan for how the battle should be conducted on the following day. Even during this discussion, the objections made as to the viability of such a detailed and inflexible plan appear to strike a discordant, doubtful note among the participants: “Langeron […] began to say how difficult it was to carry out such a plan in which the enemy’s positon was assumed to be known, whereas it was perhaps not known.”8 Kutuzov himself shows complete disregard for the plan by falling asleep during the explanation, and then urging everyone to bed without further comment: ‘Gentlemen, the dispositions for tomorrow […] cannot now be altered’, said he. ‘You have heard them and we shall all do our duty. But before a battle there is nothing more important …’ he paused, ‘than to have a good sleep.’9

Equally, Napoleon is unable to give sensible orders at Borodino, and when he gives them, they cannot be executed as they become irrelevant within seconds: An adjutant galloped up […] and reported to Napoleon that their attack had been repulsed, Compan wounded and Davout killed; yet at the very time the adjutant had been told that the French had been repulsed, the flèches had in fact been recaptured by other French troops, and Davout was alive and only slightly bruised. On the basis of these necessarily untrustworthy reports Napoleon gave his orders, which had either been executed before he gave them or could not be and were not executed.10

As Prince Andrei Bolkonsky explains to his friend Pierre on the eve of Borodino, this is why you cannot regard a battle in the same way as a game of chess:

7 8 9 10

Tolstoy 2010, pp. 157 f. Ibid., p. 279. Ibid., p. 280. Ibid., pp. 858 f.

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In chess, a knight is always stronger than a pawn, and two pawns are always stronger than one, while in a war, a battalion is sometimes stronger than a division, and sometimes weaker than a company. The relative strength of bodies of troops can never be known to anyone.11

The ability to systematically predict future human behaviour, so essential to a game of chess, breaks down in situations where real human actions and real human lives are at stake. The starting point for this epistemic failure is the impossibility for those who participate in war to grasp what is going on at any given moment. The long lines of communication between soldiers and their commanders, as well as between different parts of the army, the extensive use of artillery fire, whose immediate effect is hard to discern or foresee for the individual soldier, the elusive and sudden nature of collective attacks, and also the physical circumstances such as mist, a hilly landscape and accumulations of smoke, are all factors which contribute to an obscurity experienced by all participants, even those at the centre of the fighting: The columns moved forward without knowing where, and unable from the masses around them, the smoke and the increasing fog, to see either the place they were leaving, or that to which they were going.12

In that way, the soldiers in a battalion resemble the sailors on a ship — they are always surrounded by the same people, but they do not know, and rarely care to know, the exact position of their ship on sea, as long as they vaguely know where it is going. While this renders military strategy powerless and irrelevant, it can also be cunningly used to avert unwelcome orders. Thus, Prince Bagration who wants to avoid a demand from Dolgoroukov to start battle in the morning sends a messenger to the commander-in-chief to ask for further instructions: Bagration knew that as the distance between the two flanks was more than six miles, even if the messenger were not killed (which he very likely would be), and found the commander-in-chief (which would be very difficult), he would not be able to get back before evening.

In the battle of Borodino, we are given a panorama view of the battlefield from the perspective of Pierre Bezukhov, who is not himself a participant. His view is essentially aestheticized — he admires the beautiful nature around him and the visual harmony between the landscape and the soldiers moving within it. By introducing Pierre as an uninvolved, largely clueless onlooker, Tolstoy takes up the concept of distance that is so central to Kant’s explanation of the sublime. According to Kant, the sublime 11 Ibid., p. 829. 12 Ibid., p. 287.

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is characterised by greatness (magnitudo and quantitas) beyond measure, or rather, by the reflection of such greatness in the human mind.13 As Barboza has pointed out, the sublime takes place not in the object but in the mind.14 For the mind to come to terms with excessive, unmeasurable phenomena such as war, it is important for it to be on the outside of the event. However, in the case of Pierre, this distinction is obliterated — Pierre rides right into the centre of the battle accidentally and does not realise it, even when he is nearly hit by a cannon-ball. Sublime or not, Tolstoy seems to want to show that what it truly means for a phenomenon to be immeasurable is that it is also hard to see its boundaries and to define what is part of it and what isn’t. Nobody is ever ‘in the know’: neither the top-down overview nor the inside view seem to be privileged. A number of Tolstoy’s examples show that even the most active soldiers are equally in the dark as to their own activity. One of these cases concerns Captain Tushin who almost single-handedly saves what there is to save at Schön Grabern. He has no orders as his battery has been entirely forgotten — he simply continues to fight with his small group of soldiers, as if in a rage or intoxication:15 Owing to the terrible uproar and the necessity for concentration and activity, Tushin did not experience the slightest unpleasant sense of fear, and the thought that he might be killed or badly wounded never occurred to him. On the contrary he became more and more elated. […] Though he thought of everything, considered everything, and did everything the best of officers could do in his position, he was in a state akin to feverish delirium or drunkenness.16

However, there seems to be a barrier not only between planning and action on the battlefield, but also between the experience of battle and its subsequent rationalization. This is what happens to Prince Andrei when he is sent to the Austrian Minister of War with good news and meets with hardly any interest at all. The Minister is polite but distanced, and his outlook changes Andrei’s own outlook on his most immediate experience: When Prince Andrei left the palace he felt that all the interest and happiness the victory had afforded him had been now left in the indifferent hands of the Minister of War and the polite adjutant. The whole tenor of his thoughts instantaneously changed; the battle seemed the memory of a remote event long past.17

13 Cf. Kant 1957, p. 166. 14 Cf. Barboza 2010, p. 245. 15 Many years later, Tolstoy takes up the aspect of intoxication in order to criticize military practice as a whole, e. g. in his essay “Thou shalt not kill” published in 1900. Here, the intoxication is seen as positive and perhaps akin to the ‘emotional infection’ discussed below. 16 Tolstoy 2010, p. 205. 17 Ibid., pp. 162 f.

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This is only an individual expression of what Tolstoy holds to be true of explanations of the outcomes of war in general. Quoting various historians on why Austerlitz was lost or why Borodino led to Napoleon’s downfall, he insists that in ex-post-facto rationalizations of why a battle was won or lost, various aspects can come into play but these only make sense and can only be arranged as an argumentation with a view to the outcome already known, and that had the outcome been different, there would have been alternative explanations to account for that, too.18 According to Tolstoy, this is because no such explanation can grasp the true nature and cause of the actual fighting, which cannot depend on the will or decision of individual commanders:19 To us it is incomprehensible that millions of Christian men killed and tortured each other either because Napoleon was ambitious or because Alexander was firm […] each separate cause or whole series of causes appears to us equally valid in itself and equally false by its insignificance compared to the magnitude of the events. […] The actions of Napoleon and Alexander, on whose words the event seemed to hang, were as little voluntary as the actions of any soldier […] It was necessary that millions of men in whose hand lay the real power — the soldiers who fired or transported provisions and guns — should consent to carry out the will of these weak individuals, and should have been induced to do so by an infinite number of diverse and complex causes.20

For Tolstoy, this eliminates heroism in the classical sense: In giving and accepting battle at Borodino, Kutuzov acted involuntarily and irrationally. But later on, to fit what had occurred, the historians provided cunningly devised evidence of the foresight and genius of the generals who of all the blind tools of history were the most enslaved and involuntary. The ancients have left us model heroic poems in which the heroes furnish the whole interest of the story, and we are still unable to accustom ourselves to the fact that for our epoch histories of that kind are meaningless.21

This theory is also borne out by Tolstoy’s numerous descriptions of individual participants and the extremely disparate and mostly private motivations that lead their movements in battle — ranging from avoiding a fellow-officer one has had a quarrel with to absurdly proving one’s courage by standing under fire for no good reason, to 18 Cf. Berlin 2000, p. 448 on the treacherousness of memory that is led by rationalisation. 19 Cf. Ibid., p. 449: “The higher soldiers or statesmen are in the pyramid of authority, the farther they must be from its base, which consists of those ordinary men and women whose lives are the actual stuff of history; and, consequently, the smaller the effect of the words and acts of such remote personages, despite all their theoretical authority, upon that history.” 20 Tostoy 2010, pp. 648 f. 21 Ibid., p. 809.

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simple confusion or disorientation. The gap between these private motives and the ongoing campaign is acutely felt by all involved, e. g. when Nikolay Rostov is at one point unable to comprehend why anyone should want to kill him who has always been on the best terms and loved by all who knew him, or when Russian and French soldiers who are stationed only a few metres apart are joking and laughing together. The reduction of the role of the commander and strategy and planning in general creates two problems. One is the ascription of moral responsibility. Tolstoy maintains that e. g. Napoleon is acting as involuntarily as Kutuzov and Bagration, yet he wishes to make Napoleon morally worse, and he cannot do this by reference to his being the aggressor when he has just made him an unwilling tool of history. Therefore, moral responsibility is ascribed on the level of spontaneous actions e. g. when Napoleon comments on the beauty of the battlefield that is strewn with corpses, or orders to continue artillery fire on a group of wounded soldiers who are already drowning as they try to flee over a frozen pond where the ice is too thin. A further difference Tolstoy sets up between the commanders on the two sides lies in their own understanding of their role. Napoleon likes to style himself as a chessplayer and often uses chess similes for his actions. As Berlin has pointed out,22 it is precisely Napoleon’s belief or claim that he understands and is in control of what is happening that makes him the most contemptible figure in the novel. The ridiculousness of his attitude is further borne out when he is contrastingly described as the kind of person least in control, e. g. a gambler angry at his failing luck. Kutuzov and Bagration, on the other hand, have understood that their role is only to watch over and accompany what is happening anyway: Prince Andrei listened attentively […] and to his surprise found that no orders were really given but that Prince Bagration tried to make it appear that everything done by necessity, by accident, or by the will of subordinate commanders, was done, if not by his direct command, at least in accord with his intentions.23

Far as War and Peace is from Tolstoy’s pacifist writings (chronologically, artistically and biographically), it shares with these texts a suspicion of active engagement in war and a positive view of passivity. In later writings such as The Beginning of the End or Thou Shalt Not Kill, there is a shift towards the moral: passivity is commended as a form of resistance against killing other human beings — a refusal of military obedience on the basis of the individual’s moral feelings and principles.24 In War and Peace, this aspect is obviously not foregrounded (also because the soldiers are fighting to de-

22 Berlin 2000, p. 450. Cf. also p. 457 for remarks on the epilogue of War and Peace, where great men like Naoleon are compared to a ram being fattened for slaughter that imagines himself to be the leader of the flock. 23 Tolstoy 2010, p. 193 f. 24 Cf. Приближение конца (The Beginning of the End), in: Tolstoy PSS, vol.31, pp. 78 – 86.

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fend their country, rather than e. g. to put down a worker’s uprising), but even here, moral goodness seems to go with the passive Russian commanders rather than with Napoleon — not because Napoleon is the aggressor in general, but rather because he keeps perpetrating aggressive acts by ordering ever renewed actions of killing. The second continuity between War and Peace and Tolstoy’s pacifist texts is the unwavering focus on individual decisions as the one and only ground of action — which is where Tolstoy encounters the second problem: explaining how the action comes about despite everyone’s following their personal motivation.25 For Berlin, there is a dilemma here that reaches into one of Tolstoy’s inmost conflicts — his obsessive engagement with the question of how to integrate all the infinitesimally small fragments of human action that make up history into a unified account, and how to explain history without taking recourse to any of the available theories which he held to be insufficient. The battle scenes are a case in point because they make up such famous examples of collective action whose collectivity cannot really be denied despite their being theoretically impossible within Tolstoy’s philosophical system.26 This collectivity, the mysterious bond between the actions of one soldier and those of all the others, is never fully explained, but Tolstoy tries to give at least a contextual explanation by invoking a certain shared sense of community, of belonging together in virtue of finding oneself exposed to the same situation. Thus, when the battle is at its height, it is impossible to tell how it is standing — except by looking at the men’s faces. It is the soldiers’ emotional state that is not only indicative of their successes or failures but is also the direct cause of these, i. e. it is the decisive factor for victory or defeat. Kutuzov refers to this as “that intangible force called the spirit of the army”. There seem to be strong connections here to Tolstoy’s concept of infection which he developed in his essay on art (What is art ? — Čto takoe iskusstvo ?). Art is supposed to transmit to the viewer the exact feeling the author has felt or evoked in himself: There is one indubitable indication distinguishing real art from its counterfeit, namely, the infectiousness of art. If a man, without exercising effort and without altering his standpoint, on reading, hearing, or seeing another man’s work, experiences a mental condition which unites him with that man and with other people who also partake of that work of art, then the object evoking that condition is a work of art. […] A real work of art destroys, in the consciousness of the receiver, the separation between himself and the artist, nor that alone, but also between himself and all whose minds receive this work of art.27

25 Cf. Berlin’s remarks on conferring power (p. 455) — how is power conferred ? It is not an act to be compared with everyday activities like eating or walking, 26 Beyond the more obvious point that in Tolstoy’s view, all such actions must necessarily have complex causes that canot be reduced to a single point of origin such as Napoleon’s will or Alexander’s plans, there is of course a deeper question about freedom which I omit here because discussing it would exceed the scope of this paper. For a discussion of free will and determinism in Tolstoy in the context of war, see Jane Bownas 2015. 27 Tolstoy 1904, pp. 152 f

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As Sasse points out, this also produces a kind of community based on an unrestrained and authentic emotional communication between individuals.28 Although Tolstoy is primarily thinking about the effects of art, his theory also has clear social implications, and it is interesting that one of the places where he discusses it is the Kreutzer Sonata, a text largely concerned with the problem of how action (in this case undesired action) comes about. There he accuses music of affecting the nerves with emotions that are not really the subject’s own — that are inauthentic and therefore detrimental — a kind of hypnosis exercised by an untrustworthy hypnotist. In War and Peace, however, we find the soldiers infected by the same kind of warlike spirit which unites the individuals in a way not unlike the more religiously connoted sobornost’. It has often been argued that this is in fact an evocation of the national spirit, and that consequently, the Russian victory is seen by Tolstoy to be due to the fact that the Russians were fighting for their own country.29 This element is certainly present, e. g. in a lengthy comment by Prince Andrei who juxtaposes the existential war fought by the Russians for their own soil, houses, families and lives, with the so-called ‘chivalrous’, ritualized war fought in accordance with certain rules of politeness, which he sees as obsolete. However, the actual battle descriptions show that the existential bond that connects the soldiers in this particular situation is not primarily a national one. It is much more significantly based on their shared feeling on confronting death. Their shared attention directed toward the invisible line between the two armies bears this out. The closeness of death causes the soldiers’ solemnity, activity and mutual understanding: One step beyond that boundary line which resembles the line dividing the living from the dead, lies uncertainty, suffering and death. What is there ? […] Noone knows but one wants to know. You fear and yet long to cross that line, and know that sooner or later it must be crossed, and you will have to find out what is there, just as you will inevitably have to learn what lies the other side of death.30

28 Cf. Sasse 2016, pp. 484 ff. Sasse relates this to Guyau’s idea, then newly spread in Russia, of a “solidarity of the nervous systems”. 29 Jan Kusber even makes Tolstoy primarily responsible for the memory of the Napoleonic wars in Russia having taken a rather national turn. He wrongly differentiates the representation of Kutuzov from that of the other generals, including Bagration who — in contrast to Kusber’s interpretation — is not actually depicted as a negative character. Thus there is, at least in this case, no deliberate glossing over of the multiethnic nature of the Russian army. Kusber is right, however, in pointing out that the events of 1813 and 1814 are not as prominent as those of 1812. In his view, this is a consequence of Tolstoy’s attempt to make the anti-Napoleonic wars more ‘Russian’, i. e. to diminish the role of the other coalition partners. In the context of War and Peace and the importance Tolstoy sets on passiveness and a defensive position, however, it seems obvious that the campaigns of 1813 and 1814, which mostly took place in Western Europe, would not be as fitting subjects as the battles carried out on Russian soil. Cf. Kusber 2017, esp. pp. 58 – 60. 30 Tostoy 2010, p. 152.

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Thus the emotional framework which makes it possible for thousands of different motivations to flow into unified action is one closely connected to the human condition and to any human’s conception of him- or herself as a being that is threatened by death. At the same time, death transcends warlike action. When Prince Andrei and Nikolay Rostov are wounded, their feelings and thoughts are described as completely disconnected from the action around them. They contemplate the sky, or go back to the past, but they are no more able to understand what is going on around them and why. The logic of battle is briefly but effectively removed. In this way, Tolstoy introduces narrative pockets into his battle descriptions that disrupt their flow and undermine any appeal they may have had, or still have, for the 19th century or even the modern reader. Stirring and intoxicating or even ‘infectious’ as these descriptions may be, they are overwritten by the individual’s experience that puts a stop both to action and to all attempts at understanding action rationally. The individual facing God and his own life is thus the starting point for Tolstoy — any authentically collective action can only spring from the individual’s innermost kernel, the individual’s Innerlichkeit, and therefore any war must also be measured by its effect on such individuals and their innermost lives.

Literature Barboza, J. 2010. Kann der Krieg erhaben sein ? In War and Peace. The Role of Science and Art, S. Nour and O. Remaud eds, 237 – 246. Berlin: Duncker & Humblot. Berlin, I. 2000. The Hedgehog and the Fox. In The Proper Study of Mankind. 436 – 498. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Bogoslovsky, E. I. 1894. Turgenev o L. Tolstom. Tbilissi: Tipografiya kantselyarii glavnonachal’nika grazhdanskoj chast’u na Kavkaze. Bownas, J. 2015. War, the Hero and the Will: Hardy, Tolstoy and the Napoleonic Wars. Brighton: Sussex Academic Press. Flaubert, G. 1946. Lettres inédites à Tourguéneff. Présentation et notes par Gérard Cailly. Monaco: Éditions du Rocher. Foster, J. B. 2013. Transnational Tolstoy. Between the West and the World. New York and London: Bloomsbury. Kant, I. 1957. Kritik der Urteilskraft. Werkausgabe Band X, Wilhelm Weischedel ed. Wiesbaden: Suhrkamp. Kusber, J. 2017. Russlands Sieg über Napoleon als Erinnerungsfigur(en). In Die Napoleonischen Kriege in der europäischen Erinnerung, C. Klausing and V.von Wiczlinski eds, 47 – 63. Bielefeld: transcript Verlag. Sasse, S. 2016. Lev Tolstoj un die Kommunizierbarkeit der Gefühle. In Handbuch Literatur & Emotionen, M. von Koppenfels und C. Zumbusch eds, 481 – 495. Berlin and Boston: de Gruyter. Shklovsky, V. B. 1928. Mater’yal i stil’ v romane L’va Tolstogo ‘Voina i mir’. Moscow: Federatsiia.

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Tolstoj, L. N. 1928 – 52. Polnoe sobranie sočinenij (PSS). Moscow: Gosudarstvennoe izdatel’stvon khudozhestvennoj literatury. Tolstoj, L. N. 1978 – 1985. Sobranie sočinenij v 22 tomach. Moscow: Khudozhestvennaja Literatura. Tolstoy, L. N. 1904. What is Art ? Translated from the original MS., with an introduction by Aylmer Maude, A. Maude trans. and ed. New York: Funk & Wagnalls Company. Tolstoy, L. N. 2010. War and Peace. Translated with notes by Louise and Aylmer Maude. Revised and edited with an introduction by Amy Mandelker. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Historical Distance and Literary Re-Presentation Ancient Battles in German Classical Studies

Magdalena Gronau and Martin Gronau

1

Introduction

On the evening of June 11, 1931, Walter Benjamin met with two other prominent figures of the German intellectual elite, Bertolt Brecht and Wilhelm Speyer, at the Villa Mar Belo in Le Lavandou. Even though it was a friendly visit, the cultural critic was not certain that it would be a pleasant end of day. It was a “besonderer Glücksfall”, as Benjamin notes in his travel journal, that their conversation turned to Brecht’s childhood memories, which unexpectedly did not focus on formative literary or political experiences. Instead, the later poster boy of Germany’s political left and famous writer of anti-war poetry elaborated on the “strategische[] Schule, durch die er gegangen war: die Schlachten zwischen den Schulklassen auf der Bleich am Lech und die Zinnsoldatenschlachten im Garten”. With huge armies, consisting of “vier- bis fünftausend solcher Soldaten”, the children re-enacted the most important military events of world history, not playfully, but “nach festen Regeln”. Intensive studying and practicing had engraved the course of battles on their memory. Brecht claimed to have known the course of a considerable selection of battles by heart—Waterloo, for instance, and all the battles of Frederick the Great; he even worked through the whole Bellum Gallicum on his playground battlefield.1 The note from Walter Benjamin’s travel journal gives an insight into the cultural context of battle-related knowledge in Germany of the late-nineteenth and earlytwentieth century. It shows that as a part of (higher) “general” education battle narratives already became operative in the formative years of childhood, namely in a prolific period of cognitive development, when playful storytelling is still the main-

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Cf. Benjamin Fragmente vermischten Inhalts & Autobiographische Schriften (GS VI, 1991, pp. 437 – 438), who also describes Brecht’s military playground: “Bei diesen Kämpfen wurden mit Pappstreifen Dörfer markiert, Flüsse auf Pontons überschritten, Baumwurzeln stellten Gebirge dar.”

© Springer Fachmedien Wiesbaden GmbH, part of Springer Nature 2020 J. Luggin and S. Fink (eds.), Battle Descriptions as Literary Texts, Universal- und kulturhistorische Studien. Studies in Universal and Cultural History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-658-27859-5_16

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spring of both historical imagination and historical conscience. With that in mind, Brecht’s anecdote is quite relevant for our study on descriptions of ancient battles in German historiography: it points to the mutual affinity of (military) history and literature, as it can be heard also in Friedrich Nietzsche’s adaption of the famous Heraclitean aphorism in his Fröhliche Wissenschaft: “der Krieg ist auch der Vater der guten Prosa !”.2 Paradigms of military force and violence have shaped (literary) modes of expression and (historical) judgement—and vice versa. In the following, we will examine these issues by analysing descriptions of ancient battles in modern German historiography through the framework of narratology. Thus, our study mainly aims at the question of how military events are described and narrated. It is based on the following general assumptions concerning the complex relations between literature, classical studies and military history: Our main premise is that in the nineteenth and early-twentieth century, a “war without battle”3 was a rather unusual concept—just like an extensive historical narrative without battle descriptions. In Karl Julius Beloch’s multi-volume Griechische Geschichte the German word for battle, “Schlacht”, appears over 120 times in the table of contents alone, only surpassed by the German word component “Krieg”, for war, which is used even more than 200 times.4 Since warfare has been considered a quite “normal” part of ancient lifeworlds, it should come as no surprise that this is not an isolated case. When famous classicist Theodor Mommsen, who at times also acted as a “journalistischer Schlachtenbummler”,5 was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for his masterly “art of historical writing” at the turn of the twentieth century, descriptions of (ancient) battles were substantial elements of historical works, in this respect following a tendency of ancient historiography itself. What is more, they were also present in other media: dramas and novels as well as military treatises and his-

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Nietzsche Die fröhliche Wissenschaft § 92 (KSA 3, 21988, p. 448). On Nietzsche’s stylistic appropriation of Heraclit’s famous dictum (DK 22 B 53: Πόλεμος πάντων μὲν πατήρ …) see Most 1995, p. 107. On so-called “New Wars”, in which battles in the classical sense do not play an important role anymore, cf. Münkler 2002. According to Karpenstein-Eßbach 2011, p. 67 also in literature, “Kriege ohne Fronten” are characterized by the “‘Verschwinden’ der Schlacht als agonales Modell der Konfrontation von Gegnern”. As a literary topos, the “Krieg ohne Schlacht” builds on a certain tradition, as indicated by the title of Heiner Müller’s autobiography (1992) and Ludwig Renn’s novel (1957). This information refers to the 2nd edition of Beloch’s Griechische Geschichte, published between 1912 and 1927. In the table of contents of Barthold Georg Niebuhrs Vorträge über alte Geschichte bis auf die Griechen (Abt. 2, Bd. 1 – 3), the term “Schlacht” occurs 27 times, whereas “Krieg” is used about 100 times. Also with respect to the text body, however, the predominance of battles can be confirmed: In Johann Gustav Droysen’s Geschichte des Hellenismus, for instance, the German word for battle, “Schlacht”, occurs more than 300 times, in Eduards Meyer’s Geschichte des Altertums even more than 500 times. Similarly, the Greek terms μάχη and μάχεσθαι are ubiquitous in the surviving books of the Greek and Roman historiographers. In a letter to Karl Zangemeister from April 3, 1888 (cf. Zangemeister 1905, p. VI), Theodor Mommsen refers to his newspaper report on the battle of Schleswig (April 23, 1848) in the Schleswig-Holsteinische Zeitung. See also footnote 9.

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torical paintings and, by the early-twentieth century, the first war films and swordand-sandal movies.6 Within this discursive sphere which seems to be adequately characterized by the persistent metaphor of the theatrum belli,7 the now-distinct fields of literature and (military) history were still closely related: On the one hand, German literati like Heinrich von Kleist, Theodor Fontane and Ludwig Renn committed considerable parts of their oeuvre to (dramatic) battle descriptions, frequently drawing upon their own military background.8 On the other hand, the former monopoly of military personnel over the analysis and interpretation of the historical events of war was increasingly challenged by academically trained civilians, such as Hans Delbrück, the disputed figurehead of German military history.9 Furthermore, general and classical historians like Mommsen, who wrote with pronounced literary ambitions for a wider audience, contributed to the dissemination of battle knowledge as a part of classical education. In such a sense, the literarization and historicization of (military) battle knowledge were two sides of the same coin. These general affinities, only briefly outlined here, suggest that battle descriptions are appealing to literature and affected by literature in a specific way. The aim of our investigation is to elucidate the nexus of fighting and writing by employing the methods of literary studies for modern descriptions of ancient battles. In accordance with the general methodological orientation of this volume, we regard battle descriptions as literary texts, built on (fluid) genre traditions and (variable) medial prerequisites. Taking this premise literally, the subtle dispositions of battle narrations become ap-

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Numerous examples for the nineteenth and twentieth century are discussed by Köppen 2005. Cf. Füssel 2008b on the “Medialität der Schlachtenrepräsentation im 18. Jahrhundert”. Cf. also Martus et al. 2003. Füssel 2008a. With respect to the theatric “staginess” of Alexander’s expedition, Gregor 1940, p. 360 is “jedenfalls sicher, daß […] selbst in seinen Schlachten jenes Überschäumen der Phantasie nicht fehlte, das die Weltenbühne mit der Bühne gemein hat.” Kleist, the author of Die Hermannsschlacht (1808) and Die Schlacht von Fehrbellin (1809 – 1811), came from a military family and worked his way up in the Prussian army to the rank of a lieutenant. Fontane, who achieved only the rank of a corporal in his short army days, wrote numerous battle descriptions in his travel reports and journalistic texts, e. g. on the German-Dutch and German-French war (cf. Hebekus 2003). Ludwig Renn, author of Krieg (1928), Nachkrieg (1930), Der spanische Krieg (1955) and Krieg ohne Schlacht (1957), was a battalion commander in World War I and in the Spanish Civil War. Examplary for contemporary German war- and battle-belle lettres are also Werner Richter’s Die Geschlagenen (1949), Peter Hacks’ Die Schlacht bei Lobositz (1956), Heiner Müller’s Die Schlacht (1974), Alexander Kluge’s Schlachtbeschreibung (1964/1978). For battles in German drama see the older studies of Scherrer 1919 and Stümcke 1915. On early attempts of a (civil) academisation of military history in Germany see Deist 2000. Usually, civilians conducting military history were under high pressure to demonstrate legitimacy. In his description of the battle of Schleswig, which was based at least partially “auf eigener Anschauung”, Mommsen 1848 explicitly excuses himself for military misapprehensions: “Militärische Irrtümer wird man dem Civilisten verzeihen; vielleicht hört man aber bei einem Kriege, wo die Taktik nicht alles ist, auch nicht ungern, wie es um die Herzen der Schleswiger steht.”

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parent not only in recurring motifs, but also on an aesthetic and stylistic level. Therefore, we will focus on narrative paradigms, techniques of visualization and generating authenticity, and strategies of aestheticization. By situating these narrative strategies within specific genre traditions which are deeply rooted in ancient historiography itself, we will elaborate a variable and multi-facetted register of battle descriptions, that nonetheless is characterized by a surprising consistency. Our study starts with an examination of the figure of the historical narrator, its relation to the author and its general position in the text. Subsequently we will discuss how specific narrative techniques are utilized to bring history to life or, alternately, to create historical distance. An outline of specific topoi defining the micro-narrative of the (German) term “Schlacht” will conclude the study. To enable comparison, we will mainly focus on a defined set of ancient battles: the battles of Alexander the Great versus Dareios, namely the battles of Granicus, Issus and Gaugamela, which are exemplary for general problems related to source tradition and authorship. The scope of our research is further limited to descriptions of these ancient battles in modern historical works, from Barthold Niebuhr to Alexander Demandt. Our focus on German studies, of course, does not imply that we are describing a “German” phenomenon only. Conclusions of such a kind could only be drawn from a comparison with non-German historiography – an issue which has to remain open for now. In this essay, at least some sporadic references to ancient source texts can be made when needed to exemplify the longevity of both literary forms of battle (re)presentations and theoretical reflections on these ancient battles.

2

Who tells the story ?

When it comes to the analysis of battle descriptions, the primary question is: Who tells the story ? Yet the question of “authorship” is a subject-specific problem, which is negotiated differently in literary studies and historiography. In historiography, the question of authorship plays a decisive role, since biographical information about the creators of texts is usually necessary for an adequate contextualisation of ineluctable textual sources. In the case of classical scholars, the problem of authorship multiplies: their historical narratives attempt to identify the originators of their sources, often based on a long textual tradition, which renders their analysis prone to circular arguments. Nearly all ancient author-figures are elusive and therefore have to be reconstructed from the surviving source text — which are then interpreted on the basis of these reconstructions. Literary studies, on the other hand, currently address different facets of authorship. Ever since the “return of the author”, literary studies have opened the analysis of literary texts again to their contexts and their impact history — but going beyond a simple biographical equation of the narrating instance with the author. New models of authorship involve not only the literary text per se, but also various modes of self-staging, practices of authorship or alternative concepts

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such as collective authorship.10 Combining approaches to authorship in literary studies and historiography provides a productive framework for understanding descriptions of warfare. In case of battle descriptions, the narratological differentiation between author and narrator appears to be a non-trivial problem: ancient historiographers commonly took an active part in the military events they afterwards tried to eternalize in their historical works. According to Polybios, for example, one essential criterion of war reports is that their respective authors, of course equipped with profound military expertise, have seen the course of the battle with their own eyes.11 As narrators whose authority derives largely from their “Augenzeugenschaft”, ancient historiographers were part of the narrated story (“homodiegetic”). By contrast, modern historical works dealing with ancient battles are by necessity told by a narrator situated outside the narration (“heterodiegetic”). While an antique historiographer like Thucydides could be praised for his skills “as both philosopher and general, neither depriving his words of arms (ὅπλων) nor describing battles (μάχας) without practical understanding (φρονήσεως)”,12 modern historians like Fritz Schachermeyr are expected to prove at least basic military competence. In response to criticisms, Schachermeyr justifies his own interpretation of the ancient texts by having “[i]mmerhin […] einen beträchtlichen Teil des Ersten Weltkrieges in Vorderasien als Offizier mitgemacht” — resulting in a different attitude towards military events “als wenn sich Kriege für mich allein am Schreibtisch abspielen würden.”13 As there is no chance to repeat the ancient battle, the fact that the author partook in a modern battle authorizes him to deal with his subject. With respect to the depicted events, however, Schachermeyr shares the fate of every modern historian, still having to rely on ancient sources, sometimes even to take the “task of the translator”. The way modern historians cope with these inevitable textual dependencies reveals further insights into their staging of authorship, as is particularly evident in their “intertextual” practices concerning one of the most prominent and especially gripping battle scenes in the historiography of Alexander: From Johann Gustav Droysen to Alexander Demandt, almost every historian somehow refers to the “hitzigste Szene”14 of the battle of the Granicus, when Cleitus saves Alexander’s life by chopping off the arm of an attacking enemy, who has already raised 10 For an overview on current debates on authorship see Schaffrick and Willand 2014. 11 Cf. Pol. XII 25 – 28. On the inexcusability of respective historiographic mistakes, which do not result from a mere lack of information (e. g. with respect to the size of the armies), cf. the critique on Callisthenes in Pol. XII 21. The general demand of autopsia as made in Pol. III 4,13, XII 27,3 and XX 12,8, already occurs in the works of classical historiographers, e. g. Thuk. I 22, V 26, or Hdt. II 99. On autopsia-claims and their role in Herodotos (see e. g. Hdt. II 99) cf. Bichler 2013. 12 Aphthonios Progymn. 8 [Rabe p. 23, George A. Kennedy transl.]. 13 Schachermeyr 1973, p. 270, who thereby obviously refers to Polybios’ critique of a merely theoretical battle knowledge of “bookman”-historiographers (such as Theopomp, Timaios or Ephoros). Cf. Graupe 2012, p. 378. 14 Schachermeyr 1973, p. 172.

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his weapon behind the back of the Macedonian king. However, they differ largely with respect to their descriptions of essential details (such as the weapon of the aggressor). Even more significantly, modern historians also differ here in terms of their quoting practices. Most historians explicitly identify the attacker as the Lydian satrap Spithridates,15 more or less tacitly following a short note in the Anabasis of Arrianos.16 However, this citation is questionable insofar as alternative versions of this battle episode were already circulating in antiquity, and in these versions Cleitus does not cut off the arm of Spithridates, but of Rhosaces, his supposed brother.17 The historical “fact” cannot be reconstructed beyond a doubt (and is not even important for the course of the battle itself). Mainly for the sake of a vivid narration, then, modern historians still settle on one of the two “transmitted” names, and often assign “Spithridates” to the attacking combatant. Were Cleitus faced with an anonymous or undetermined opponent, his life-saving act would not unfold its heroic potential. The indubitable identification of the attacker is a prerequisite of the battle’s “Homeric” momentum, which is often ascribed to it by German scholars.18 The problem of naming historical combatants is an interesting case for narratology, which also points to larger problems of authorship. When Droysen in this context refrains from naming concrete references by stating generally: “kleinere Abweichungen von Arrians Schilderung sind nicht von Bedeutung”,19 he camouflages the (fragmentary and multiple) textual tradition. Thus, he disguises the long chain of “authors” before himself, from whom he has inherited the main units of his story, sometimes even in the same wording. It might be easy to determine the author of a modern book. But who, in fact, is the author of this ancient battle story ? Is it the modern historian or his ancient informant ?20 One should also consider that even Arrianos himself wrote his account of Alexander’s Anabasis many centuries after the described events. Could 15 Cf. e. g. Droysen 1833, p. 114; Hertzberg 1875, p. 82; Wilcken 1931, pp. 77 – 78; Gregor 1940, p. 361; Lauffer 1978, p. 62; Demandt 2009, p. 115. 16 Arr. An. I 15,8; cf. Plut. Alexander 16, 5, where Spithridates is killed by Cleitus with a spear. 17 Cf. Diod. XVII 20,7; Curt. VIII 3. Lehmann 1911, p. 238 only mentions the “Einzelkampf ” of Alexander with Rhoisakes and Spithridates. Without referring to Cleitus’ life-saving act Beloch 1922, p. 624 mentions Spithridates death in the battle. Bengtson 1985, p. 141 degrades the life-threatening situation to a possible “Verwundung durch […] Spithridates”, Schachermeyr 1973, p. 172 does not name Spithridates, but speaks of a “persischer Ritter”. Wiemer 2005, p. 94 only mentions that Alexander’s life was saved by Cleitus. Niese 1893, p. 61 states that Cleitus cut off the arm of a “Perser, der eine Axt gegen den König erhoben hatte”. 18 Cf. Hertzberg 1875, p. 81: “Es ist ein homerischer Kampf; der König selbst kämpft mit Löwenmuth”; similarly Lehmann 1911, p. 238. The general “heroic” nature of Alexanders military conduct is still stressed e. g. by Gehrke 1996, p. 43 and Engels 2006, p. 50. 19 Droysen 1833, p. 114. 20 Cf. Droysen 1833, p. 230, where he states for the battle at Gaugamela, that “die ganze Darstellung dieser Schlacht aus Arrian entnommen [ist]”. On the predominance of Arrianos in modern descriptions of Alexander’s battles cf. Hertzberg 1875, p. V – VI: “Die wesentlichen Grundlagen der Darstellung bilden überall die Angaben des Arrian”. The “massenhaften Mittheilungen” of other authors are only utilized “soweit dieselben mit der Hauptautorität in Einklang zu bringen sind.” See also Niese 1893, pp. 61, 92: “Der Schlachtbericht Arrians I 14 – 15 ist verhältnismäßig der beste, ist aber unvoll-

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it then be one of Alexander’s “campaign historians”,21 who may have witnessed the event with his own eyes ? Does the story originate even from Alexander himself ?22 Or is it based on a rumour, circulating among soldiers shortly after the event ? It is nearly impossible to answer the questions of where the story comes from and when and why it split up into different versions. In view of such complex traditions, which are typical for classical studies, the idea of personal authorship often is stretched to its limits. Of course, modern historians are well aware of problems associated with the fragmentary and often even contradictory textual tradition. In a letter to Friedrich Perthes, Droysen takes the view that even strict source criticism never fully secures the historical “facts” which are to be narrated: “Man braucht einen höheren Gesichtspunkt als das Kritisieren der Quellen, und die Richtigkeit der zu erzählenden Fakta ist stets prekär.”23 With this statement, Droysen authorizes the historian to make the past present—in a more literary way than some later historians such as Siegfried Lauffer. In his Alexander-monograph from 1978, Lauffer frequently refers to, and even extensively discusses, the textual tradition of his historical narrative. By naming almost any available literary source and citing many modern comments on the battles in the footnotes Lauffer generates the impression of scientificity and substantiates his authority to describe the historical events.24 Another way of dealing with the complex textual tradition is to “outsource” the problem to a separate chapter, as e. g. Alexander Demandt does. In his voluminous biography, Demandt provides a general outline, where he critically reflects on the sources. This not only indicates his profound knowledge and competence to judge the sources’ reliability.25 It also allows him to reduce the amount of footnotes, or even largely refrain from them, since

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ständig”; “Ich folge hier überhaupt ausschließlich dem Arrian, da die übrigen Quellen, Diodor, Curtius und Plutarch, mannigfache Verwirrung und Entstellung zeigen”. Already Dittberner 1908, pp. 3 – 4 explicitly notes: “man darf trotz allem nicht vergessen, daß Arrian noch nicht Ptolemäos selbst ist”. With respect to the battle of the Granicus, Schachermeyr 1973, p. 170 states in a similar way: “Wir folgen Arrian 1, 13, 2 ff., der hier natürlich nicht aus Aristobul (welcher auf Kallisthenes beruhte), sondern aus Ptolemaios schöpfte.” Furthermore, he criticizes Arrianos for merely retelling “alle von Ptolemaios gebotenen Details” without elaborating “das Wesentliche”, Schachermeyr 1973, p. 270. Dittberner 1908, pp. 3 – 4 is referring to a hypothesis of Wilcken 1894, 117: “Die Ephemeriden Alexanders sind die Hauptquelle für die Memoiren des Königs Ptolemäus I. gewesen, die wiederum den Grundstock der Anabasis Arrians bilden.” Wilcken hereby describes the journals of Alexander as combined “Hof- und Feldjournal”. Also Demandt 2009, pp. 3 ff. assumes, that Alexander’s official “Amtsjournal” was used by Ptolemy and other historians. The letter from February 8, 1837 is quoted in Christ 1972, p. 65. Cf. Droysen 1868, p. 48: “Hat irgend jemand die Meinung gehabt, Thatsachen sammeln und, zusammenhängend oder nicht, aufhäufen zu können ? Thatsachen als da sind Schlachten, Revolutionen, Handelskrisen, Städtegründungen u. s. w. ? hat wirklich bisher die ‘Zunft der Historiker’ nicht gemerkt, dass sich die Thatsachen von dem, wie wir sie wissen, unterscheiden ?” On valid reconstructions of historical characters and personalities on the base of fragile sources cf. also Hampl 1958, p. 7. See Lauffer 1978, pp. 61 ff., 75 ff., 92 ff. Demandt 2009, pp. 1 ff.

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they would otherwise give the text an academical touch and might disturb the flow of reading—and potentially deter a non-academic public.26 By doing so, Demandt inscribes his Alexander-biography in a genre tradition commencing with Droysen in 1833: a tradition with literary aspirations, written not only for an academic, but for a wider audience, thereby stabilizing the (established) author’s standing in the reading public.27 While the respective staging of authorship in battle descriptions might vary on the level of the narration itself, a certain “type” of narrator is quite characteristic of this genre of historical texts. Only in rare cases are battle descriptions read for information about the “result” of historical battles. More often the audience is interested in the reasons why a battle ends with the victory of one party or the other.28 It is the task of the narrator to provide a plausible explanation for the outcome, which is occasionally the only “fact” that is known definitely. Since every narrated event, and every authorial comment seems to aim at the predefined finale, the whole narration can appear teleological. This not only affects the content of the description, but also corresponds to certain characteristics of the narration (e. g. the narrator’s advantage in knowledge over the protagonists). Against the odds of the uncertain and fragmented source tradition, which render details opaque, the narrator can remain confident in his knowledge of the outcome. Furthermore, he can survey the events taking place simultaneously, which would be momentarily hidden from the single combatants.29 The narrator’s retrospective vantage point results in a gap between the time of narration (i. e. the

26 While in case of Demandt 2009 already the publisher C. H. Beck (as well as basal explanations in the preface, e. g. pp. XIIIff.) suggests a broader target audience, Hampl 1958, p. 7 aims explicitly at “einen weiteren Kreis gebildeter Laien”; Schachermeyr 1973, p. 7 addresses “in erster Linie zwar […] die Fachwelt, zugleich aber doch auch […] ein geschichtlich interessiertes Laienpublikum”. He even thinks of an “auf Dokumentation verzichtende Volksausgabe”. Wiemer 2005, p. 7 characterizes his book as a “Leitfaden beim Studium”, thus mainly addressing students. 27 This becomes also evident on a mere stylistic level: Demandt’s rather old-fashioned way of authorial story-telling seems to be quite surprising with regard to the publication date of his Alexander-biography (2009 !). The way of narrating battles of the retired professor, establishing himself as a public intellectual and a writer for a broader audience, more resembles the gripping and likewise lecturing way of telling Alexander’s battles established by Droysen than the writings of the young academic newcomer Demandt in the 1960s. Differences between first and later editions substantiate this finding. On numerous variations in the second edition (1877) of Droysen’s Alexander-monograph from 1833 see Christ 1972, p. 57. Also Schachermeyrs Alexander-biographies from 1949 and 1973, respectively, differ a lot, even concerning the battle descriptions. 28 Cf. Bengtson 1985, pp. 149 – 150 on the battle of Issus: “fast alle Vorteile waren auf persischer Seite, und doch haben diese die Schlacht verloren. Wie ist es dazu gekommen ?” 29 Apparent in typical “während” (while) or “zugleich” (simultaneously) constructions, e. g. Hampl 1958, p. 37: “Während nun hier ein erbittertes Reitergefecht entbrannte, stürmten im Zentrum die vor der Schlachtreihe postierten Sichelwagen frontal gegen die makedonische Phalanx […]”; Gehrke 1996, p. 54: “Insbesondere der rechte Flügel unter Mazaios brachte Parmenion in erhebliche Schwierigkeiten, während Bessos versuchte, Alexanders Kavallerie von außen einzukreisen.”; Droysen 1833, pp. 227 – 228, who utilizes “zugleich” four times on a mere two pages.

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narrator’s present time) and the time narrated (i. e. the event in the past, being narrated), providing him with prospective knowledge, e. g. on events taken place later on the timeline, such as the long-time aftermath of the battle. This narrative position even enables counterfactual assumptions: In reference to a commonly known chain of events, which reaches into his own present, the narrator can easily accentuate an ancient battle’s impact on his audience’s contemporary lifeworlds. For this reason, Alexander-biographer Ulrich Wilcken finds it “erschütternd zu denken, wie anders die Weltgeschichte ihren Lauf genommen hätte, wenn Kleitos nicht im rechten Moment zugeschlagen hätte, und Alexander an der Schwelle seines Ruhmes gefallen wäre.”30 As an authority, not only describing, but also reflecting, judging, analysing and explaining, this kind of historical narrator is comparable to the “authorial narrator” of literary texts, which flourished in nineteenth-century literature. Appearing in battle descriptions, authorial narrators illuminate complicated manoeuvres and provide interpretative approaches and harsh judgments—for instance, when Wilcken disqualifies the Persian cavalry’s formation at the river Granicus as a “grober taktischer Fehler” or when Schachermeyr comments on the respective issue as “recht kleinmütiger, ja ein unglückseliger Gedanke”.31 In both cases, they help the reader classify and pin down the depicted scenes. Linking events via causal connections, they reduce the contingency, complexity and confusion associated with combats; ultimately, they guide the reader on a defined path through the bustle of the battle. In a more subtle way, the authorial narrator’s role in guiding the reader and judging the battle also becomes apparent in creating a “personal” and temporal connection between the narrating instance, the authorial persona and the audience. For example, Gustav Friedrich Hertzberg invites the reader: “Folgen wir jetzt den makedonischen Truppen in die Schlacht.”32 Similarly, when Demandt suggests, that “wir mit Alexander vom Granikos aus weiterziehen”,33 a mutual perspective on the events is created, consequently biasing the assessment of the events. 30 Wilcken 1931, p. 78; cf. Gregor 1940, p. 361, who also declares Cleitus’ attack on Spithridates as a “welthistorische Lebensrettung”. Reflecting the future as a “what if ”-scenario in case of Alexander’s narrowly avoided death in the first battle against the Persian army at Granicus is not specific for contra-factual history, as in Demandt 2009, p. 116, who suggests a “Gedankenspiel”: “was wohl geschehen wäre, wenn Kleitos seinen König nicht in letzter Sekunde gerettet und Alexander den Tod gefunden hätte.” Cf. Engels 2006, p. 50: “Wäre Alexander am Granikos gefallen, hätte man vermutlich den Kriegszug eingestellt, und die Weltgeschichte hätte einen anderen Verlauf genommen.” 31 Wilcken 1931, p. 76; Schachermeyr 1973, p. 170. Cf. ibd. p. 173: “Der Condottiere aber gedachte mit seinen neuen, ganz unritterlichen Plänen der persischen Sache weit besser zu dienen.” Such comments and explanations are found throughout nearly every battle description. See e. g. Bengtson 1985, p. 140: “Die strategische Ahnungslosigkeit der persischen Führung ist kaum zu übertreffen.” 32 Hertzberg 1875, p. 79 33 Demandt 2009, p. 116. Another example of direct addressing/involving the audience (typical for authorial narrative instances) is provided in Schachermeyr 1973, p. 212: “So wollen wir uns hüten, den Perser allzu gering zu schätzen, bloß weil er geringer war als Alexander. Für unsern König standen nun sämtliche Wege offen.”

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Like literary texts, narrative situations in historical works might change throughout the course of narration.34 The narrator might step back in favour of “closer” sources or even of eye-witnesses like “unser[en] Gewährsmann Ptolemaios”.35 “Reproducing” distant voices from the past, letting them speak literally for themselves, would be considered characteristic for “neutral” narrators in literary texts: They backtrack from the text and (pretend to) report in a less authoritarian or more “selfless” way—corresponding to Walter Benjamin’s observation “Geschichte schreiben heißt also Geschichte zitieren”.36 If there are trends in historiography comparable to those of literature, then from the early-twentieth century onwards the neutral narrator at least temporarily superseded the authorial one.37 As a versatile and fluent genre, battle descriptions over the course of the twentieth century tend toward a more “neutral” narrative mode, allegedly less “judgemental” and more “objective” in handling their source documents. However, it is evident that the narrative instances still implicitly claim the authority and profound expertise required to weigh up, select, and combine the sources to which they lend their voice. Thus, instead of defining a general trend in modern historiography on the level of the narrative situation—from an explicitly judging “authority” to an apparently more neutral “narrator”—one should rather speak of a modulated reference frame: Nineteenth-century historiography mainly goes along with Leopold Ranke’s historiographic objective to determine “wie es eigentlich gewesen”. The ripples of Ranke’s historiography continued deep into the second half of the twentieth century. However, the scientification of classical research methods and declarative systems by means of source critique and epistemological reflexions led to a reference shift. Even though historians tend towards an apparently more neutral style, they still judge things—less the events themselves than the sources. First and foremost, historians evaluate the material which has survived, i. e. its historical pretexts according to their reliability. Nowadays, the (post)structural maxim for textual criticism may also apply to historiography: “il n’y a pas de hors-texte.”

34 As in novels, seldom if ever the narrative instance in battle descriptions fits exactly in a rigorous narratological framework: Already Franz Stanzel’s “Typenkreis” in his famous Theorie des Erzählens clearly indicates fluent transitions between different narrative situations—also within a self-contained work. 35 Demandt 2009, p. 141; similarly Wilcken 1931, p. 95 and Hampl 1958, p. 27. 36 Benjamin Das Passagen-Werk (GS IV, p. 595), to be continued: “Im Begriff des Zitierens liegt aber, daß der jeweilige historische Gegenstand aus seinem Zusammenhange gerissen wird.” 37 Literary trends, corresponding to this narrative paradigm, would be e. g. New Sobriety or documentary literature.

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How to tell the story ?

As battles have long been integral parts of historical narratives, it is only logical that narratological traditions themselves have evolved, dealing with the question of how to appropriately describe violent conflicts. In analogy to the modern differentiation between military history and general history, there were already methodological disputes in Hellenistic times regarding the epistemic and technical preconditions of a battle description, its points of interest and its forms of presentation. In antiquity, the means of representing battles varied with the medium and the textual genre. To give but one example, in a functional military treatise, likely to serve as a course book of military accomplishments, there was simply no need to single out the “tragical” strands of the battle, as in an Homerizing account of Alexander himself as outstanding “hero”.38 In the considerations of modern historiography, genre specificity and the respective adaption of battle descriptions still play an important role: Eduard Meyer, for example, points out “daß die Genesis des siebenjährigen Krieges oder der Hergang einer Schlacht anders behandelt werden muß in einer Monographie, anders in einer Geschichte des ganzes Krieges oder einer Geschichte Friedrichs d. Gr. oder in einer Geschichte des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts.”39 As Meyer recognizes, it makes a difference if the battle description is part of a “Studienbuch”, aiming at the straight and simple presentation of historical knowledge for students, or implemented in a biography of Alexander as ingenious military hero. Apart from genre conventions, how to describe a battle well can also be considered a general rhetorical question. In this sense battle descriptions even achieved a place among the standard tasks of rhetorical curricula in antiquity, thereby unfolding a strong influence on various narratological traditions up to modern historiography. For example, in his Progymnamata Hermogenes, a second-century Greek rhetor, lists “the description (ἔκφρασις) of a land battle (πεζομαχίας) and a naval battle (ναυμαχίας)” explicitly as examples of periegetic speech (λόγος περιηγηματικός), more precisely as an “ecphrasis of actions (πραγμάτων)”. Using the example of general warfare, Hermogenes elaborates on the diachronically organized description process that corresponds in a large part with the diegesis (διήγησις) of battles in Greek historiography.40 To narrate a battle, therefore, means to “go through” it from “before to after”:

38 On this problem see exemplary the chapter Pol. XII 17 on the “Incapacity of Callisthenes in Writing of Military Matters”, for further source references see footnote 184. Cf. also Pol. XII 22,1 and Pol. II 56 – 59, criticizing the sensationalism of the “tragic” historiographer Phylarchus. 39 Meyer 1910d, p. 52. Different battle descriptions of the same authors in Alexander-monographs on the one hand (e. g. Wilcken 1931, Schachermeyr 1949, Bengtson 1985) and general overviews on the other hand (e. g. Wilcken 1962, Schachermeyr 1960, Bengtson 2009 [1965]) confirm this supposition. 40 Here the narration of a battle is often conceived as diegesis (διήγησις), cf. Xen. Ag. II 2,9 and Hell. IV 3,16: Διηγήσομαι δὲ καὶ τὴν μάχην: “I will describe (literally: “lead through”; “sent through”) the battle […].”

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first we shall mention events before the war (πολέμου): recruiting the soldiers (στρατολογίας), the expenditures (ἀναλώματα), the fears (φόβους); then the attacks (συμβολάς), the slaughter (σφαγάς), the deaths (θανάτους); then the victory trophies (τρόπαιον); then the paeans (παιᾶνας) of the victors and the others’ tears (δάκρυα) and slavery (δουλείαν).41

Even more significant than Hermogenes’ comments on the essential parts of a good war description are the rhetor’s annotations on the quality and the function of the ekphrasis itself: Virtues (ἀρεταὶ) of an description (ἐκφράσεως) are, most of all, clarity (σαφήνεια) and vividness (ἐνάργεια); for the expression should almost create seeing through the hearing. Moreover, of course, the word choice ought to correspond to the subject.42

Hermogenes’ comments have not lost their validity: The main purpose of his ekphrasis is “to bring (ἄγων) what is being shown (τὸ δηλούμενον) before the eyes (ὑπ’ ὄψιν)”, thus also pointing to the general purpose of historiographical narratives. Corresponding to Karl Julius Beloch’s evaluation of various ancient battle reports as either “dramatisches Gemälde” or “kriegsgeschichtlich brauchbares Bild der Schlacht”43, ekphrasis is characterized as a quite flexible narrative technique of visual or imaginative (re)presentation.44 Suggesting “clarity”, it has satisfied a basic need of pragmatic military history up to the present. On the other hand, the “vividness” of ekphrasis corresponds more to narrating strategies typically employed in literary texts. This functional duality, so our argument goes, points to two complementary ways of coping with battles as rather opaque historical events: In battle descriptions, military 41 (Ps.)Hermog. Progymn. 10 [Rabe pp. 22 – 23, George A. Kennedy transl.]: “In describing actions we shall treat them by starting from what went before (ἀπὸ τῶν προγεγονότων) and continuing with what happened in them (ἐν αὐτοῖς γινομένων) and what followed (ἐπισυμβαινόντων).” Unsurprisingly, similar sections, which correspond with battle-diegesis in Greek historiography (cf. herefore footnote 40) can also be found in the Progymnasmata of Ailius Theon and Aphthonios the sophist. 42 (Ps.)Hermog. Progymn. 10 See also the respective note of the translator George A. Kennedy: “Enargeia, meaning clarity of style, is a stylistic term often used by Dionysius of Halicarnassus and other critics of Hellenistic and Roman times. In Hermogenes’ On Ideas of Style, however, as in Aristotle’s Rhetoric (3.2), the word for clarity is saphênia.” 43 Beloch 1922, p. 625 referring to the reports on the battle of the Granicus in Arr. I 13 – 15 and Plut. Alexander 16 on the one hand, and to Diod. XVII 20 – 21,4 (“eingelegt in einen besseren Bericht”) on the other. Also Lehmann 1911, p. 238 characterizes the battle report of Arrianos as a glorifying “Gemälde”: “Es ist eine poetisch-rhetorisch gefärbte, aber keine militärisch-nüchterne Darstellung der Schlacht”. For a similar rhetoric of painting see footnote 1 in Niese 1893, p. 93. 44 Not only Walter Benjamin’s frequent reflections on specifics of historical battle tableaus indicate how close textual and visual battle topoi are. Further evidence is provided by Philostratos’ iconologic descriptions of battle paintings (e. g. Imag. II 29: Here, the visual topos of a νυκτομαχία (battle at night) is described, as it was common in Greek historiography (see e. g. Günther 2014), but also in rhetoric treatises—as an exemplary illustration of a combined ecphrasis, e. g. in Progymnasmata of Ailius Theon (119), Hermogenes (22), Aphthonios 47 [Rabe p. 37], always referring to the night battles in the histories of Thucydides (II 2 – 5, III 22, VII 44).

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events might be depicted either in a clear, schematizing and instructive way, thus exposing historical distance. By contrast, modelling them as tangible events and creating empathy with the acting characters literally re-presents the battle experiences of the past. As we will show in the following, different narrative techniques make battle descriptions oscillate between military history and literature, between clearness and vividness, between historical distance and literary re-presentation.

a)

Factuality and un-representability

Unobservability and un-representability are among the most frequently discussed topoi related to battles as media events.45 Yet the battle’s opaque nature can also be regarded as a stimulating starting point for the evolution of specific narrative strategies aiming precisely at representing the “un-representable”. Thus, before elaborating on specific narrative techniques, we would like to address the fundamental difficulties of presenting and describing battles, and historiographers’ means for handling them narratively. The very notion of a battle’s non-evident nature covers two different aspects, in German conceptualized as “Unanschaulichkeit” and “Undarstellbarkeit”. Ancient historiographers faced the challenge of describing an un-representable event appropriately in the first place, since the participants themselves had limited perception: problems of mere witnessing, often resulting from restricted observation perspectives, the huge area covered by the battle lines, or the dust and debris, correlate with fundamental difficulties of a factual description. Every combatant saw something that happened, yet nobody saw everything. Important information gets lost in the “fog of war”—in part because the combatant’s senses are themselves overstrained due to physical effort and overstimulation. In the midst of battle, a chain of factual uncertainties is initiated, which is carried forward to subsequent historiography. Contemporary historiography answers the question of how to deal with factual obscurities and uncertainties in various ways. Often it is discussed under the keyword “Unübersichtlichkeit”, literally: the lack of overviewability, or figuratively, the inability to create a synopsis. In his article on the battle of Gaugamela (2006), Hans-Joachim Gehrke brings up the problem of visibility in the context of general source criticism. Referring to British major general J. F. C. Fuller’s wartime experience, Gehrke explains that the range of vision in battles with cavalry taking place in dry plains, such as those near Gaugamela, could quickly shrink to four or five meters due to the enormous

45 General theoretical comments of Füssel 2009 may be applied on the representation of ancient battles—even if the dimensions of military events have changed massively towards World War I. Cf. Meyer 1916, pp. 171 – 172.

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amount of dust produced.46 For the Persian battle line of 3650 meters, this must have had a remarkable effect: “niemand hatte mehr eine Übersicht”, at least not at the end of the battle.47 Against this background, one of the most crucial moments in the battles of Alexander needs to be explained: How could Alexander directly and personally attack the Persian king under such difficult circumstances ? Gehrke simply refers to the exposed position of Dareios, who was “auf seinem Streitwagen und inmitten seiner glänzenden Kerntruppen wohl auch in Staub und Dreck weithin sichtbar”. Due to the lack of “Anschaulichkeit” modern historians often are under pressure to offer a plausible explanation for the historical events. In his methodological reflections, Gehrke critically holds that it is not possible to deduce a “wirklich kohärentes Bild” of the battle from the sources—due to gaps of information and an inconsistent textual tradition. Nonetheless he states: “die entscheidenden Phänomene [sind] relativ klar und rechtfertigen die […] Darstellung.”48 Since Schachermeyr’s comments on Dareios’ escape in the battle at Gaugamela are comparable in structure, this surprising affirmation points to the necessity of a quite common narrative procedure. Schachermeyr, too, is well aware of the general problems of visibility caused by the dust on the dry battleground: “Eingenebelt in undurchdringliche Staubwolken war er [Dareios] bald nicht mehr zu sehen und nur ein Klatschen von Peitschenschlägen auf dem Rücken enteilender Rosse zeigte noch an, wohin sich die Kavalkade wandte.”49 In his footnote on this passage, Schachermeyr admits that one cannot determine (“entscheiden”) if this scene handed down by Quintus Curtius50 stems from “Ptolemaios, Kallisthenes oder aber aus kleitarchischen Soldatenerinnerungen”. However, this does not prevent him from crediting an empirical basis to this description of the “decisive” moment of the battle. Precisely because it is impossible for him to substantiate the (acoustically) memorable scenery in more reliable sources, Schachermeyr claims historical factuality for it by other, aesthetic means, referring to the multi-sensorial vividness of its narrative depiction: “Diese in ihrer Anschaulichkeit so ausgezeichnet geschilderte Szene […] kann schwerlich erdichtet sein.”51 No further argument is needed. The problem of a battle’s un-representability does not only result from mere physical restrictions. The historian also has to consider emotional sensitivities and the complex mental states of the combatants, which are difficult to put into words. A gripping

46 Gehrke 2006, p. 43 referring to Fuller 1960. 47 Gehrke 2006, p. 45. Demandt 2009, p. 192 even assumes a length of the Persian battle lines of 4 to 5 kilometres. 48 Gehrke 2006, pp. 32, 43 ff. According to Burckhardt 2008, p. 58 it was a “Herausforderung […], in der Schlacht die Übersicht zu bewahren”. 49 Schachermeyr 1973, p. 274. Cf. also Burckhardt 2008, p. 58, where Dareios, the direct objective of Alexander’s attack, “sich […] in mesopotamischen Staubwolken verlor”. In Wiemer 2005, p. 112, however, it seems to be only Darius who was “über den Schlachtverlauf im ganzen nicht im Bilde”. 50 Cf. Curt. IV 15,32 – 33. 51 Schachermeyr 1973, p. 274. On graphicness as criterium of source criticism cf. also Schachermeyr 1973, p. 201.

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passage in an Alexander novel by the German writer and translator Gisbert Haefs exemplifies this finding, both for its fictionalized characters and its narrator: Wie sollte er für Aristoteles im fernen Athen jenen Bogen beschreiben, einem blutigen Regenbogen gleich, der in der atemlosen Stille vor dem Angriff des Bessos begann und endete, als Ptolemaios nach dem letzten Angriff der Hetairen den eisgrauen Parmenion sah, zu Fuß, ohne Helm, das von Blut und Hirn und Gewebe verkrustete Schwert gesenkt in der Rechten. […] Wie all das beschreiben—Kühnheit, Tapferkeit, Gier, Rausch, Wahnsinn: höchsten Triumph und äußerstes Grauen ?52

Concerning the indescribable “emotional excess” and the “horrors of battle”, Haefs poses a question, which also challenges modern historians, at least those with certain literary ambitions and an interest in the characters and the human drama behind the military events. On a methodological level, this problem points to Eduard Meyer’s reflections on the dualism of the internal and external forces driving history. For Meyer, the “Ausgang einer Schlacht” is determined, like every historical event, by two sides of history, i. e. “die von außen wirkenden Momente, wie im Kriege die Überlegenheit an Zahl, Bewaffnung u. a., oder die Einwirkung einer Lokalität oder etwa eines Sturms in der Seeschlacht […]; dazu tritt immer als das entscheidende die innere Eigenart der von dem Ereignis Betroffenen, die dessen Verlauf und Wirkung erst zu einem geschichtlichen Ereignis macht”.53 The underlying insight that battles are performed and reported by individual human subjects and also deeply affect them, is not a trivial one. Beneath the surface of tactical movements, it is human beings that fight, slay, panic, get wounded or even die.54 In the face of a war, it has always been very difficult to remain objective or dispassionate—not only in relation to grief and mourning, but also to the overwhelming euphoria of fighting, as Xenophon’s Hieron explicates: For, you know, when states (πόλεις) defeat their foes in a battle (μάχῃ), words fail one to describe (οὐ ῥᾴδιον εἰπεῖν) the joy (ὅσην μὲν ἡδονὴν) they feel in the rout (ἐν τῷ τρέψασθαι) of the enemy, in the pursuit (ἐν τῷ διώκειν), in the killing (ἐν τῷ ἀποκτείνειν) of the enemy (τοὺς πολεμίους). (…) Everyone is crying: “I had a share in the plan, I killed most (πλείστους ἀπεκτονέναι)”; and it’s hard to find (χαλεπὸν δὲ εὑρεῖν) where they don’t revel in falsehood, claiming to have killed (ἀπεκτονέναι) more than all that were really slain.55

52 Haefs 2013 [1997], pp. 334 – 335. 53 Meyer 1910c, pp. 175 – 176. Cf. Mommsen’s justification of the military misapprehensions in his “civil” description of the battle of Schleswig in footnote 9. 54 As noted by Theodor Fontane, laconically referring to battle panoramas, after he had observed a military event near Paris from an observation booth: “Für den Philanthropen traurig, für den Maler entzückend […] Lachendstes, friedlichstes Bild ! Aber in diesem Augenblick blitzte es unten von Bajonetten.” Quoted from Hebekus 2003, p. 135. 55 Xen. Hier. 2, 14 – 16 [E. C. Marchant transl.].

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In retrospect, it is apparent that even a “tearless battle” (ἄδακρυς μάχη) might have produced not only despair and misery, but also tears of joy.56 The more “prosaic” German historiographers of later times often ignore the combatants’ euphoria, most probably because the mere “lust of battle” also lacks representability. Xenophon’s observations point to the emotive core of battles and its influence on the bending and fixation of “facts” shortly afterwards—more precisely, to the general trend of fictionalizing numerical data beyond measure. While more recent historiography is well aware of the “phantastischen Zahlen” of Persian casualties in any of the three battle descriptions,57 earlier historians such as Niebuhr and Droysen tried to take them seriously as historical realia.58 Their attempts to work out the numbers, which are no longer convincing, reflect an assumption that cannot entirely been dismissed: Battles were supposed to cause casualties, from the winner’s point of view, the more, the better.59 Enumerating the deaths of the enemy has never been as difficult as counting one’s own casualties. In battle descriptions, general problems of perception and representation lead to the dispersion of factual certainties from the very beginning: Even the supposedly “hard facts” of battles often are created in the opaque procedure of narrative fictionalization, starting in the days after the event. To (re)fill, compensate or mask the gaps of knowledge and (euphoric or calculated) distortions, a meaningful narration of the course of the battle relies on historical imagination, along with (personalized) set pieces and other devices, so that the narration is compatible with the experiential worlds of the respective audience. Rhetorical techniques of fictionalization and factualization are closely linked to each other, and the “Unanschaulichkeit” and “Undarstellbarkeit” inherent to battles themselves blur the border between literary fiction and historical “facts”. Nonetheless, the sheer number of ancient and modern battle descriptions clearly shows that the problem of unobservability and un-representability has been regarded less as an obstacle for battle description than an appealing challenge for narrators.

56 See Xen. Hell. VII 1,32, cf. Diod. XV 72,3 – 4 (πόλεμος οὗτος … ἄδακρυς), Plut. Agesilaos 33, 3 – 4 (τὴν λεγομένην ἄδακρυν μάχην). In his brief description of these events, Beloch 1922, p. 186 withholds not only the Spartan tears of joy, emphasized already by Xenophon, but also the tears of sorrow on the side of the heavily defeated Arkadians. In the long-lasting epic tradition, the “joy of battle” is worded in the term χάρμη; cf. the sign (prodigium) in Plat. Ion 539c, quoting from Hom. Il. XII 223. 57 Demandt 2009, pp. 116, 142, 190. Cf. also Demandt 2009, p. 142 (on Issus): “Die überlieferten Zahlen der Beteiligten wie der Gefallenen auf persischer Seite sind wieder unglaublich hoch”. Schachermeyr 1973, p. 275 speaks of “astronomische[] Angaben”, while Wilcken 1962, p. 240 attributes the “Riesenziffern der Perserheere” as “sinnlose Übertreibungen”. 58 Cf. Niebuhr 1848, p. 468 and Droysen 1833, p. 230. 59 On the ambivalent handling of casualties in ancient and modern historiography see also Schmitz 2009. A (meta-)fictional explanation for the bending of numbers is found in Haefs 2013 [1997], pp. 86 ff.: Here, the king himself instructs his court historiographer on the virtuous play with death counts on both sides.

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Sobriety and affectivity

Faced with the opacity of battles, there are different narrative modes, starting with the fluctuation of battle descriptions between sober “Sachbezogenheit” and flaunted affectivity. These narrative modes raise more general questions about the depiction of violence: In which ways do historians represent military violence ? And how is the representation of violence related to strategies of abstract visualization ? Although historical narrators quite often demonstrate speechlessness in the face of the horror of military violence, it is quite clear that since ancient times a set of literary techniques and topoi has been established for describing the “dark” side of battle— of physical violence in its outrageous, disgusting details.60 Modern historiographers have been able to draw on these traditions, and earlier works of German historiography utilized the violent details of battles in this sense for the exposition of pathos and sensationalism. In the description of Phyrrus’ campaign in his Geschichte des Hellenismus, Droysen graphically describes how “der König ‘das Gesicht voll Blut und mit grauenvollem Blick’ sich von Neuem auf den Feind stürzte und mit der furchtbaren Gewalt seines Armes den riesigen Führer der Feinde mitten hindurch spaltete.”61 In a similar way, the account of losses in battle could be virtually visualized, as when Droysen again describes the Persian losses at Issus: the battleground has been “mit Leichen und Sterbenden bedeckt, ganze Schluchten des Gebirges mit Leichen gesperrt”62—a wording resembling and almost as impressive as ancient descriptions.63 It goes without saying that tangible and gripping narrations of horrible carnage are also found in the works of other authors: “blutige Kämpfe” come up frequently, every now and then even “eine ganz besonders blutige Schlacht” or “ein grausames Blut-

60 On violence as a discursive obsession in ancient Greece see Flaig 2006 and Zimmermann 2009, referring to other relevant studies. As we have seen above, already Hermogenes lists slaughters and deaths, fears and tears among the necessary elements of a vivid war-description. And also Gisbert Haefs’ narrotor puts himself into a performative contradiction, as he describes the “indescribable” “äußerste Grauen” in a gripping and empathic way. Cf. Haefs 2013 [1997], p. 334: “Noch jetzt, einen Mond danach […] hörte Ptolemaios das Stöhnen und Schreien und Kreischen der Verwundeten, der Sterbenden, roch den entsetzlichen Gestank, den die Sonne aus Leichenbergen, Pferdekadavern und jenen unglaublichen Fleischbergen holte, die einmal Elefanten gewesen waren.” 61 Droysen 1843, p. 158, retelling the graphic account of Plut. Pyrrhos 24. Cf. Droysen 1833, p. 440: “Nun geht es mit doppelter Macht auf den Feid, sie schlagen alles todt, Weiber Kinder werden durchbohrt”. 62 Droysen 1833, p. 170. 63 On the topoi of heap of corpses and blood-soaked soil cf. e. g. Philostr. Imag. II 29, 2 or Xen. Ag. II 14 – 15. In the older German historiography, outstanding acts of violence are sometimes retold from the ancient sources in detail. Cf. Droysen 1833, p. 114: “In demselben Augenblick jagte des Gefallenen Bruder, Rhösaces, auf Alexander los, und zerschmetterte mit einem Hiebe dessen Helm, so daß der Säbel noch die Stirnhaut ritzte; Alexander bohrte ihm den Speer durch den Harnisch bis tief in die Brust.” Cf. the ancient pretexts in Arr. An. I 15,8; Plut. Alexander 16 and Curt. VIII 3.

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bad”;64 in popular scientific books, battles sometimes still end “in einem blutigen Gemetzel”.65 However, battle descriptions do not necessarily focus on the violent aspects of military events. They also might address a rather “pragmatic”-functional dimension, which is often correlated with a far less graphic narrative tone. Objective, sober ways of narrating evoke some kind of “distancing” effect and might also be influenced by changing warfare (e. g. with respect to the coming of modern wars of mass destruction). For example, the graphic exploitation of violence is reduced in the less extensive Alexander-monographs of Franz Hampl, Siegfried Lauffer and Hans-Joachim Gehrke, which were written in the second half of the twentieth century. Correlating with a reduction of judgemental comments, battles are depicted in a rather prosaic way, as the narrator minimizes drama and reduces personal empathy. Lauffer, for example, mentions the life-saving moment in the battle of the Granicus, “als Kleitos im letzten Augenblick den Schlag abwehrte”, but conceals the cut-off arm.66 Even the word “Blut”—a concise, poetic keyword like “Held” or “Schicksal”—is rather rare in these literally “bloodless” descriptions of the three battles. However, the narrative mode is not only influenced by the author’s historical incisions or personal experience, but also correlated with genre conventions: battle descriptions in “Studienbüchern”, such as the rather recent ones by Hans-Ulrich Wiemer and Johannes Engels, are characterized by a sober and unagitated narrative mode, though not necessarily refraining from pointing to the extreme “Gewaltsamkeit” of Hellenistic warfare.67 Aiming at the

64 See e. g. Droysen 1833, pp. 245, 367, 369: “Hier begann ein gräßliches Gemetzel, Fliehende stürzten den Makedonen in die Schwerter, viele in die Abgründe, alles war verloren”; “ein fürchterliches Gemetzel begann”; “ein furchtbares Blutbad vollendete den mühsam erkämpften Sieg”; Beloch 1922, pp. 22, 74, 119, 128, 476, 568, 633: “In einer blutigen Schlacht bei Pharsalos”; “eine ganz besonders blutige Schlacht”; “nach blutigem Kampfe”; “in einer blutigen Schlacht”; “über Ströme von Blut”; “blutigen Niederlage”; “Während dessen aber durchbrach Alexander in blutigem Ringen die boeotische Linie”; “die ein furchtbares Blutbad unter dem weichenden Feinde anrichteten”; Schachermeyr 1949, pp. 181, 183, 226: “blutige Entscheidung”; “Den immer schon grausam geführten Krieg beschloß ein grausames Blutbad”; “die blutigen Verluste der Perser”; Hampl 1958, pp. 20 – 21, 46: “Das hier sich entwickelnde Gefecht brachte Alexander selbst in höchste Lebensgefahr, doch entschied sein siegreicher Ausgang den Tag, der blutig für die Perser, noch blutiger für die Griechen in persischen Diensten endete.”; “Verluste […], welche die in den Schlachten am Granikos, bei Issos und Gaugamela erlittenen blutigen Einbußen weit übertrafen”. 65 Gehrke 1996, p. 76; cf. Bengtson 1985, p. 149 and Wiemer 2005, p. 94. 66 Lauffer 1978, p. 62; cf. Hampl 1958, pp. 20 – 21 and Gehrke 1996, p. 37, who point to Alexander’s momentary “Lebensgefahr”, but don’t go into detail. Also Wiemer 2005, p. 94 refers to this scene only mentioning that Alexander “hatte es einem seiner Hetairen, dem ‘schwarzen’ Kleitos, zu verdanken, daß er am Leben blieb”; cf. similarly Engels 2006, p. 50: “Alexander gelang jedoch nach hartem Kampf und unter höchstem persönlichen Risiko der Sieg. Kleitos rettete dabei sein Leben.” 67 Without describing acts of physical violence in detail, Wiemer 2005, pp. 94, 102, 113 still stresses the high numbers of deaths thereby also displaying and criticizing Alexanders “merciless” propensity to violence. Interestingly, already the early “handbook” Niese 1893 is written in a very minimalist style without any literary decoration.

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presentation of (critically evaluated) “facts” for students, their narrators describe battles in a rather compact and clinical way. The main features of battle descriptions fit well into general trends in academia. The advent of concise “student handbooks” for example seems to be just one symptom among others for the ongoing differentiation process over the course of the twentieth century; the generally de-emotionalized, more objectifying style of works written in the last decades indicates the evolution of a sober academic language of historiography. A minimalist and undramatic style, which has previously been rather obstructive for scholarly reception,68 is now regarded as a positive standard. More and more, casualties are listed as impersonal, business-like “Verluste” instead of being narrated as heroic deaths.69 The depiction of swords that are “encrusted with blood, brain mass and tissue”70 now seems to be reserved for explicitly literary Alexander novels. Against this background, the dissociation of (historical) literature from (historical) science also affects the professional handling of the textual tradition: Not even Droysen’s frequently employed practice of letting the sources speak when there are especially brutal descriptions of violence finds extensive use anymore. This becomes most apparent in the case of Gehrke’s popular article on the battle of Gaugamela. As the paper addresses a wider audience, the author strictly relinquishes citations and references. Surprisingly, the only extensive quotation of an ancient source text does not refer to common topoi such as acts of violence or Alexander’s fortitude, but to his suit of armour—a rather marginal object, especially because it is the clean suit before the battle. Er legte dann seine Rüstung an, ein gegürtetes Untergewand sizilischer Arbeit, darüber einen doppelten Panzer aus Leinen, aus der Beute von Issos. Sein Helm war aus Eisen, schimmerte aber wie reines Silber […] Angepaßt war ihm sein Halsschmuck, ebenfalls eisern, mit Edelsteinen besetzt. Er hatte ein Schwert von wunderbarer Stählung und Leichtigkeit, welches ihm der König von Kition auf Zypern geschenkt hatte, […] und trug einen Umhang, der noch kostbarer gearbeitet war als die übrige Bewaffnung; er war […] ein Ehrengeschenk der Rhodier.71

Gehrke’s selection and handling of his ancient source text is quite telling. When it is not possible to deduce detailed and secure facts of the military actions per se, as Gehrke’s offensive source criticism indicates, one has to stay on the material surface 68 On the case of Niese 1893 see Bichler 2018. 69 Cf. Gehrke 1996, p. 43: “Der Sieg war total, wenngleich bei nicht geringen Verlusten auch auf Seiten der Makedonen und Griechen.” On the rhetoric of “Verluste” cf. e. g. Wilcken 1931, p. 79; Schachermeyr 1973, p. 210; Lauffer 1978, p. 78; Bengtson 1985, pp. 149 ff., 161 – 162; Demandt 2009, pp. 116, 142. Also in Niese 1893, pp. 61 – 62, 76, 93 the human losses are reported in a rather unemotional way. On death in battles cf. chapter 4 (c). 70 Cf. Haefs 2013 [1997], pp. 334 – 335. 71 Gehrke 2006, p. 42 quotes from Plut. Alexander 32,5 – 7 in a German translation.

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and employ a quite “sachliche” quotation practice. It is left up to the reader’s imagination to picture what will happen to Alexander’s armour and weaponry in the further process of the quite soberly described battle … That brings us to the next point: the influence of (visual) techniques of abstraction on the “objective” or “emotive” character of battle descriptions. As we have already seen, narrative objectifying often goes hand in hand with de-personalization. Not uncommonly, battles are reduced to troop manoeuvres, comparable to a game, where pieces are moved and removed from the board until one party prevails. The countless tin soldiers that Bertolt Brecht used to play with as a child epitomize this kind of controlled “distancing effect”: Despite their human shapes, they are scarcely distinguishable and thus, removable and replaceable. This effect can be fostered by integrating “objectifying” military jargon (“Massierung”, “Aufrollen”, etc.72) as e. g. in Franz Hampl’s clinical description of opposing armies and his unemphatic characterization of certain squadrons as “militärisch minderwertige Masse”.73 Graphical supplements and figures add a visual dimension to such textual modes of objectification. General historical books of the early-nineteenth century often had to forego the use of any visual illustrations due to medial limitations, including higher printing costs. At the turn of the twentieth century, however, scholars could fortify their verbal pictures of battles with photographical reproductions of archaeological sources and, more often, roughly sketched maps of the respective battle sites.74 Detailed plans and maps of (latter-day) battles have been a common feature of modern warfare literature.75 However, diagrams schematically depicting the initial situ-

72 Hampl 1958, p. 25 speaks of “massierte Reiterei” and the tactical idea the “makedonische Schlachtreihe in der Flanke zu fassen und von dieser Seite her aufzurollen”. Similar (nearly equally worded) phrasings are found throughout the examined corpus. Cf. Gehrke 1996, pp. 38, 42, 53; Gregor 1940, p. 361; Schachermeyr 1973, pp. 209, 272; Wilcken 1931, pp. 77, 126. 73 Hampl 1958, p. 25. 74 Gregor 1940, fig. 47 and Schachermeyr 1973, Taf. 12 deliver photographic representations of the battle-scene of the so-called Alexander-sarkophagus. Schachermeyr 1949, Taf. VI, VII parallelizes details on Dareios und Alexander from the famous Alexander-mosaic in Pompeii, while Schachermeyr 1973, Taf. 9 shows the whole battle mosaics. Cf. also the considerable register of illustrations in Demandt 2009, pp. 597 – 598. On battlefield photography in studies of the early-twentieth century, especially in the works of Arthur Janke, see footnote 109. Maps are found e. g. in Janke 1910, pp. 154 ff. and Dittberner 1908, p. 176. 75 Already in his anti-militaristic novel The Good Soldier Švejk from the early 1920s, the Czech writer Jaroslav Hašek caricatured the practice of military diagrams: Here, in a notebook of Cadet Adolf Biegler, which is labelled “Schemata der hervorragendsten und berühmtesten Schlachten der Heere der österreichisch-ungarischen Armee auf Grundlage historischer Studien zusammengestellt […]”, the simplistic diagrams of all battles were “alle gleich. Überall hatte Kadett Biegler auf der einen Seite Rechtecke gezeichnet, die leer waren, während auf der anderen Seite gestrichelte Rechtecke den Feind darstellten. Auf beiden Seiten fand sich ein linker Flügel, ein Zentrum und ein rechter Flügel. Dann im Hintergrund die Reserven und Pfeile hin und her. Die Schlacht bei Nördlingen genauso wie die Schlacht bei Sarajevo sahen aus wie Aufstellungen der Spieler bei einem beliebigen Fußballspiel vor dem Anpfiff, und die Pfeile schienen anzuzeigen, wohin die jeweilige Mannschaft den Ball kicken sollte.” Hašek 2014, pp. 581 – 582.

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ation of ancient battles appear more frequently in German works of historiography only in the second half of the twentieth century,76 usually addressing a broader and non-military audience.77 Such graphic techniques of representing battles yield interesting effects: First of all, they inevitably agglomerate individual soldiers into troops.78 Representing a whole corps as a rectangle, the abstracted schemes intensify the associations with a board game—there is not much left which reminds the spectator of the soldiers’ humanity.79 However, even in case of such allegedly objective or dispassionate modes of presenting battles, one can make out differences between single variants: Although the schemes of the Battle of Gaugamela used by Hampl (fig. 2) and Gehrke (fig. 4) are likewise sober, they differ in some points. Thanks to curved motion arrows and the freer positioning of the unit tokens, Gehrke’s scheme represents the battle in a much more dynamic way, hereby also doing more justice to Epaminondas’ military concept of the “schiefe Schlachtordnung”. Even more striking is the fact that in case of Hampl’s illustration, the reader regards the line-up from Alexander’s position, virtually taking his side. In Gehrke’s illustration, showing an inverted line-up, it is much more difficult for the reader to “win with Alexander”,80 even though Dareios’ troops explicitly are denoted as “gegnerisch” in the caption. Here, the set perspective implies a certain empathy with the losing party—quite typical for the “counter-intentional” approach of Gehrkes article.81 As Adolf Bauer’s early scheme (fig. 1) from 1887 shows, a lot has changed during the past 100 years: In accordance with the lack of reliable and similarly detailed information about the “other side”, the Persian troops are not even represented at all.

76 Some earlier exceptions confirm the rule; cf. Schmitz 2009, p. 66 on the (often reprinted) battle schemes of Adolf Bauer in the Handbuch der klassischen Altertumswissenschaft. See Bauer 1887, figs. 16, 17, 38, 39, 43. 77 E. g. Hampl 1958, pp. 19, 24, 35, 56; Lauffer 1978, pp. 77, 95; Gehrke 2006, p. 32. Interestingly, earlier war-historical works hardly utilize battle schemes, but rather integrate topographical overviews (e. g. Delbrück 1900, pp. 44, 155, 347, 448, 467, 486; Delbrück 1887, pp. 58, 74, 96, 117; Droysen 1889, p. 243) or reconstructions of ancient armour or weaponry (e. g. Droysen 1889, pp. 7, 191, 193, 195, 196, 200, 226), sometimes also standardized schemes of troop manoeuvres (e. g. Droysen 1889, pp. 185 – 186). Karl Gustav Berneck in his popular Buch der Schlachten (1856) does not utilize battle schemes. In the war-historical dissertation on Gaugamela of Hackmann 1902 there is only one single scheme of the Macedonian battle formation (p. 25); Johannes Kromayers study on Antike Schlachtfelder (1924 – 1931) also refrains from abstract topographical schemes. 78 At best some selected military units and formations are named after their respective leaders. See figs. 2, 3 and 4. 79 It is not without reason that for Schmitz 2009, p. 66 battle schemes evoke the impression “dass auch am Ende des 19. und Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts noch Schach gespielt wurde, bei dem man sich die Finger nicht schmutzig machte”. 80 On this issue cf. Bichler 2009. 81 Cf. Gehrke 2004 on still ubiquitary “intentionale Geschichte”.

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Figure 1 Schematic depiction of Alexander’s attack at Gaugamela, from Bauer 1887, Taf. XI (fig. 43).

Figure 2 1958: 35.

Schematic depiction of the attack formation in the battle of Gaugamela, from Hampl

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Figure 3 1978: 95.

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Schematic depiction of the attack formation in the battle of Gaugamela, from Lauffer

Figure 4 Schematic depiction of the attack formation in the battle of Gaugamela, from Gehrke 2006: 32.

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Apart from such variations, battle schemes clearly fit into a modern, scientific narrative style. They serve as a means of generating scientific accurateness, “objectivity” and “authenticity”, thereby stabilizing the military authority of the narrator. Yet they likewise meet the demands of the modern reader: they facilitate an overview of the narrated course of events. And they take account of the fact that battle knowledge undergoes a transformation in the second half of the twentieth century, indicated for example by the (intermediate) “extinction” of certain game cultures which aim at the (re)enactment of battles as already practiced in ancient times.82 Before battles were virtualized in computer games on a large scale, the knowledge of ancient battles slowly paled in the public sphere. While Gustav Friedrich Hertzberg’s book on Die Asiatischen Feldzüge Alexanders des Großen occupied a fixed place among the Jugend-Bibliothek des griechischen und deutschen Alterthums in the nineteenth century, the tactical analysis of historical battles was largely outsourced to military academies in the twentieth century. Battle schemes had to compensate for that transfer: As a first visual input they activate the modern (militarily illiterate) reader’s imagination of most distanced events, remote from everyday life and general education.

c)

Distance and closeness

The utilization of abstract schemes, visualizing the battle formation as a whole, indicates that the narrative perspective significantly affects the reader’s impression of the battle. The battle’s un-representability might be regarded as a pivotal point in this matter. The simple question of how to report on tactical manoeuvres on a large scale as well as on individual fights, performed in the dusty and confusing thick of the battle, points directly to the mere epistemological problem of battle representations: Heroic episodes are not representative of the entire battle, while general overviews disperse and evaporate everything specific and tangible. In the following we will show in which respect the narrative perspective itself conveys a distinctive message. As discussed above, in historical works the narrative situation in general is characterized by a gap of knowledge between the protagonists and the narrator, resulting in a (pseudo-)omniscient narrative perspective on various levels. Telling the story from the retrospective, the narrator occupies an elevated position with respect to the acting characters—even in a literary sense: The altitudinous vantage point of the nar-

82 As Brecht’s memories in Benjamin Fragmente vermischten Inhalts & Autobiographische Schriften (GS VI, 1991, pp. 437 – 438) clearly show, before World War II, knowledge of (historical) warfare was by no means a distinct and delimited zone only accessible by and relevant for those with a professional affiliation, i. e. military personnel and historians. As a prominent part of (national) history, “battle knowledge” circulated via school curricula and contemporary war reports as well as via common games, designed for re-enacting a war’s “decisive” moments. A proof for battle (re)enactments in antiquity is e. g. Gell. VI 3,52.

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rator becomes evident in the case of strategic manoeuvres or troop movements hidden from the respective opponent, as when the narrator describes the succession of events up to its well-known consequences virtually from the position of an observation desk. This privileged perspective might be the “view from a hill”, simulating the general’s perspective in many battle descriptions,83 but there are other options as well. In ancient literary battle descriptions, the narrators quite often occupy the celestial position of an Olympic spectator: a god-like perspective, consistent with the narrator’s all-knowing one.84 By analogy, in modern secularized historiography, this vantage point might be designed as an animally “bird’s-eye”-perspective, as emulated in Ulrich Wilcken’s description of the sharp overall view and rapidity of Alexanders attack in the battle of Gaugamela: Mit Adlerblick erkannte er, daß jetzt der Augenblick für seinen Offensivstoß gegeben war, und so stürzte er sich an der Spitze seiner Hetärenreiterei in diese Lücke hinein und begann, nach links schwenkend, die feindliche Front nach dem Zentrum zu aufzurollen …85

With this example in mind, there are further arguments for a narratological shift in contemporary historiography that went hand in hand with technical developments of modern media culture. While Alexander’s offensive in Wilcken’s description still resembles an air raid of a low-flying aircraft, the “birds-eye”-view in contemporary media culture rather takes after the more static or floating “helicopter/drone”-perspective, in which it is technically realized, as for instance in the battle depictions in Oliver Stone’s Alexander film from 2004 (fig. 5). The narrative effects, however, are quite similar: The mere spatial distance between the spectator and the acting “persons”, only perceivable as a bustling crowd, actually scales down the importance of the anonymous soldiers amid larger world affairs. Significant is only what is looked at closely. A “close look” corresponds with a perspective switch: As in the case of explicitly literary texts, switches to a so-called figural narrative situation are employed to enhance empathy and the identification potential with characters living in a world far away from the reader’s own: The omniscient narrator might leave his elevated vantage point to “focalize” single characters or associations of deindividualized characters— the reader traces the course of the events from their point of view, as the following passage from Schachermeyr shows:

83 Mann 2013, p. 128 aims at battles of late antiquity, when stating that Schlachten selbst […] in der Forschung zumeist noch aus der Perspektive des Feldherrnhügels erforscht werden”. However, this observation is surely generalisable. On hills as scenery of ancient battle description cf. Ambühl 2015, pp. 242 – 243, who also points out that an elevated observation perspective (e. g. from a tower or a wall) is characteristic for ancient messenger reports. 84 For further documentary evidence see e. g. Ambühl 2015, pp. 239 – 240 on Lukan’s Bellum Civile. 85 Wilcken 1931, p. 126.

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Alexander war nun der Meinung, nach der Flucht des Großkönigs würden die persischen Angriffe auf der übrigen Schlachtfront von selber aufhören. Deshalb dachte er anfangs gar nicht an Rückkehr, sondern hoffte, die Person des Darius noch zu erjagen. Da erreichte ihn Parmenions Hilferuf. Der Herrscher leistete ihm zwar Folge, verzieh aber dem Paladin seine ängstliche Botschaft späterhin nie. Brachte sie ihn doch, wie er vermeinte, um seine beste Beute und seinen erwünschtesten Triumph. Als nun der König wieder auf dem Schlachtfeld erschien, fand er manche Gefahr durch Teile des zweiten Treffens, die sich nach rückwärts gewandt hatten, bereits abgewehrt.86

Verbs of perception, thinking and feeling indicate that the narrator has taken Alexander’s perspective; his knowledge is now restricted to that of his protagonist: Only back at the battle field, Alexander (and with him, the reader) learns about his troops’ success. Thus, historians utilize similar techniques as can be found in modern Alexander novels, which also generate vividness by fostering the reader’s identification with specific participants of the battle.87 This narrative technique fits well in Wilhelm Dilthey’s conceptualization of historical “Einfühlung”, enabling the reader to empathize and “understand” other human beings—even if separated by millennia. In many cases, the narrator is not interested in the standard fights of a common soldier, but just zooms from the acting of the corps as a whole into the heroic deeds of its leader. Countless soldiers hereby agglomerate to a few squadrons which are further compressed to two opposing parties, represented by their respective leaders:88 Die Schlacht stand unentschieden. Da führte Alexander die Entscheidung herbei, indem er sich mit seinen Reitern bis zu dem weithin erkennbaren persischen Königswagen durchkämpfte. Dareios, der sich unmittelbar bedroht sah, […] gab die Schlacht verloren.89

As in this example taken from Lauffer’s description of the battle of Issus, the narrative zoom eventually provokes the impression of a fight of one commander against

86 Schachermeyr 1973, pp. 274 – 275. 87 Haefs 2013 [1997], p. 206 skilfully employs focalization techniques to generate a vivid impression of the events. The battle of Issus e. g. is traced from the perspective of Alexander’s court historiographer Kallisthenes: When getting sight of the enemy army, “[e]ine kalte Faust tastete nach seinem Magen, quetschte ihn, drehte ihn im Leib herum. Er sah das Häuflein hellenischer Söldner […]; er sah ein paar Hundertschaften hellenischer Söldnerreiter am linken Flügel […]; er sah die Fußkämpfer […]. Er sah und schaute und starrte, aber er nahm nichts wahr, nur ein Gewirr von Rücken und Helmen und Pferden.” 88 Cf. Droysen 1833, p. 226, when “Alexander” represents the squadron led by him. 89 Lauffer 1978, p. 78. See also Hampl 1958, p. 17: “An der Spitze der Hetären ritt Alexander selbst in den Kampf, um mit dieser hervorragenden Reitertruppe die Entscheidung möglichst rasch herbeizuführen.” Similar techniques of rhetoric condensation, depicting the leader as (decisive) pars pro toto for their respective armies, are also observed in Wilcken 1962, p. 243; Wiemer 2005, pp. 101 – 102; Gehrke 2006, pp. 43, 46.

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Figure 5 Various narrative perspectives in the movie Alexander (Oliver Stone, 2004), ranging from a literal bird’s-eye-view to the general’s overview from a hill and the perspective of Alexander as a combatant.

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another: daring Alexander vs. fearful Dareios.90 While some ancient authors even invented single combats between the two kings (obviously for the sake of a gripping narration),91 here, the leaders act pars pro toto: They represent the army corps as a whole—the military organism, led by them.92 This common metonymic scheme is interesting on various levels. First of all, by employing these kinds of zooming techniques on their story telling, modern historians build on the narratological traditions of ancient battle descriptions as they are already found in Homer’s Iliad.93 In antiquity, narrative zooms were highly functionalized: Both the imagined communities who set up the participating armies and the individual soldiers regarded battles as sites of competitive respectability and “aristeia”. Thus, there was a need for the literary representation of these interlinked levels of military virtuousness. Battles as topoi of “exemplary heroism”94 therefore require a narratological connection between the course of the battle in general, as a collective action of the corps, and the actions of its individual parts, constituting the corps as a whole. Furthermore, condensing the battle of two armies into a single combat of their respective leaders refers to a second frame of interpretation: (dualistic) agonality as a reference indicates the reduction of complexity and maximization of the overview. It is consistent with Clausewitz’ definition of war as an “erweiterter Zweikampf ”.95 Hence, the narrative synecdoche, which places the leaders in lieu of their armies, implicates to some extent that war is a recurring normality,96 allowing collective political entities to prove themselves via their participating individuals—in a similar way as in the Panhellenic Games. In accordance with Clausewitz’ definition, ancient battles could be conceived as events confusingly similar to sports competitions, more accurately, as “agons of Ares”.97 Due to the metaphorical and institutional entangle90 In a similar way, in the battle of Kunaxa (XIV 23) a single-combat between two brothers leads to a decision. Cf. Dittberner 1908, p. 19 and Oliver Stoll’s article in this volume. 91 With good reason, Bengtson 1985, pp. 150 – 151 degrades such narratives of Diodor and Curtius Rufus to “Erfindung ohne jeden historischen Wert”. Cf. Benedikt Niese’s explanatory note on an alleged wound of Alexander in the battle at Issus, Niese 1893, p. 76: “Nach Chares (Plutarch, Alex. 20) im Zweikampf mit Darius, was Erfindung ist.” 92 Cf. e. g. Aischyl. Pers. 83. On body-imagery in battle descriptions see Gödde 2001, p. 252 and Hölscher 2003, p. 186. Already Pfuel 1812, pp. 226 – 227 describes the relation between commander and army as an organic unity, similar to Droysen 1833, p. 161. Cf. Gehrke 2006, p. 46: “Auf makedonischer Seite bildeten Feldherr, Offiziere und Truppenkörper geradezu einen einheitlichen Organismus”. 93 Mann 2013, p. 4 points out that already Homer’s battle descriptions are “durch einen Wechsel von Weitwinkel- und Teleskop-Perspektive geprägt”, e. g. Hom. Il. IV 422 – 544. On various interpretations of the narration perspective in battle descriptions in the Iliad cf. Latacz 1977, pp. 96 ff. 94 Albertz 2006. 95 Clausewitz 1905 [1832], p. 3. Cf. the wording of Kleist’s fried General Ernst von Pfuel 1812, pp. 226 – 227: “Das Kunstwerk welches uns der Krieg aufstellt ist das Ringen zweyer Heere um den Sieg”. 96 Against Jean-Pierre Vernants famous thesis on “Krieg als Normalzustand” (cf. Mann 2013, p. 63) cf. e. g. Meier 1990. 97 Fruitful stimulation (also for Ancient History) on the relation of “Agon und Ares” was recently provided by Lethen/Macho 2016. The story of the seer Teisamenos in Hdt. IX 33 – 35 delivers proba-

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ment of sports and warfare in ancient societies, it is only logical that German classical scholars described military “battles for dominance” as a quite sportive “Ringen um Vorherrschaft”.98 Droysen for example paraphrases the longstanding “Kämpfe” between “Hellenes” and “Persians” as “das erste große Ringen des Abendlandes mit dem Morgenlande”99—which tellingly is brought to an end by Alexander, as part standing for the whole, but also as exceptional hero, shaping the world’s fate. The nexus of military events and sports competitions points to another aspect related to the interplay of closeness and distance in battle descriptions: The battlefield, staged as an arena of a manageable spectacle,100 keeps the audience at distance. Despite the identification potentials with competing combatants, despite the suggested historical closeness, there is an ineluctable gap between the depicted scenes and the audience. Furthermore, regarding battles as “sportive” events also indicates the possibility of perspective switches: Comparable to sports competitions, the audience’s benevolence might turn from one party to the other. On the level of the narration, these turns correspond to perspective shifts on a horizontal level. Fostering the audience’s identification with one combatant or another, they strongly influence how one perceives a battle. Only by adopting a certain observation perspective, the reader finds himself either on the side of the winners or the losers. Even in the more prosaic and sober historical works of later authors, this technique is utilized to control the reader’s turns of identification. A good case in point is again Gehrke’s article on the battle of Gaugamela. At the beginning of the article, the narrator takes the confident Persian perspective. “Nichts konnte schiefgehen”101 says the very first sentence of his description of the battle, in which, in fact, everything went wrong for the Persians. From the start, the narrator tries to undermine and invert stereotype judgments of Alexander and his opponent (e. g. by characterizing the former as the “Eindringling” that finally has to be defeated). This perspective switch, effectively foiling the common identification with Alexander, is already indicated in the article’s title “Weltreich

bly the best proof for the conceptual mélange of sportive and military competitions in classical Greece. As the Delphi oracle advised Teisamenos that he “should win great victories in five competetions (ἀγῶνας)”, he exercised hard and became a successful athlete. Only later it is revealed that the oracle in fact had referred to “(kriegerische) Kämpfe des Ares (ἐς ἀρηίους ἀγῶνας)”. Finally, as a seer, he won five important battles on the side of the Spartans. Against this cf. Plut. Philopoimen 3. 98 Wordings referring to “ringen” (“wrestling”) in the context of military events, are observed e. g. in Clausewitz 1905 [1832], p. 3; Demandt 2009, p. 197; Droysen 1833, p. 2; Gregor 1940, pp. 363, 367; Lehmann 1911, p. 236; Schachermeyr 1973, p. 172. A very general nationalist interpretation of the “Ringen um den Vorrang” is given by Meyer 1916, p. XV. The idiom “eine Schlacht annehmen” also points to a concept of battles linked to sports and competition. Cf. e. g. Gehrke 1996, pp. 37, 42, 53; Gregor 1940, p. 360. 99 Droysen 1898, p. 3; cf. the wording in the first edition Droysen 1833, p. 2: “drum ringen die Völker aus Abend und Morgen den Kampf der Vernichtung”. 100 On the metaphor of the theatrum belli see Füssel 2008a. 101 Gehrke 2006, p. 33. Niebuhr 1848, p. 463 takes a comparable viewing point: “Nichts von dem was man hätte erwarten sollen geschah in der Schlacht”.

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im Staub”—thereby not pointing to Alexander’s ascendant empire, but to Dareios’ fallen one.102 Perspective switches are essential features of battle descriptions, not only indicating their literary kernel, but also their mosaic-like nature: Battle descriptions might be characterized as a collection, selection and representation of different vantage points as well as of different sources.

d)

Historicization and representation

A general problem of historical narratives is carried to extremes in battle descriptions: the contest between historicist and presentist readings of a highly fragmentary and unsecured source tradition. As we will show in the following, this dualism also resonates in the calculated utilization of respective narrative techniques. First, we will discuss strategies operating on a mere grammatical and terminological level, drawing the past closer to the reader’s lifeworld. Second, we will comment on techniques creating a spatial continuum, thereby virtually winding up the connection-lines from the past to the present. In a final step, we will investigate explicit analogies between ancient and recent battles, functionally oscillating between representing and historicizing military events. To start with, we will comment on well-established linguistic techniques of making the past present, which become especially apparent in the literary field (e. g. in historical novels). Though playing with the idea of being based on “true stories”, historical novels usually do not foster historicizing and rather jump directly into the presence of the past. A common strategy to intensify dramatic effects is switching from the common past tense, congruent with the temporal situation of the described events, to the dramatic present. Likewise, battle descriptions of nineteenth-centuryhistoriography now and then utilized this technique, for instance Hertzberg in his description of the Granicus-battle: Unter dem Schmettern der Trompeten und mit dem brausenden “Eleleu !” dem Kriegsgeschrei der griechischen Heere stürzt sich Alexander in den Fluß; bald hat er, nicht ohne Mühe und Gefahr, das rechte Ufer erreicht, die dichtesten Geschwader der persischen Kavallerie wälzen sich ihm entgegen, bald beginnt eine furchtbare Reiterschlacht.103

102 Cf. the perspective shift in the description of the battle of Issus in Niebuhr 1848, p. 462: “Die Schlacht am Issus ward verloren, wie sie verloren werden mußte, da Alles was hätte geschehen sollen ungeschehen geblieben war, und alle Vorkehrungen und Vorsichtsmaßregeln versäumt waren.” 103 Hertzberg 1875, p. 81. Cf. Droysen 1833, pp. 226, 440: “Die Heere beginnen vorzurücken; Alexander mit der Macedonischen Ritterschaft, dem rechten Flügel, steht dem feindlichen Centrum, den Elephanten der Indier, dem Kern des feindlichen Heeres, der doppelten Schlachtlinie gegenüber; er ist […]; er läßt […]. Noch überragt ihre Linie die der Macedonier bei Weitem, und die Scythischen Reuter des äußerersten Flügels traben schon zum Angriff […]. Alexander rückt […]. Es stehen hier

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The on-going scientification of historiography soon forced academic battle descriptions to employ narrative representation strategies in a more nuanced and subtle way. However, similar effects can be evoked without the adaption of the tense as well, as the following quite similar passages from Droysen and Schachermeyr vividly demonstrate: Bisher hatte sich Alexander jeder frontalen Angriffsoperation enthalten und nur seine seitlichen Eingreifverbände nach rechts gesandt, um die feindlichen Flankierungsabsichten zu stören. Jetzt aber nahm er die Lücke wahr, da schien ihm der geeignete Augenblick gekommen. Im Nu formierten sich die Hetairen zum Keil, machten sich Hypaspisten und Linieninfanterie zum Aufschließen bereit und schon ging es mit Trompetengeschmetter und dem üblichen Angriffsgeschrei in die Lücke. Die wurde nun zur furchtbaren Wunde, in der das glühende Eisen der makedonischen Waffen mit erschreckender Schnelligkeit in die Tiefe und vor allem nach links hin weiterfraß, gegen das Zentrum, gegen Darius zu.104 Die Reiter des Nabarzanes, die noch im heißesten Kampf und im Vordringen waren, erreichte jetzt das Geschrei: “der König flieht”; sie begannen zu stocken, sich zu lockern, zu fliehen; von den Thessalern verfolgt jagten sie über die Ebene. Alles stürzte den Bergen zu, die Schluchten füllten sich; das Gedränge aller Waffen und Nationen, der zermalmende Hufschlag der stürzenden Pferde, das Geschrei der Verzweifelten, die mörderische Wut ihrer Todesangst unter den Klingen und Spießen der verfolgenden Makedonen und deren jubelndes Siegesgeschrei, – das war das Ende des glorreichen Tages von Issos.105

Obviously, the “presence”-indicating quote as well as temporal adverbs such as “jetzt”, “nun”, “schon”, “sofort” etc.106 draw the reader directly into the historical event. Furthermore, the narration gathers pace, thus correlating with the scene’s suspense: rhehundert Wagen […]”, etc.; “So geschieht es, reichlich rieselt das Blut hervor […].” Depending on genre and audience, this technique still occurs in twentieth century historiography, see e. g. Bengtson 1985, p. 161: “In der Absicht, die linke Flanke des Gegners anzugreifen, schiebt sich Alexander nach rechts, während die Perser eine Verschiebung nach links vornehmen. Die in der persischen Aufstellung entstehende Lücke wird von Alexander erkannt und sofort ausgenützt.” Emphasis added by us. 104 Schachermeyr 1973, p. 273 (on the battle at Gaugamela), emphasis added by us. 105 Droysen 1898, p. 180, emphasis added by us. Cf. also the first edition Droysen 1833, p. 170 on the battle of Issus. 106 E. g. Beloch 1922, pp. 624, 632 – 633., 642 ff.: “Jetzt wandte sich auch […]”; “Jetzt war er […]”; “Beide Heere standen sich nun eine Zeit lang untätig gegenüber”; “Die Reiter und leichten Truppen, die Dareios nun dem Feind entgegensandte […]”; “Er liess nun […]”; “Die Sichelwagen, die Dareios jetzt losliess […]”; “Die Reiterei auf dem linken Flügel, die nun ganz isoliert war […]”; “[…] eine weite Lücke, in die nun […]”, “Während nun Parmenion […]”; Hampl 1958, pp. 23, 26, 36 – 37: “Er erkannt sofort […]”; “In stürmischer Attacke führt er nun […]”; “Nun begann er die Schlacht […]”; “Während nun hier ein erbittertes Reitergefecht entbrannte, stürmten […]”; “[…] und schon jagte er […]”; Schachermeyr 1949, pp. 175, 176, 222, 224: “ […] und schon hatte Alexander […]”; “Schon sah sich Dareios selber inmitten des Schlachtgetümmels […]”; “Nun mußte er sehen […]” This technique is also utilized in more recent works, e. g. Demandt 2009, pp. 114 – 115.: “Und schon sah er sich zu einem ungeordneten Kampf genötigt.”; “Aber jetzt sprengten Rhoisakes und sein Bruder Spithridates, der

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torical parallelisms and asyndeta, focusing on dynamic verbs and adjectives (adverbs) derived therefrom, indicate a rapid succession of the events and stimulate the readers’ imagination of the confusing turmoil. Scenic narrative techniques like this do not only bring the past to the present. They significantly influence the credibility of the narrator, as he makes an appearance as a quasi-eye-witness. In a similar way, (pictorially) connecting the battle fields of the past with their modern location creates the impression of an on-site report. In such a sense, since the beginning of the twentieth century, Alexander historians quite often have walked with Colonel a. D. Arthur Janke “auf Alexanders des Grossen Pfaden”.107 Thus, with respect to the supposed location of the battle, they can refer to their own beholding, or at least to the “Augenzeugenschaft” (autopsia) of other contemporaries.108 Sometimes, far-travelled scholars even substantiate their on-site reports with pictures. For example, in the second edition of his Alexander biography, Schachermeyr supplements the rather poetic descriptions of the landscape of Issus with photographs from his journey to Alexander’s battle fields. The photographs—mostly belonging to the genre “romantic holiday landscape photography” (see fig. 6)—and their textual correlates contrast in a rather strange way with the actions taking place in this scenery.109 Schachermeyr’s extensive romanticised description of the battle field provides information in excess, thus producing some kind of “reality effect”. The photographs are utilized as a “piece of evidence”: By establishing the narrating self as a (pseudo-)eyewitness who has seen the battle site with his own eyes, he also claims his historical narrative to be based on a “wahre Begebenheit”. Literary ornamentation and personalization of a “factual” kernel is typical for historical essay-writing. It is plausible to assume that Schachermeyr was not only inspired by this tradition, but also tried to inscribe himself into it. Essayistic battle descriptions like that of Peter Bamm, a German physician, traveller and essayist of the Weimar Republic, set the stylistic course for the literary ambitious, individualized telling of history. In his Alexander biography from the 1920s, Bamm also extensively describes and romanticises the battle scenery. Like Schachermeyr he had visited the battle field of Issus while travelling the world and utilized his experience to create a personal connection between the events portrayed and the narrator:

Satrap Lydiens, zu gleicher Zeit gegen ihn heran.”; Gehrke 2006, pp. 33, 36: “Jetzt kam er in das Herz des Imperiums, und jetzt würde ihm […]”; “[…] und so stand nun die Entscheidung an […]”. Emphasis added by us. 107 According to the title of Janke 1904, who surveyed Alexander’s battle sites. Interestingly, more than 100 years later, historians such as Demandt 2009, XII highlight their travel on the “Spuren des Makedonen im Orient” in comparable wordings. 108 With respect to the battle of Granicus, Beloch 1922, p. 625 not only refers to Janke 1904, but also to Judeich 1908, who knows “das Schlachtfeld ebenfalls aus eigener Anschauung”. Also Schachermeyr 1973 repeatedly invokes their surveys. 109 Cf. also the numerous photographs in Janke 1904 and Janke 1910.

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Figure 6 Colour photographs of the battle sites, taken by the author himself, from Schachermeyr 1973: Taf. X a (Syrische Pforte südlich von Issos) & XI b (Am Pinaros, Blick gegen die Berge).

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Vor vielen Jahren bin ich einmal […] über dieses Schlachtfeld geritten. […] Das Schlachtfeld liegt an der Küste des Mittelmeers ein wenig südlich jener Stelle, an der die Südküste Anatoliens in die Westküste Syriens, des Libanons und Palästinas umbiegt. Ein schmaler Streifen nur zieht sich hier zwischen Wasser und Gebirge hin, ein wenig Heide, ein wenig Moor. Nur hie und da begegnet man einem Hirten, der einem verwundert nachblickt. Das Land ist so karg, daß nicht einmal Schafe genug Futter finden. Es sind Ziegen, die hier weiden. In dem leisen Regen steht mitten in der Landschaft ein Esel, traurig und verloren, an einem Dornbusch knabbernd, in einer Einsamkeit so abgrundtief, als habe die Schöpfung ihr Geschöpf vergessen. Ein Stückchen weiter stoße ich in einer Senke auf eine Hütte. Ein Bauer haust darin. Ein aus dieser Einsamkeit flüchtender Bauer ist der Bote gewesen, der Dareios die Nachricht brachte, daß Alexander in der Nähe sei und sein Heer zum Angriff bereitstelle.110

The narrating essayistic self portrays its own travel experiences and associatively links them to the events to be described. It thereby operates as a medium which facilitates the reader’s imaginative travel to the past.111 Locating the battlefield on the reader’s contemporary geographical and political map further fosters this process, especially in most recent historical works: When Demandt situates the final battle between Alexander and Dareios on the “Ebene zwischen der Stadt Arbela und dem Dorf Gaugamela, etwa zehn Kilometer östlich der heutigen Stadt Mossul am Tigris im nördlichen Irak”112, he points to the permanent spatial connection between the past and the present. The geographic connection-line draws the legendary scene into the reader’s world. Simultaneously, the sites of the event are virtually demythologized: applying a secular name to a fabulous stretch of land as Lauffer does when he speaks of the “Unterwerfung Ostirans”113 somehow trivializes the associated events as well. This effect becomes even more evident in case of Joseph Gregor’s accurate location of the Issus battlefield in the “Nordwestecke Syriens”.114 Although such localization strategies serve as powerful tools to link the depicted events with the reader’s lifeworld, the connection is a rather fragile one: Bridging the historical distance is only possible thanks to presentist mediation.

110 Bamm 1965, pp. 201 – 202. 111 On the use of “geographische Bilder” in the descriptions of Alexanders campaign cf. also Hertzberg 1875, pp. VI – VII: “Landschaftliche Schilderungen sind diesmal überwiegend nur dann eingewebt worden, wo sie zum Verständniß der militärischen Bewegungen unumgänglich waren, oder wo es sich darum handelte, die charakteristischen Züge der durch Alexander für die Griechenwelt so gut wie neu entdeckten innerasiatischen Länder und Städte zur Anschauung zu bringen.” 112 Demandt 2009, p. 191; cf. Bengtson 1985, p. 160: “Ort Gaugamela (Tell Gomal, etwa 35 km nordöstlich von Mosul)”; Hampl 1958, p. 23: “Bei Myriandros (wohl in der Gegend des heutigen Alexandrette gelegen) erreichte ihn die Nachricht”. 113 Lauffer 1978, p. 111; cf. Wiemer 2005, p. 126: “Die Unterwerfung des östlichen Iran”. 114 Gregor 1940, p. 366.

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Apart from such subtle and indirect correspondences between the past and the present, historians also utilize diachronic “analogies” and historical comparisons as effective methods of battle representations, as most remarkably employed in the combinierte[n] kriegsgeschichtliche[n] Studien of the late-nineteenth century.115 They always work in a similar way: The narrator establishes relations between battles on different time domains. On the one hand, such analogies can be framed by the old question of Nutzen und Nachteil der Historie für das Leben. While conventional battles have now lost their importance beyond military academies and (digital) game cultures, it was previously a common idea that the analysis of battles which have already been fought might be useful models for future battles. As already indicated by the fact that the famous “Schlieffenplan” was based on Hans Delbrück’s description of the battle at Cannae,116 ancient battlefields were considered “Bildungsorte”,117 which of course could also be politically instrumentalized. Especially Herfried Münkler has shown in various studies that ancient warfare is an important reference frame of modern war discourses. The “Völkerschlacht von Leipzig” has gone down in German history not only as “unsere Hermannsschlacht”, but also as “deutsches Plataiai”.118 In World War I, the German War Chancellor Bethmann regarded the unrestricted submarine war as “unsere sicilische Expedition”,119 whereas the influential classicist Eduard Meyer identified the “Krisis, die wir durchleben” with the crisis “des Hannibalischen Krieges, nur noch unendlich viel größer und furchtbarer”.120 At the time, also Alexander the Great could serve as a model: Some generals apparently believed that they could “im Stile Alexanders des Großen neue Reiche errichten”121—in accordance with a sinister prognose formulated in the preface of a 1917 edition of Droysen’s Alexander-biography: In Hindenburgs Vaterland, in diesem Deutschland, das mit unsterblichem Ruhm seinen Kampf fast gegen die ganze übrige Welt auskämpft, wird Makedoniens König, Asiens Eroberer zahlreichere Freunde und Bewunderer finden, als jemals zuvor.122 115 E. g. Delbrück 1890 with the telling title Die Strategie des Perikles erläutert durch die Strategie Friedrichs des Großen. Such analogies were widespread in the nineteenth century, cf. Delbrück 1887 (title: Die Perserkriege und die Burgunderkriege. Zwei combinierte kriegsgeschichtliche Studien). 116 On the “Cannae-mania” of the German army command taking up on Delbrück 1900, pp. 281 ff. cf. Münkler 2014, pp. 58 ff. 117 Cf. the respective imagery in Benjamin Aufsätze – Essays – Vorträge (GS II, pp. 14 – 15), associating educational policy with warfare and battles. 118 E. g. Schuster 1814, p. 6, who declares the Völkerschlacht von Leipzig as “würdigen Nebenbuhler” of the “vernichtende Schlacht bei Platäa”. Comparably Fleischmann 1814, col. 2539 states: “Gleich Platäa bey den Griechen, strahlet in himmlischem Glanze der hehre Name ‘Leipzig’ in unseren Jahrbüchern !” 119 Quoted from Münkler 2014, p. 70. 120 Meyer 1916, p. 77, cf. Münkler 2014, pp. 67 ff. 121 According to the head of legal policy in the federal office, Johannes Kriege (August 1918), quoted in Münkler 2014, p. 57. 122 As stated by Sven Hedin in his preface of the 1917-edition of Droysens Alexander-biography, p. XII.

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The analogization of past and present military events is not restricted to the transfer of ancient battles to present warfare and its political exploitation. Modern war discourses are also implemented in descriptions of ancient battles. Depending on their respective context, they can be functionalized either for drawing the past closer to the reader’s world or emphasizing the historical distance. A rather common strategy, ranking among the register of presence effects, is to actualize a past event—e. g. by integrating contemporary military jargon (“detachieren”, “massierte Truppen”, “abkochen”, “Blitzkrieg”, “überflügeln”, “rekognoszieren” etc.).123 By contrast, unspecific references, aiming at a general comparison between ancient and modern warfare tend to historicize ancient battles by pointing either to differences due to developments in warfare or to striking coincidences: Wilcken, for example, vindicates Alexander’s personal commitment as a commander who has “tapfer mit dreingehauen” with the fact, that “Reserven, die wie in der neueren Kriegskunst den Feldherrn nötigten, hinter der Schlachtreihe zu halten, um sie im geeigneten Moment in den Kampf zu schicken”124 were not known back then. Schachermeyr, in reverse, explains the defeat of the Persian army with their unawareness of the “Möglichkeiten oder Erfordernissen moderner Schlachtenlenkung” or, reciprocally, with Alexander’s tactical modernity.125 Explicit comparisons of ancient warfare with more recent events support the (contemporarily informed) reader’s orientation, e. g. when Ulrich Wilcken describes Alexander’s tactical qualities by comparing him with the Prussian General Field Marshal Helmuth von Moltke.126 Such reverse diachronic references also serve as a guideline and promote a certain moral assignment of events and characters: It is surely no coincidence that Wilcken compares Alexander, who is also called “Erfüller der nationalen Aspirationen” by Meyer,127 to a general who was of high importance for the foundation of the German National State.128 Similar strategies are already observed in the talks of Barthold Niebuhr, who analogizes for example the situation at Gaugamela with Lord Clive’s victory over the numerically advantageous Bengal army, thus rationalizing the disproportionate death counts on the respective sites.129 Also in this case,

123 E. g. Droysen 1833, p. 167: “detaschierte”; Bengtson 1985, pp. 149 ff., 161: “Detachement”, “Überflügelung”, “Rekognoszierung”; Wilcken 1931, pp. 93, 125: “abkochen”; Demandt 2009, p. 96: “Blitzkrieg”. For further examples see footnote 72. 124 Wilcken 1931, p. 78. 125 E. g. Schachermeyr 1949, pp. 165, 222. 126 Wilcken 1931, p. 74: “Man darf den Parmenio aber nicht, wie öfter zu lesen ist, als Alexanders ‘Generalstabschef ’ oder als ‘seinen Moltke’ bezeichnen, wie öfter zu lesen ist […] Alexander ist durchaus sein eigener Moltke gewesen.” 127 Meyer 1910d, p. 295 128 It is also telling in which way Niebuhr 1848, p. 463 refers to Early Modern Age when characterizing Greek mercenaries in the Persian army: “ich nenne sie brav in der Schlacht, sonst waren sie Gesindel wie im sechzehnten Jahrhundert die Geworbenen”. 129 Niebuhr 1848, p. 468. See also Niebuhr 1848, p. 455, where the situation of Alexander’s army at the Granikus is compared to that of Lieutenant field marshal Mack at the battle of Ulm, Oct. 1805. Bengtson 1985, p. 151 explicitly parallels Dareios’ escape at Gaugamela and Alexander’s respec-

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the analogization of the two military leaders en passant subtly affects the interpretation of the ancient battle: it conjuncts the continental dualism of Europe and Asia with that of western and “oriental” culture.130 Historical analogies, especially the comparisons of Alexander with “Helden unserer Zeit”,131 are often criticized as anachronistic projections. However, from a narratological perspective, they are substantial tokens of successful and well-received (hi)stories. They are a good case in point for our general finding that how one talks about a battle strongly influences the impression of who fought the battle, why and in which way: Is it a battle fought by an ingenious military commander, by a simple soldier or by a conglomerate of phalanxes, cavalry and infantry ? Is it a battle fought by the triumphing winner or the tragic loser ? Is it a battle between two armies or between opposing nations ? When Eduard Meyer enthusiastically elevates World War I as “gewaltiges Ringen”, or to be more precise, as a “Kampf für die Erhaltung der deutschen Nationalität”, für die Freiheit der Völker und für die Rettung der Zivilisation vor der Überflutung durch die slawischen Horden”,132 this is in fact highly reminiscent of the old antagonism between East and West, Orient and Occident. Without modifying “hard” facts in any way, simply by shifting the historical frame of reference, battles might even be staged as a “clash of civilizations”.

4

What is the Story ?

To this day, descriptions of ancient battles have relied mainly on the same sources. However, we have shown that there are enormous variations in how battles could be described on this very same basis—obviously within a more persistent register of narratological techniques and operations.133 Beyond such variants in storytelling, battle descriptions are characterized by a remarkable consistency with respect to concepts and topoi, which leads us to believe

tive prey (i. e. Dareios’ coat, chariot etc.) with the “Verfolgung Napoleons nach der Schlacht bei Belle Alliance im Jahre 1815”. 130 On earlier continentalization of imagined cultures like this cf. e. g. Niebuhr 1848, pp. 454 – 455 on the battle of the Granicus: “In dieser Schlacht hätte die persische Cavallerie ihrer Vortrefflichkeit und Mehrzahl wegen siegen sollen: allein sie unterlag dem Uebergewicht der Europaeer über Asiaten: wie es immer geschehen ist, außer zur Zeit der Chalifen und der türkischen Eroberung, wo die Europäer halb Asiaten geworden waren.” Many modern antagonisms of this kind can be traced back to ancient identity- and otherness-discourses, consider e. g. the discussion of Alexander’s Persian expedition as “universaler Konflikt zwischen Hellenen und Barbaren, zwischen Hellas und Asien” in Gehrke 2006, p. 37. On the origin of the antagonism Asia vs. Europe cf. e. g. Bichler 2014. Cf. also chapter 4 (a). 131 Droysen 1833, p. 225. 132 Meyer 1916, pp. 173 – 174, 181. 133 Cf. the general characterization on the modern Alexander-historiography in Demandt 2009, IX: “Die meisten Darstellungen zeigen die gleiche Grundstruktur. Stets ist ihr Faktengerüst im wesentlichen identisch. Die Ausführung hingegen und das Gesamturteil sind je besonders.”

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that battle descriptions can be understood as narrative concepts themselves. Could there be a basic story of any battle, irrespective of the historical contexts of their descriptions ? Is there some kind of narratological substratum of battle descriptions in German classics, and how does it relate to its ancient models ? In the last section of this article we will analyse the co-occurrence of “battles” with certain terms, attributes and topoi, as well as the fundamental “plot” of the battle-narrative per se. A promising frame for the investigation of such issues is provided by Albrecht Koschorke’s Allgemeine Erzähltheorie with the telling title Wahrheit und Erfindung: Linking narratology with cultural theory, Koschorke points out that narratological analysis is not reserved for stories and histories alone. Conceptual categories and specific concepts can be understood as micro- or mini-narratives, as “Narrative, die sich zu Begriffen eingefaltet haben”. Hence, concepts themselves might contain—or, more often than not, conceal—a whole narrative in nuce,134 though resonating in the term’s respective context. As will be shown below, the semantic and etymological intricacy of German battle rhetoric seems to be an appropriate indicator that there might be a narrative kernel of battle descriptions, a story that is transmitted in every “Schlachtbeschreibung” no matter the author, the genre or the time of origin.

a)

Order and confusion

A prominently recurring motif of battle descriptions, both ancient and modern, is the assignment of order/disorder to the winning/losing party of the battle. An army which loses its contenance and falls completely into “Unordnung” is usually facing defeat.135 Since order is widely considered a valid indicator of military discipline and manly fortitude, it is commonly attributed to the (winning) combatants with whom the narrator (or the expected audience) identifies most. In any military confrontation which allows an “orientalist” frame of interpretation, “western” historiographers have located disorderliness in the troops of the “exotic other”.136 Therefore, national identity references of Western historiography put Alexander, “unsern König”,137 in a very favourable position—whereas Dareios and his army for a long time have been mainly

134 Cf. Koschorke 2012, pp. 267 ff. 135 Droysen 1833, p. 169 vividly describes fighting against disorder: “mit der Unordnung wuchs der Eifer, sie zu vermeiden, und die Gefahr, sie zu vergrößern; […] jetzt galt es, den schon verlorenen Sieg wieder zu gewinnen”; cf. Beloch 1922, p. 568. Even in more recent German historiography it is often mentioned how Dareios’ troops got “in Unordnung”, e. g. in Wiemer 2005, p. 102. 136 In his ground-breaking study on Orientalism, Edward Said points several times to the early schematization of the Orient in Classical Greece. On “Kriegsuntüchtigkeit” and other codes of (oriental) decadence in the ancient sources see Müller 2007. 137 Schachermeyr 1973, p. 212; against such identifications from the perspective of the history of science see Bichler 2009.

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characterized by their “Kriegsuntüchtigkeit”, namely by their “asiatische Feigheit und barbarische Unordnung”,138 as Niebuhr puts it. Our analysis especially of early German battle descriptions substantiates this general hypothesis. Quite often, German historians emphasize the “good order” of Alexanders troops: The movements of the Macedonian army are regularly performed “in der schönsten und geschlossensten Ordnung”, hence contrary to the disordered counter-movements of its enemy.139 Even the “Aufmarsch” of Alexander’s troops is carried out “mit einer Ruhe und Präzision, als wenn er auf dem Paradefelde und nicht vor dem Feinde geschähe”.140 Like in antiquity, orderliness was regarded as a military quality, as a prerequisite of both beautiful and successful tactics. In the characterization of the Greek mercenary troops in Dareios’ army it becomes obvious that order also served as a marker of (military) culture: For most German scholars, it was still important to note that at Issus, they did not fall into confusion like their “oriental” fellow combatants, but withdrew “in guter Ordnung”.141 Only recent research has disavowed such tendencies.142

138 Niebuhr 1848, p. 468, thus keeping ancient Greek topoi about “oriental” ethnicities alive. This old “orientalist” tradition, which combines tactical indiscipline with personal cowardice, has proved to be very durable, cf. Hertzberg 1875, p. 157: “mit des Sultans jähem Entweichen hörte alle Ordnung, jeder Zusammenhang in dem Heere auf. Und doch hätte es nur einiger Besonnenheit des Dareios bedurft, um […] dem Kampfe doch noch eine Wendung zu geben”. Interestingly, even contemporary historians like Demandt 2009, p. 142 join the group of those contrasting Alexander, as “geübten Feldherrn und ungestümen Draufgänger”, with fleeing Dareios and his “Feigheit”, but now, of course, with explicit reference to this traditional depiction in “unsere[n] Quellen”. Regarding Dareius’ getaway in the battle of Issus, the comments of Schachermeyr 1973 are still double-edged: “Fast möchte man hier von Feigheit sprechen” (p. 210), but “wir [wollen] uns hüten, den Perser allzu gering zu schätzen, bloß weil er geringer war als Alexander” (p. 212). Cf. also the more cautious wording in Engels 2006, p. 54: “man [darf] aber den Rückzug des Dareios aus der Schlacht nicht vorschnell lediglich als persönliche Feigheit interpretieren.” By contrast, the “Tapferkeit Alexanders” is often emphasized, e. g. in Bengtson 1985, pp. 140, 161. 139 Droysen 1833, p. 168, cf. also p. 226: The Macedonians conduct their maneouvres “mit der größten Ordnung […], während die Feinde bei ihren großen Massen einige Gegenbewegung aus ihrer linken Flanke nicht ohne große Störung zu machen versuchen.” Cf. Niese 1893, p. 75: “Im Schritt und wohlgeordnet rückte seine Schlachtreihe vor […]”. 140 Wilcken 1931, p. 93. 141 Identical wordings are observed e. g. in Beloch 1922, p. 633; Wilcken 1931, p. 96 and Bengtson 1985, p. 152; cf. Lauffer 1978, p. 78: “Nur die griechischen Söldner räumten das Schlachtfeld in geschlossener Ordnung.” Again, the orderliness of the Greek troops corresponds to their ethnic military “bravery”, cf. Niebuhr 1848, p. 463: “Diese braven Leute, von den Persern verlassen, thaten ihr Aeußerstes”. In a similar way, Schachermeyr 1973, p. 210 and Engels 2006, p. 51 emphasize the fortitude of the Greek mercenaries; cf. also Niese 1893, p. 61 for the battle of the Granicus. 142 In most cases only the successful withdrawal of the Greek mercenaries is mentioned—without linking it to a stereotype Greek orderliness, e. g. in Demandt 2009, p. 142; Wiemer 2005, p. 102. In general, more recent studies sometimes underline the military equality of the respective troops, e. g. Lauffer 1978, pp. 79 – 80, who elaborates on the situation at Issus that “die beide Heere im ganzen vielleicht gleichwertig waren”. On the troop leaders at Gaugamela, Gehrke 2006, p. 46 comments: “Nach allem, was wir wissen, haben sie und die ihnen unterstellten Truppen tapfer und loyal gekämpft”. However, Wiemer 2005, p. 112 points out that before the battle of Gaugamela Dareios’ troops were lacking dis-

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The conception of battles within the regime of order/disorder is also insofar interesting as “order” is an important factor enhancing the clarity of representation. Niebuhr even refuses to discuss Alexander’s battles against Dareios at length due to their lack of strategical attraction: “die Verwirrung, das Planlose und die Kraftlosigkeit der überwundenen Heere nimmt diesen Schlachten ihren Reiz”.143 Since the “beauty” of a battle is strongly connected to its military orderliness, an orderly battle description requires aesthetically attractive “tactical” manoeuvres in the sense of the Greek term “taxis” (τάξις), which semantically points to battle orders, formations and arrays.144 Military order falling apart into innumerable individual hand-to-hand fights forces modern battle narrators to switch intermittently from the narrative registry of clarity to vividness. “Disorderliness” is associated with the battle’s blind spot: The clutter of clashing soldiers obscures the sequence of events, at least temporarily, until one party has dispersed the other one and regained order. It seems as if the open door for mere coincidences has to be closed as soon as possible, both for the fighting armies and the narrator. Indeed, it is a general tendency of battle descriptions, “das Geschehen nachträglich rational zu ordnen und den Einfluß von Kontingenz und Zufall zurückzudrängen”.145 The exposition of (well-dosed) disorderliness is substantial in battle descriptions, not only to create a concept of the enemy but also to generate narrative vividness. However, as a literary topos, it is embedded in a registry of narrative “order”—a regular ensemble of involved figures and characters, standardized action patterns and sequences, eventually also predefined narrative techniques to “go through” the battle on different levels of comprehensibility.

b)

Decision and delay

Another essential feature of battle descriptions is the exposition of battle-related decisiveness. Generally, battles are part of a military decision-making process. For a long time, in military dictionaries a battle was defined as a “Gefecht zwischen zwei cipline. Bengtson 1985, p. 161 simply states: “Die Makedonen waren eindeutig die besseren Soldaten, die Perser hielten vor ihnen nicht stand.” 143 Niebuhr 1848, p. 462, who obviously refers to the ancient topos of “Unordnung der Barbaren” (ἀταξία τῶν βαρβάρων), as e. g. utilized in Arrianos’ Techne Taktike (31 5 – 6). From Niebuhr’s perspective, “Barbarian” battles generally lack everything that Theodor Fontane later will define as a characteristic feature of the “herrlichste[n] Schlacht”: “selbst das Auge eines Laien entzückt sich an der Sicherheit der Bewegungen, an dem poetischen Schwunge der Linien”; quoted in Hebekus 2003, p. 172. 144 On the military meaning of τάξις see the surviving works of Greek military authors as e. g. Aineias Tacticus, Polyainos, Asklepiodotos. The fear of military disorder (Greek ἀταξία, also ταραχή) in the face of a battle is also described in Xen. An. I 8,2 – 3. Cf. Thuk. II 91; Hdt VI 11; Xen. Hell. III 1,7; VII 1,16. 145 Gehrke 2006, p. 43 on the general problem of the “Verhältnis von strategisch-taktischer Planung und realem Verlauf einer Schlacht”.

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Armeen, in der Absicht, dadurch eine Entscheidung herbeizuführen”.146 The outcome of a battle, depending largely on the tactical and strategic decisions of the participating commanders, not only decides the prevailing winner on the battlefield. It might even decide the outcome of a war, the allocation of lands and goods etc. However, in historiography, emphasizing the decisive potential of battles also fulfils a narratological purpose: Depicting battles as “the” decisive moments of history dramatizes, concentrates and accelerates the course of events. The widespread rhetoric of decision reduces long-term historical processes to one single battle day or even one single moment, and it condenses complex and multi-facetted military happenings to manageable (hi)stories. Focusing on the (supposedly) decisive moments of history cuts off the contingent events beyond them.147 This becomes especially apparent when comparing the descriptions of the three battles between Alexander’s and Dareios’ armies. First of all, it is impossible not to notice that they have almost always been restricted to their crucial and decisive moments, such as the characteristic scene in the battle of the Granicus, when Alexander is nearly killed, or the moments Dareios decides to withdraw at Issus and Gaugamela.148 In a very broad semantic range of the Greek term “crisis” (κρίσις), these often invoked “kritische Augenblick[e]” are of particular importance: they supply the historical narration with “entscheidende[n] Wendung[en]”149 which stimulate contrafactual reflections on an alternative outcome of the battle and the whole campaign, eventually even about an alternative course of world history.150 A synopsis of the three battles reveals an even more striking fact: in many cases each of the three battles is regarded and explicitly characterized as “decisive” for the prospective historical future151—even though they took place in succession within a period of three years.

146 Lemma “Schlacht” in Militair-Conversations-Lexikon (ed. H. E. W. v. d. Lühe, Band 7, Adorf 1839, pp. 453), quoted by Förster et al. 2006, p. 9, who hereby also refer to definitions in contemporary dictionaries. 147 Cf. Förster et al. 2006, pp. 9 ff. 148 For examples cf. footnote 89. Of course, the ascription of decisiveness can be handled in a very versatile way by the historians; see e. g. Burckhardt 2008, p. 58, referring to the same moment of the battle at Issus: “Alexander [nahm] selbst an den Kämpfen in entscheidender Funktion teil[]” vs. “Die Flucht des Anführers aber war entscheidend”. 149 Cf. e. g. Schachermeyr 1973, p. 172: “So kam es dann auch zu dem kritischen Augenblick […]”. Similar or even identical wordings are observed e. g. in Beloch 1922, p. 644; Droysen 1833, pp. 168, 227; Lauffer 1978, pp. 79, 97; Wilcken 1931, pp. 78, 95. 150 Cf. Demandt 2009, pp. 116 – 117. For further examples see footnote 30. 151 There are innumerable passages labelling the big battles of Issus and Gaugamela as “entscheidend”. However, even the rather “non-decisive” first battle of Granicus sometimes is announced as supposedly “entscheidender Schlag” (Droysen 1833, p. 110). See also Demandt 2009, p. 113 referring to Plut. Alexander 16: “Man stand an den Toren von Asien, schreibt Plutarch, und somit sollte die Schlacht über Anfang und Ausgang des Krieges entscheiden”. Beloch 1922, p. 625 attributes the “weltgeschichtliche Bedeutung” of the battle to the fact that “[z]um ersten Mal […] griechische Reiter die persischen in einer grossen Feldschlacht geschlagen [haben]”. In a similar way, Schachermeyr 1973, p. 174 speaks of a “Klarstellung von weltgeschichtlicher Bedeutung”.

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This leads to paradoxes, rendering the concept of a single “Schlacht der Entscheidung”152 quite questionable, especially against the backdrop of a recurrently invoked “Entscheidung der Schlachten”153—in the plural. The military decision is often deferred through a seemingly endless chain of decisions—after the battle is before the battle. Thus, single battles are deprived of their actual decisive potential: truly “entscheidend” is always “das nächste Zusammentreffen der beiderseitigen Heere”.154 Additionally, if every battle is described as somehow decisive, there is a need to distinguish which one of them is “more” or even “most” decisive. The descriptions of the last of the three battles in the investigated text corpus reveal the absurdity of such a climax of decisions. In the case of the battle of Gaugamela, historians frequently enhance its significance as “Entscheidungsschlacht”.155 Moreover, Gaugamela is addressed as ultimately decisive, namely by labelling the battle as “letzte” or “definitive Entscheidung”156—in contrast to the prior “Schlachtentscheidung” at Issus, which despite its clear outcome somehow failed to bring an “endgültige Entscheidung”.157 As a quite fragile historiographical construct, the military decisiveness of a battle corresponds to its historical consequentiality. This becomes quite obvious in Siegfried Lauffer’s handling of the three battles in his Alexander-monograph. At the end of his description of the first battle he states, “Die Folgen der Schlacht waren von weitreichender Bedeutung”, which actually forces him to go a step further in the case of the second battle: “Die Folgen der Schlacht bei Issos waren noch bedeutender als die der Schlacht am Granikos.”158 Now, what about the historical impact of the battle at Gaugamela, captioned as “Entscheidungsschlacht am Tigris” ? To strip off the historiographical logic of decision—enhancement—escalation, Lauffer makes use of historical perspectivation: On the one hand, he points to the fact that Alexander was well aware of the “entscheidende Bedeutung des Kampfes”, in which his army gained a victory “auf der ganzen Linie”.159 But on the other hand, Lauffer eventually foils the alleged “final” decidedness of the battle by simply taking the side of Dareios, who suc-

152 153 154 155

Droysen 1833, p. 225. Meyer 1910a, p. 314. Droysen 1833, p. 158. E. g. Niebuhr 1848, p. 468; Droysen 1833, p. 221; Beloch 1922, p. 643; Gregor 1940, p. 376; Hampl 1958, p. 34; Lauffer 1978, pp. 92, 94; Bengtson 1985, p. 160; Engels 2006, p. 54. Also Burckhardt 2008, p. 57 calls the battle “entscheidende[] Schlacht”. 156 Schachermeyr 1949, p. 221; Gehrke 1996, p. 54. Not only Demandt 2009, p. 194 characterizes the Macedonian victory at Gaugamela as “kriegsentscheidend”. According to Niebuhr 1848, p. 468 Alexander’s victory over Dareios’ army was “so vollkommen, daß nachher von diesem ungeheuern Heere keine Spur sich findet”. 157 Demandt 2009, pp. 140, 190. In a subchapter headed “Keine endgültige Entscheidung” also Wiemer 2005, p. 102 stresses the fact, that the war was “noch längst nicht entschieden” after the battle at Issus. 158 Lauffer 1978, pp. 62, 80. 159 Lauffer 1978, pp. 94, 97 – 98.

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cessfully managed to withdraw from the battlefield: “Aus seiner [Dareios’] Sicht kam der Schlacht bei Gaugamela noch keine entscheidende Bedeutung zu […].”160 Stylizing battles as critical turning points, the narration of history holds behind a multitude of influencing factors, a variety of unfathomable coincidences—in favour of one single event, in fact not less opaque and ambiguous. Depicting battles as “the” decisive elements of history reduces contingency and fosters a consistent, maybe even inevitable line of narration. However, not only the ubiquity of “Entscheidungen”, but also their preposterous comparisons and superlatives sometimes compromise their narrative purpose: they expose actual contingency than hiding it under the veil of coherency.

c)

Sacrifice and resurrection

Battles are inextricably linked to their respective casualties—in manifold ways. In German historiography, the ambivalent semantics of “Opfer”, indicating both a victim of violence and a sacrifice, points to an underlying religious connotation of battles. This association is not only created by explicit reference to presumed beneficial effects of the “Schlachtentod”, but inherent to the complex semantics of the term “Schlacht” itself. Therefore, in this last section, we would like to dig even deeper into the foundational “nature” of battles as conceptualized by the German classical scholars. To begin with, it is not without reason that Förster et al. have characterized a battle (“Schlacht”) as “das, was vom Wortsinn her so nahe liegt, ein gegenseitiges Abschlachten: ‘Immer ist Blut ihr Preis und Hinschlachten ihr Charakter und ihr Name’, stellte der preußische Kriegsphilosoph Carl v. Clausewitz fest […].”161 For experts of the German language, this definition referring to the term’s “Wortsinn” is rather evident: Etymologically, the German word for battle stems from “slaht”, which in medieval times could mean “Erschlagen” (slaying) of both men and animals, namely “Niedermetzelung” (butchery), “Blutbad” (bloodshed, carnage), and “Schlachten” (slaughter). Therefore, it is only logical that “Schlacht” is closely related semantically to the cultural technology of slaughtering livestock. The proximity of the words “Schlacht” and “schlachten” (to slaughter, to butcher etc.) is not only reflected in Clausewitz’ definition. It also becomes manifest in the

160 Lauffer 1978, p. 98. Cf. Demandt 2009, p. 190 on Dareios’ defeat at Issus: “Darius sah in seiner Niederlage keinesfalls eine endgültige Entscheidung”, similarly Wiemer 2005, p. 102. Already Benedikt Niese, who regularly stresses the fact that the Persion king did not flee from the battlefield because of cowardice, but was forced to do so by the course of the battle (Niese 1893, pp. 75, 92), rehabilitates Dareios’ power of judgment, cf. Niese 1893, pp. 93 – 94: “Er erwartete, daß sich Alexander zunächst nach Babylon und den anschließenden Provinzen, dem Mittelpunkt der Herrschaft wenden würde, und täuschte sich nicht.” 161 Förster et al. 2006, p. 7.

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battle descriptions of German historians, especially in verbal forms like “abschlachten” and “hinschlachten” (to slay, to massacre), standing for the remorseless or even “functional” killing of enemies. Sometimes the authors seem to follow the ancient dictum “Iamque non pugna, sed caedes erat”.162 So when Droysen—focusing on the huge Persian losses at Gaugamela—elaborates that the “Fleischhandwerk” usually started with the chasing of the enemy,163 one might easily get the impression that ancient soldiers were not only led to the “Schlachtfeld” (battlefield), but also to the “Schlachtbank” (slaughtering block). Such allusions to the underlying Biblical idiom are not limited to the rhetoric of slaughter in mere historical narratives of the time,164 but also resonate in related anthropological reflections, such as Friedrich Nietzsche’s comments in Zarathustra: Diess ist meinem Auge das Fürchterliche, dass ich den Menschen zertrümmert finde und zerstreuet wie über ein Schlacht- und Schlächterfeld hin. […] es findet immer das Gleiche: Bruchstücke und Gliedmaassen und grause Zufälle—aber keine Menschen !165

The terminological interconnection between both semantic fields is interesting in various respects: First of all, it shows that the German conceptuality of “Schlacht” is quite similar to the ancient Greek one. In the Greek language the term “mache” (μάχη) means “battle” and “combat”, whereas “machaira” (μάχαιρα) not only refers to the short sword, but especially to the sacrificial knife, used in the ritual slaughter of sacrificial animals.166 Even the verbal forms for military killing were used similarly in German and Greek historiography. Xenophon, for example, applies the Greek verb “sphazein” (σφάζειν: attic σφάττειν) in his Anabasis to the killing of enemies in

162 Curt. IV 15, 32 on the battle of Gaugamela: “Already it had ceased to be a battle and become a slaughter.” In German literature one can find numerous allusions, e. g. in Die Jungfrau von Orleans: “Ein Schlachten war’s, nicht eine Schlacht zu nennen” (Schiller 1986, 1, 9). In the poem Stimmen aus dem Massengrab (1928) by Erich Kästner it goes “Wir starben. Doch wir starben ohne Zweck. Ihr lasst Euch morgen, wie wir gestern, schlachten.” (Kästner 1985, p. 43) And in Heiner Müller’s theatrical play Die Schlacht, for instance, a butcher is ordered to kill an American pilot, whose airplane crashed nearby, with the following words: “Das schlägt in dein Fach, […] du bist Fleischer.” The butcher, “wenn der an der Front wär, tät aus den Russen Beefsteak machen” (Müller 1977, p. 17). 163 Droysen 1833, p. 230. 164 “jmdn (sich) wie ein Lamm zur Schlachtbank führen (lassen)”; cf. Isaiah 53:7. Especially the general historian Eduard Meyer frequently utilizes the rhetoric of slaughter, cf. e. g. Meyer 1910b, p. 184. 165 Nietzsche Also sprach Zarathustra II (KSA 4, 21988, pp. 178 – 179). 166 Less common Greek terms for “battle” are ἀγών (“contest”, “struggle”) and συμβολή (“encounter”, “engagement”). On the semantic branching of the Greek world field around μάχη see e. g. the “etymological” reflections in Athen. IV 154e – 155a. Interestingly, in German and Greek language a similar cognate object is known: μάχην μάχεσθαι (z. B. Xen. Ag. 5,5) and ναυμαχίαν ναυμαχεῖν (e. g. Lys. VII 41) resemble the German “eine Schlacht schlagen” (e. g. Wilcken 1931, p. 92), as “schlachten” and “schlagen” go back to the same term.

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battle167—a “marked term that refers to the cutting of the animal’s throat and evokes connotations of violence and bloodshed”.168 In analogy to the Greek case, the German concept of “Schlacht” indicates a concealed religious base of military events. In one way or another, the “Opfer” (victims) of a battle are conceptualized as “Schlachtopfer” (sacrifice), so that the “Schlachtentod” (battle death) might easily evoke the impression of a heroic act of (self-)sacrifice169—of martyrdom for the imagined community.170 The semantic ambiguity of the term “Schlacht” hereby also suggests that the mundane “Schlachtentscheidung” goes hand in hand with a judgment of higher forces: Its outcome has to stand before the judgement of history. Yet it also proves to be a quasi-secularized version of a “Gottesurteil”171—structurally similar to ancient times, when the “blutige Handlung” of a battle was regularly initiated by animal sacrifices as part of ritualized divination attempts.172 Despite all apparent differences, in nuce both respective battle cultures seem to be based on an essential religious component, namely a sacrificial cult that somehow had to decide on the rightness of the respective military aspirations and acts of violence. The “Opferkult” hereby has been inscribed deeply into the otherwise quite different battle-cultures from antiquity to modernity. For a common soldier, in battle it has not been unlikely “to fall victim” either to the enemy or to the unrestrained will to power of the own military leaders.173 Already in antiquity it was well known that in order to justify a premature death, the potential (self)destruction somehow had to transcend the mere physical realities of the battle itself: Battles (μάχαι) and wars (πόλεμοι) destroy the bodies (σώματα) of antagonists, and yet men do not avoid battles because they may fall while fighting; because fighters are admired 167 Xen. An. IV 5, 16. 168 Henrichs 2012, p. 186. On “sphazein” (σφάζειν) in context of alleged man slaughter see e. g. Empedokles DK 31 B 137, Eur. Herakl. 502. Also in the ancient source tradition on the famous human sacrifice in the battle of Salamis (Plut. Aristides 9, Pelopidas 21, Themistokles 13) related vocabulary is found. 169 On the heroic battle death in Classical Greece see e. g. Herakl. DK 22 B 136; Plat. Menex 234c; Eur. Frgm. 994 [TrGF]; on “Schlachtenmut” see also Plat. Cratyl. 413e. Further material on the “schönen Tod des Polisbürgers” is provided by Müller 1989. Similar glorifications are also observed in the works of German scholars such as Eduard Meyer—interpretable as a discursive strategy of a society, in which nearly everybody was affected by wars and losses of close relatives or friends. 170 In a similar way as Burkert has shown that in Greek antiquity, war is often interpreted “im Sinne eines Opfers […], dessen Zweck die rituelle Selbstbestatigung der Mannergesellschaft gewesen sei”. Mann 2013, p. 78, referring to Burkert 1997, pp. 58 ff., 76 ff. 171 Cf. the general reflections on “Schlacht als Rechtsentscheid” in Schild 2003. 172 Burkert 1997, p. 59. In ancient times, animal sacrifice and military battle usually were integrated in a thorough ritual system of rules, even regarding the acoustical course of the events: Both battle-cry (Ἀλαλά, cf. Pind. Frgm. 78) and sacrificial cry (ὀλολύγη) seem to have marked the emotional climax of the prospective acts of killing. 173 Cf. the wording of Wiemer 2005, pp. 112 – 113: “Zehntausende seiner Soldaten […] fielen dem Vernichtungswillen Alexanders zum Opfer”.

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(θαυμάζονται), they are content to risk death and disguise the present danger for the sake of the attendant good (ἀγαθοῦ).174

In a comparable sense, the “metaphysical” aspect of the concept of battle becomes apparent in the fact that even in German post-World War II academia the total annihilation of an army or military corps is occasionally glorified with reference to its posthumous aftermath, such as in the historical judgement of Hermann Bengtson on the afterlife of the Spartan troops at Thermopylae: Das Opfer war nicht vergeblich, die Tat des Leonidas hat den Hellenen in ihrem Freiheitskampf ein leuchtendes Beispiel erfüllter Pflicht gegeben.175

Taking the semantic interrelation of “Schlacht” and “schlachten” as seriously as some German classicists do, every “Schlacht” hereby implies a cultural confrontation, yet not only between two combating parties, but also between (sacrificial) culture itself and the lack of it. Depending on the applied anthropological premises and cultural theory, the battle itself can be regarded as an expression of cultural brutalization—a perspective in which acts of killing tend to be generally dismissed.176 On the other hand, a battle can also be considered as a ceremonial act of cultural foundation itself, thanks to its military sacrifices. In this perspective, which for a long time has been pervasive in the historiography of military events, battles are nothing else than performances of a highly ritualized collective “Opferkult”—even if this aspect is sometimes well concealed. War is the father of all things: Πόλεμος πάντων μὲν πατήρ ἐστι.177 The famous Heraclitean wording condenses this second position to an influential catchphrase, according to which destruction and annihilation are eternal (and valuable) preconditions of (cultural) formation and (human) becoming.178 This motto, sounding rather strange to contemporary pacifist ears, met a very positive resonance among histo174 Aphthonios Progymn. 51 [Rabe p. 44]. 175 Bengtson 2009 [1965], p. 144. Similarly, Schachermeyr 1960, p. 147 praises the “freiwillige Selbstaufopferung” of the Spartan troops. 176 With a cultural critical premise that bloodshed itself ought to be prevented, pacifist and vegetarian convictions get closely related to each other. So, already in Empedokles DK 31 B 128, one could mourn the end of a golden era, when “neither some Ares was a god nor the din of battle (Κυδοιμός)” and, correspondingly, “the altar (βωμός) was not drenched with the unmixed blood of bulls (ταύρων), but this was among men the greatest pollution (μύσος)”. In this tradition, it is a precondition of culture itself, that “harmony” (ἁρμονία) and “truces” (σπονδαὶ) are established, and that “battle (μάχη) was replaced (μεθίστατο) by order (πρὸς τάξιν)”, as formulated by Procop. Mel. et Ant. 3 – 4, 6 [Amato p. 58]. 177 Heraklit DK 22 B 53. On the history of reception see Most 1995. 178 See e. g. Nietzsche Ecce Homo § 3 (KSA 6, 21988, p. 313), who defines the “Bejahung des Vergehens und Vernichtens” as “das Entscheidende in einer dionysischen Philosophie”. Also in his treatise Philosophie im tragischen Zeitalter der Griechen (KSA 1, 21988, p. 825) Nietzsche refers to Heraclitean thought patterns: “Aus dem Krieg des Entgegengesetzten entsteht alles Werden: die bestimmten,

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rians and philosophers in the “heroische Moderne” up to World War II. As in the case of Eduard Meyer, who explicitly invokes the Heraclitean dictum in his essay collection “Weltgeschichte und Weltkrieg”,179 its positive reception often implies a Nietzschean “Ja-sagen zu Gegensatz und Krieg”—to approve of war as “Vater aller guten Dinge”, as “Vater (des guten Gewissens und der Heiterkeit) der Ehrlichkeit”, even as “Vater der guten Prosa”.180 As we have tried to show in this paper, in a scholarly milieu where a “classicist” understanding of military events was predominant, battles could easily be described both as historical agons with predictable outcomes, and as historically justifiable sacrifices, no matter the actual results. Although the greatest aim of a battling army was to vanquish its enemy, eventually even feasting on its resources, in the historical micro-narrative of the term “Schlacht” the most evident purpose of the battle itself is to reconstitute order from unsettled circumstances. As “critical” events in a very Greek sense of the term, battles hereby decide a previously undecided issue, and they symbolize the recurring moment in which hierarchy is produced out of anarchy, and order out of chaos. Only when they fail to do so, when battles like the one of Mantineia in 362 BC cost many people’s lives, but neither bring a “decision” nor an end of bloodshed, but cause “even more confusion (ταραχὴ) and disorder (ἀκρισία; literally: “want of distinctness”, “lack of judgement”)”,181 they lose their narrative kernel. Likewise, their purpose as edifying literary topoi and cultural foundational myths evaporates. The only appropriate reaction to such “failed battles” seems to be a stunned interjection, such as Droysen ascribes to Napoleon after the gruesome but non-decisive battle of Bautzen on May 18, 1813: “wie, nach solcher Schlächterei kein Resultat ?”182

als andauernd uns erscheinenden Qualitäten drücken nur das momentane Übergewicht des einen Kämpfers aus, aber der Krieg ist damit nicht zu Ende, das Ringen dauert in Ewigkeit fort.” 179 Meyer 1916, XV. 180 Nietzsche Ecce Homo § 3 (KSA 6, 21988, p. 313); Die fröhliche Wissenschaft § 92 (KSA 3, 21988, p. 448); Nachgelassene Fragmente 1887, 8[7] (KSA 12, 21988, pp. 337 – 338). Cf. also Most 1995, pp. 102 ff. 181 Xen. Hell. VII 26 – 27: “When these things had taken place, the opposite of what all men believed would happen was brought to pass. For since well-nigh all the people of Greece had come together and formed themselves in opposing lines (ἀντιτεταγμένων), there was no one who did not suppose that if a battle were fought (εἰ μάχη ἔσοιτο), those who proved victorious (κρατήσαντας) would be the rulers (ἄρξειν) and those who were defeated (κρατηθέντας) would be their subjects (ὑπηκόους ἔσεσθαι); but the deity (θεὸς) so ordered it that both parties set up a trophy as though victorious […] and that while each party claimed to be victorious, neither was found to be any better off, as regards either additional territory, or city, or sway, than before the battle took place (πρὶν τὴν μάχην); but there was even more confusion (ταραχὴ) and disorder (ἀκρισία) in Greece after the battle than before”. Ancient historiography occasionally reports on such kinds of “undecided” military confrontations; cf. e. g. Plat. Men. 242b (on the μάχη ἀμφισβητήσιμος between Athens and Sparta at Tanagra 457 BC), Thuk. IV 134,1 – 2 (on the μάχη ἀγχώμαλος between Mantineia and Tegea at Laodikion 423 BC) and Hdt. I 76,4 – 77,1 (on the battle at Pteria between the armies Kroisos and Kyros II. around 541 BC). Often in such cases the great number of deaths is explicitly mentioned. 182 Droysen 1846, p. 608.

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Conclusions

The aim of our study was to investigate descriptions of ancient battles in German classical studies by means of narratology, thereby providing provisional answers to the following questions: Which narrative registries are utilized ? What is told in battle descriptions—also beyond the “hard facts” of military history ? What is the role of the author within the complex process of battle narration ? As we have shown, battle descriptions skilfully employ and combine a multitude of narrative strategies: Rooted in military history, but with an equally long tradition in literature, battle descriptions fluctuate between the stylistic and functional poles of sobriety and affectivity. The involved modes of narration either expose (historical) distance or draw past events closer to the reader and his experiential world. However, despite their inherent narrative complexity, the utilized set of techniques has remained rather constant since ancient times. This applies to the concealing and exploitation of extreme physical violence as well as to the narrative perspectivation between tactical mass and emotional hero. Even the modern distinction between a “literary” and an “academic” description of military events somehow resembles the ancient debates about an adequate “battle rhetoric”. Alexander Demandt is only one of many contemporary historians who still allude to such ancient disputes: Is a prosaic military report like that of Ptolemy the most adequate way to describe battles, despite being “so genau und ausführlich wie ein moderner Generalstabsbericht—und ebenso schwer lesbar” ?183 Or should battle descriptions focus on other aspects, such as the timeless heroic efforts of the prominent military leaders or the severe suffering and the traumas of the wounded and killed soldiers ? What is the battle’s historical significance, especially on a larger time scale ? Of course, more poetic ways of storytelling would sometimes not even refrain from narratological “absurdities (ἀλογήματα)”, as Polybios puts it.184 But in turn they can keep the anthropological drama in mind which still unfolds on the imagined battlefields of the past. From the perspective of the inevitable war victims, “pragmatic historiography” is always thrown back upon its “tragic” structural elements. Even though battles are rather standardized historical entities with respect to both their plot and their associated micro-narratives, the “blank spaces” of beholding make them especially appealing to literary approaches. Blind spots stimulate the imagination of historiographers as well as of novelists, leading to various ways of dealing with fragmentary and uncertain knowledge. Gradual variations in narration can be explained by a range of individual factors, including personal attitudes such as patriotism due to national challenges or pacifism as a consequence of contempo-

183 Demandt 2009, p. 5 on the character of the Ptolemy-fragments. Cf. against this Dittberner 1908, p. 3, who reminds us, “daß Arrian noch nicht Ptolemäos selbst ist, und daß die Ephemeriden von einem modernen Generalstabsbericht noch recht weit entfernt sind”. 184 Pol. XII 22,1.

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rary war experiences. As adaptations of later editions indicate, even the author’s aging, correlated with his standing in the academic field, might alter his previous depictions of a battle. Battle descriptions are also affected by general trends, resulting from contemporary historic incisions, from the alterations of the scientific sphere or from aesthetic trends in academia as well as in the field of literature. Each respective medium (pre)shapes and “textures” battle descriptions—an assumption which we could substantiate by investigating various techniques of pictorial visualization (schemes, photographs etc.), and which applies also to distinct textual genres with their respective audiences. Generally speaking, the process of ongoing differentiation seems to “scientify” historical narratives in the late-twentieth century and leads to the evolution of “objectified”, dispassionate and more prosaic narrative modes. More empathic, literary ways of describing battles, as still encountered in nineteenth-century historiography, are outsourced to a certain extent—mostly to the field of (historical) novels, but also to popular scientific text genres. What attracts one’s attention most is the fact that despite their transparent forms of “Quellenkritik”, historiographic approaches often tend to rationally explain away the battle’s “blind spots”, thus camouflaging the battle’s inherent un-representability. In some cases, philosophers and literati, by contrast, deal with the problems of describing battles much more consequentially. Besides his highly metaphorical Die heilige Johanna der Schlachthöfe, the works of Bertolt Brecht illustrate this finding particularly well. In his Messingkauf Dialogues—containing “viel Theorie in Dialogform”— the struggle of handling war on a narrative level is omnipresent. Not for nothing Brecht’s uncompleted work includes (among others) a practise play on the Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi, which ends with the punch line, “daß dem Manne der Sieg gehöre, welcher zu Landbau und Friedensarbeit rufe, statt Kriege und Schlachten zu schildern.”185 Even more interesting is the fact that Brecht therein also integrates and adapts his recollections of the rehearsals of Eduard II, his directing debut from 1924. Obviously, despite the “strategische Schule” which he has gone through as a child with his tin soldiers, Brecht had serious problems with the extensive battle scene of the play. Seeking advice from a colleague, he asked his friend Karl Valentin, “was er mit den Soldaten machen sollte”. In Brechts notes their short discussion ends in the following way: “‘Wie sind Soldaten in der Schlacht ?’ Der Valentin antwortete, ohne sich zu besinnen:”186 The dialogue breaks off after the colon.187 This might be a playful literary gesture, but it also points to a central problem of battle descriptions in general. In con-

185 Brecht 1993, p. 852, utilizing Wolfgang Schadewaldt’s translation of the practice play, critically edited by Friedrich Nietzsche for the first time. 186 Brecht 1993, p. 722 (B30). 187 Brecht communicated Karl Valentin’s answer only orally, as an anecdote in his circle of acquaintances, cf. e. g. Benjamin 1991c, pp. 534 – 535. Some uncritical editions integrate the answer, most probably extrapolated from the notes of Brecht’s audience.

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trast to historiographers, who always try to satisfy their reader’s curiosity in view of military events, already Platon seems to intentionally undermine the expectations his readers might have (had) towards a decent battle description. At the beginning of his dialogue Charmides the platonic Socrates himself reports how he came back to Athens from a battle near Potidaea that might have taken place in the summer of 431 BC.188 Just back home, he sought with delight his “wonted conversations (τὰς συνήθεις διατριβάς)”, that is of course “about philosophy (περὶ φιλοσοφίας)”. But when he arrived at Taureas’ wrestling-ground, he came upon a number of people who got in his way. Since “news (πεπυσμένοι)” of the battle “had reached Athens only just (ἄρτι)”, many of them, especially the “madman (μανικὸς) Chaerephon, were very inquiring about a full (πάντα) and detailed (σαφῶς)” report. As Socrates lets us know, he indeed, “gave them all the news from the battlefield (τὰ ἀπὸ στρατοπέδου), in answer to their various questions”—but unfortunately, he shares only the very first of them with the modern reader. To the question of how he “survived the battle (μάχης)”, he gives a very terse response: “In the state (Οὑτωσί) in which you see me (ὡς σὺ ὁρᾷς)”. To the next question, whether he was right in the middle of the “very severe (πάνυ ἰσχυρὰ)” and deadly confrontation, his answer is again short: “Yes, I was.” Since neither Platon nor his Socratic narrator gives us further information about the battle and the battle-related questions and answers, the whole passage serves as a very unsatisfying beginning of the dialogue. Again, it seems, the un-representability of battles takes its toll. Platon, the philosopher, knows as well as Brecht, the writer: “Worüber man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muss man schweigen”, no matter, how tempting it may be.

References The works of Walter Benjamin and Friedrich Nietzsche are quoted from the respective collected works, listed in the bibliography. Albertz, Anuschka. 2006. Exemplarisches Heldentum. Die Rezeptionsgeschichte der Schlacht an den Thermopylen von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart. München: Oldenbourg. Ambühl, Annemarie. 2015. Krieg und Bürgerkrieg bei Lucan und in der griechischen Literatur. Studien zur Rezeption der attischen Tragödie und der hellenistischen Dichtung im Bellum civile. Berlin et al.: de Gruyter. Bamm, Peter. 1965. Alexander oder die Verwandlung der Welt. Zürich: Droemer.

188 Cf. Plat. Symp. 219e – 221c with Thuk. I 56 ff; II 70. As always, it is difficult to be certain about a potential historical background of the dialogue. Athen. V 215e – 216f calls the platonic statements about the soldier Socrates (cf. also Plat. Apol. 28 e; Lach. 181a – f) a mere lie. Athenaeus main source of scepticism is that “no one else records this”—neither historiographers nor poets.

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