Historiae Mundi: Studies in Universal History
 0715638335, 9780715638330

Table of contents :
Contents
Contributors
Preface
Introduction
1. Metabole Politeion as Universal Historiography
2. Polybius and the First Universal History
3. Diodorus’ Reading of Polybius’ Universalism
4. Diodorus’ Good Statesman and State Revenue
5. Strabo and the Development of Ancient Greek Universal Historiography
6. The Glory of Italy and Rome’s Universal Destiny in Strabo’s Geographika
7. Universal History and the Early Roman Historians
8. Universal and Particular in Velleius Paterculus: Carthage versus Rome
9. Focalised Universality: Contextualising the Genre
10. Ennius as Universal Historian: the Case of the Annales
11. Theology versus Genre? The Universalism of Christian Historiography in Late Antiquity
12. Orosius and Escaping from the Dance of Doom
13. A Rose in the Desert? Late Antique and Early Byzantine Chronicles and the Formation of Islamic Universal Historiography
14. Universal Historiography and World History according to Hegel
15. Spengler, the Modern West, and Roman Decline
Index
A
B
C
D
E
F
G
H
I
J
K
L
M
N
O
P
Q
R
S
T
U
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Citation preview

HISTORIAE MUNDI

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HISTORIAE

MUNDI

Studies in Universal History

Edited by Peter Liddel and Andrew Fear

LON DON • N E W DE L H I • N E W YOR K • SY DN EY

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP UK

1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA

www.bloomsbury.com First published in 2010 by Gerald Duckworth & Co. Ltd. © Peter Liddel and Andrew Fear, 2010 Peter Liddel and Andrew Fear have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editors of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the author.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: HB: 978-0-7156-3833-0 ePUB: 978-1-4725-1979-5 ePDF: 978-1-4725-1980-1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

Contents Contributors Preface

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Introduction Tim Cornell, Andrew Fear, Peter Liddel 1. Metabole Politeion as Universal Historiography Peter Liddel 2. Polybius and the First Universal History François Hartog 3. Diodorus’ Reading of Polybius’ Universalism Brian Sheridan 4. Diodorus’ Good Statesman and State Revenue Errietta Bissa 5. Strabo and the Development of Ancient Greek Universal Historiography Johannes Engels 6. The Glory of Italy and Rome’s Universal Destiny in Strabo’s Geographika Marta García Morcillo 7. Universal History and the Early Roman Historians Tim Cornell 8. Universal and Particular in Velleius Paterculus: Carthage versus Rome Clemence Schultze 9. Focalised Universality: Contextualising the Genre Liv Mariah Yarrow 10. Ennius as Universal Historian: the Case of the Annales Jackie Elliott 11. Theology versus Genre? The Universalism of Christian Historiography in Late Antiquity Peter Van Nuffelen 12. Orosius and Escaping from the Dance of Doom Andrew Fear

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1 15 30 41 56 71 87 102 116 131 148 162 176

Contents 13. A Rose in the Desert? Late Antique and Early Byzantine Chronicles and the Formation of Islamic Universal Historiography Marco Di Branco 14. Universal Historiography and World History according to Hegel Allegra de Laurentiis 15. Spengler, the Modern West, and Roman Decline John Farrenkopf

221

Index

239

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189 207

Contributors Errietta Bissa, Lecturer in Ancient History, University of Wales, Lampeter. Tim Cornell, Professorial Research Fellow in Classics and Ancient History, University of Manchester. Allegra de Laurentiis, Associate Professor of Philosophy, State University of New York at Stony Brook. Marco Di Branco, Professor, University of Basilicata. Jackie Elliott, Assistant Professor of Classics, University of Colorado at Boulder. Johannes Engels, außerplanmäßiger Professor, University of Cologne. John Farrenkopf, Associate Professor of Government, Wofford College, Spartanburg, South Carolina. Andrew Fear, Lecturer in Ancient History, University of Manchester. Marta García Morcillo, Lecturer in Ancient History, University of Leicester. François Hartog, Professor of Ancient and Modern Historiography, École des hautes études en sciences sociales, Paris. Peter Liddel, Lecturer in Ancient History, University of Manchester. Clemence Schultze, Lecturer in Ancient History, University of Durham. Brian Sheridan, PhD student and Tutor, National University of Ireland, Maynooth. Peter Van Nuffelen, Research Professor in Ancient History, University of Ghent. Liv Mariah Yarrow, Associate Professor, Brooklyn College, City University of New York.

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Preface This collection is based on the papers given at an international conference (‘Universal Historiography in Antiquity and Beyond’) which took place at the University of Manchester in June 2007. Additional contributions have been received from François Hartog and Marco Di Branco, who were unable to attend the conference, and from John Farrenkopf. We would like to offer thanks to the anonymous referees who commented on papers, and also to those who chaired papers at the actual conference: Christy Constantakopoulou, Eleanor Cowan, Ruth Morello, Tim Parkin, and Kostas Vlassopoulos, and colleagues and students in Manchester without whose help the conference would not have been possible (especially James Thorne and April Pudsey). Peter Liddel Andrew Fear

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Introduction Tim Cornell, Andrew Fear, Peter Liddel Universal history, as its name implies, attempts to deliver a more encompassing study of the past than other more narrowly-focused histories.1 The distinctive claim of the universal historian, in Graeco-Roman antiquity and beyond, has been to compile an account of history which provides the broadest possible view of the past within the confines of a single work. Yet the working out of this claim is problematic. Should the work focus on breadth in geographic scope, or chronological depth, or both? Does history come to an end? If it does come to an end, is that end utopian (the culmination of progress) or dystopian (the result of decline and decadence)? Can any writer truly escape from his own cultural context and write a dispassionate account of the unfolding of history across the world? Popular universal histories written in the West, such as that of Gombrich, begin with chapters gesturing towards a global history, but almost invariably turn into a narrative of Western history as they continue. The same parochial tendency is found in other works of the genre such as the Muqaddimah of Ibn Khaldun written in fourteenth-century Tunis. Graeco-Roman works of universal history also tended to have their centre of gravity in the Greek- and/or Latin-speaking Mediterranean; peripheral ‘barbarian’ cultures were consciously treated as marginal and only occasionally brought into the main story. A key question that arises for a Universal Historian is whether history can be seen as an account of a discrete group of civilisations, each of which follows a universally applicable set of rules or patterns: this was the cyclical view of history held by Ibn Khaldun and in the twentieth century by Spengler and Toynbee. Both the taxonomy of civilisations and the ‘laws’ they follow remain controversial: Spengler identified nine civilisations in his study while Toynbee discerned twenty-three. A different approach is to see all of history across the globe evolving in a single continuous pattern – a linear (and sometimes teleological) view held, inter alios, by Marx and Fukuyama. The idea of historical evolution or progressive development is generally characteristic of the approach known, and sometimes denounced, as the ‘Whig’ interpretation of history.2 The papers in this collection identify both linear and cyclical views of history in the historiography of the Graeco-Roman world. The purest definition of the universal historian in the Graeco-Roman

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Historiae Mundi world was developed by Alonso-Núñez, author of the most recent systematic study of the subject in antiquity: ‘only those who deal with the history of mankind from the earliest times, and in all parts of the world known to them’.3 But even ancient authors realised the unfeasibility of composing a history which systematically catalogued every known event in every known place from the beginning of time. Hence ancient authors not only made claims about universalism with respect to the temporal and/or spatial universality of their works,4 but devised schemes of historical explanation that struck them as universally applicable.5 As Momigliano pointed out, this formulation of the genre of universal historiography took on several forms: it took the guise of the history of the succession of empires, the succession of races, the succession of technological discoveries, the succession of political institutions, or through the analogy of the course of human life.6 The question of how and why attempts at constructing universal histories were made is one tackled in several of the essays in this volume. The emergence of Greek identity has been seen as the inspiration for the writing of history that went beyond the scope of Greece in the fifth and fourth centuries BC.7 Universal history is often inspired by the coming together of different cultures or the rise of one group to dominance over the known world, and this is a theme that emerges strongly in a number of papers in this collection. The relationship between group dynamics and the writing of history can be seen in the development of universal history in the Hellenistic period and in the age of the emperor Augustus which set the seal on Rome’s hegemony over the Mediterranean. Equally the rise of Christianity as Europe’s dominant intellectual force gave rise to universalising chronicles focused around the growth of the Faith. Such accounts can be provoked by simple intellectual curiosity and a natural wish to perceive order in the world. It can be argued, however, that at times they present a more sinister face: an attempt to justify the status quo as historical inevitability. As historians and other scholars of classical antiquity live and work in increasingly globalised and information-rich academic communities, the question of how one synthesises the mass of knowledge and opinions about the past is as pertinent as ever. Today, the contentious issue of how to write ‘universal’ or ‘global’ history is once again on the agenda of historians and philosophers of historiography.8 The time, therefore, seems ripe for a reconsideration of universal historiography. The purpose of this collection of papers is to re-examine the forms that universal historiography, and, more broadly, historical universalism (in non-historiographical genres), took in the Graeco-Roman world and the reception of those forms since late antiquity. It seeks to explain how forms of universal thinking came about in antiquity and their relations both to historical context and to developments in historiography and other genres. Taking a broad definition of universal historiography as its starting point, this collection of papers

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Introduction offers new perspectives on historical universalism in Graeco-Roman antiquity and its reception in the Arabic, Christian, and modern traditions of historiography. The contributors explore a range of linear, teleological, cyclical, and topical views of universal history; they offer explanations for the origins of universal historical thinking; they explore the cross-pollination between historiography and other genres in the development of universal thinking; they investigate the relationship between universal historiography and historical theses such as progress and decline; they elucidate the manifold perspectives on the Mediterranean world offered by universal thinking; and they offer views on its legacy beyond GraecoRoman antiquity. This book does not claim to be an attempt at an exhaustive survey of universal historiographers and their works,9 nor does it attempt a full account of the evolution of the genre.10 In fact, we suggest that the new perspectives on the subject of universal historiography may be revealed by a selective approach, and by the application to the subject of a range of methodologies.11 The universal significance of Herodotus’ Histories is very clear from the outset of his work: he believes that human prosperity would never remain long in one place (Hdt. 1.5.3). Jacoby thought that Herodotus’ work was a universal history because it tried to encompass the history of the world (cf. 1.1: ‘ta men Hellesi, ta de barbaroisi apodechthenta’). Immerwahr suggested that while his work was not designed as a universal history, it had the outlook of a universal historian: it was a universality of ‘viewpoint rather than subject matter’.12 This collection opens with some ancient Greek views on universalism. Liddel’s paper (Chapter 1) outlines the significance for universalist thinking of ancient Greek perspectives on the shifting balance of power between individuals, large groups, and small groups of citizens. Ideas about political change grounded in the sphere of the polis offered an opportunity for universal application: it led historians to introduce and develop the model for the sake of historiography. Herodotus and Thucydides interpreted and criticised the notion of constitutional transformation in order to reproduce the patterns and textures of history that they held to be all-pervading (notably, Herodotus believed that constitutional change worked in a substantially different way in Persia from the way it worked in the communities of Greece): their applications of constitutional transformation suggest that as a scheme it was good to critique as much as it was good to think with. Plato in his Republic proposed a scheme of constitutional degeneration, and opened the way for Aristotle, in book 5 of his Politics, to introduce the scheme to an empirical analysis and at the same time to deconstruct its applicability. Polybius, ignoring Aristotle’s criticisms of the scheme, introduced a circular formula of constitutional transformation to his analysis of the rise of the Roman empire. It formed a central part of his understanding of universal history as elucidating the ‘general and comprehensive scheme of events’ (1.4.2-3). His introduction of the scheme of transformation to a view of

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Historiae Mundi universal history built upon its preponderance in the discourses of Greek city states but was made possible by the eclipse of the polis and the emergence of a world-wide view of history invited by the ascendancy of Rome over the Mediterranean. It must be noted that the way in which historians perceive constitutional change does not always correspond with their more general view of historical change: there is nothing to say that Herodotus mapped his cyclical view of history on to his thoughts about the way constitutional change happens in Greece; furthermore, Polybius’ anacyclosis of book 6 asserted a cyclical view of constitutional changes, whereas such a cyclical view of history does not pervade his vision of Mediterranean history, which may be viewed as a movement towards one point: the dominance of Rome. The innovation of Polybius’ universal thinking is further emphasised by the next paper in the collection. Hartog (Chapter 2) demonstrates that Polybius’ construction of universal historiography may be considered an innovative programme inasmuch as its coverage and lessons were universal, that it may be considered a reaction to the interests, methods and conclusions of his literary predecessors, and that it was borne out of the historical context of pan-Mediterranean Roman power. First: while Polybius perpetuated the Greek historiographical tendency to write history as the history of conflict, he wrote the history not just of one great war but a whole series of conflicts taking place in many different theatres of operation. Accordingly, Polybius captured the impact of the coming of Rome as the bringer of globalisation on a Mediterranean scale. Second: the universality of Polybius’ project is made manifest by the clarity of his views on the theory of historiography. For Polybius, good history is written by the individual who can combine experience of the world with an understanding of the theory of history. Good historiography, in turn, is that which offers universal lessons of political education, and it teaches the individual how to bear reversals of fortune with dignity. Hartog suggests that Polybius’ claim to ‘write the general’ may be considered a long-postponed reply to Aristotle’s claim that while poetry is able to reach conclusions affecting general, universal truths, history treats of particular facts. Polybius developed the notion that in a world after the outbreak of the Second Punic War, the affairs of Italy and Libya became interwoven (sumplekesthai) with those of Greece and Asia, and all events now led up to one end. Polybius takes a further step: to conclude that universal history was superior to poetry; whereas tragedy has to display the rhetorical resources of persuasion, history should instruct and convince. To complete the argument, Polybius revived Thucydides’ opposition to ceremonial discourse, composed for the pleasure of the moment, and the austerity of the historical narrative whose only aim is to be of use. In this way, Polybius emulates the Thucydidean project and transplants it into a post-Aristotle and globalised Mediterranean world. But it is Rome that gives Polybius a universal perspective: to ask why the Greeks had been

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Introduction defeated would have been a question of local history, but to ask how Rome conquered the world was what gave rise to a universal history. Sheridan’s paper (Chapter 3) re-examines the relationship between Polybius and Diodorus Siculus. He argues that Diodorus was an innovator in composing a history of exhaustive scope: while both Polybius and Diodorus aspired to develop a new format of historiography that was universal, they held very different views on what constituted universal history. Polybius emphasises the importance of geographical breadth in a universal history, but Sheridan suggests that his universal vision is mitigated by his choice of subject and by his perception of the movement of history. Sheridan emphasises Polybius’ view of history a movement towards one point, and neither as a linear progression, nor (pace Liddel, this volume) as a cycle. Both historians advocate the importance of geographical breadth in universal history. Unlike Polybius, however, Diodorus prioritises the need for chronological depth in a truly universal history. The reason, Sheridan suggests, is that Diodorus views history as a linear progression moving relentlessly from the mythical past right down to the present day and on into the future. For Diodorus, therefore, the universal historian must strive to capture on the page the movement of history. Sheridan argues that the influence of contemporary intellectual, social and political contexts was a significant influence on the production of Diodorus’ Bibliotheke. In common with other works of the late republic, such as Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Diodorus viewed universal history as one possible way in which he could place the Roman project within a broader context. Finer points of Diodorus’ universal perspective may be examined by scrutinising the major themes which pervade his work. Bissa’s paper (Chapter 4) shows that the analysis of economic motives and policies in the characterisation of statesmen is a universal topic which runs through his work. Diodorus, unlike his extant predecessors, pays particular attention to the relation between statesmen and money, in some cases specifically relating to the gathering and use of state revenue. Diodorus views history as education for leaders and in the Stoic tradition provides examples for their edification. His good statesman has a variety of qualities, among them lack of avarice (aphilargyria). Conversely, philargyria is a characteristic of the Diodoran bad statesman. In some cases, Diodorus took the theme of philargyria/aphilargyria beyond character into the political behaviour of the statesman in relation to the gathering and use of state revenue. Diodorus was not the first Greek historian to pursue the subject of the ideal statesman, nor is he the first to mention state revenues in his work. He was, however, the first to put such emphasis on the issue of philargyria/aphilargyria and make specific connections between care of revenue and successful leadership. Bissa shows how Diodorus’ views were inspired both by his engagement with biographical traditions and also by his living in a world when the actions of Roman politicians during the

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Historiae Mundi consolidation of empire made the relation between statesmanship and wealth absolutely clear. In his assessment of the importance of Strabo in the development of universal history Engels (Chapter 5) stresses the severe limitations of our knowledge of his major work, the Historika Hypomnemata, originally in 47 books but now reduced to a handful of fragmentary quotations. Its influence on later writers was slight, and most of what we know or can infer comes from Strabo’s surviving work, the seventeen-book Geographika. The relative sizes of the two works reinforce Strabo’s own claim to have been principally a historian; and there is enough evidence to give some idea of the scope of the lost work. An introductory section in the first four books went back at least to Alexander the Great, but the main narrative, beginning in book 5, started in 146 BC and went down to the end of the civil wars if not beyond. It was therefore a continuation of Polybius (cf. FGrH 91 T2) and implicitly a criticism of Posidonius, whose work it evidently aimed to supplant. On the other hand it was clearly differentiated from the works of other recent and contemporary universal historians (Diodorus, Trogus, Nicolaus of Damascus) in not attempting to go back to the beginning of historical time. Geographically it was focused on the Mediterranean and extended only to the borders of the Roman empire, and in this as in other respects it coincided with the programme of Augustus, to whose reign, according to Engels, the work should be dated. Beyond that, most of what can be said about Strabo’s historical interests and outlook has to be based on historical sections in the surviving geographical work. With Strabo and his contemporaries, Graeco-Roman universal historiography reached its acme, which was shortly followed by what Engels calls ‘stagnation and then a crisis’. However this crisis is to be explained, it partly accounts for the fact that Strabo’s history seems to have been seldom read, and eventually failed to survive. García Morcillo’s paper (Chapter 6) is an extended commentary on Strabo’s famous essay at the end of book 6 of the Geographika, dealing with the natural advantages of Italy and the rise of Rome to universal hegemony using Italy as a base (6.4.1-2). The discussion focuses on three aspects of Roman Italy: first, its economic and cultural prosperity, represented by the productive capacity of its land, the size and opulence of its cities, and the infrastructure of roads, harbours and monumental buildings, all of which resulted from the magnetic pull of Rome at the centre. Secondly, Strabo’s description is interwoven with accounts of Italy’s past which trace the cyclical fluctuations of prosperity and decadence in the various regions of Italy. Although ethnically and culturally distinct, all are now politically unified under Rome. The third aspect is Strabo’s abiding interest in the survival and persistence of ancient local cultures and indigenous traditions. The complexity of the resulting picture raises interesting questions about Strabo’s generally positive view of Roman rule and its consequent benefits, and how it can be reconciled with a situation

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Introduction where economic and cultural decline, particularly in the south and in Sicily, were at least in part the result of Roman actions. Cornell’s paper (Chapter 7) questions the idea that Roman annalistic history was – at least in its earliest manifestations – a narrow and parochial genre, focused exclusively on the history of Rome, even though this description might fit the main surviving example, Livy’s ab urbe condita. It turns out on examination that the earliest Roman historians, writing in the late third and second centuries BC, were closer to Livy’s contemporary, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, in the structure of their works and in their general outlook. In particular, they gave far more space to the legendary origins of the city than Livy and other first-century annalists. The significance of this is that accounts of the period before the foundation took the form of a rationalised pseudo-history of the adventures and achievements of the heroes of Greek mythology. As Elias Bickerman showed, this ‘hellenocentric’ approach had been created by Greek historians as a way of reconstructing the prehistory of the known world, and served to explain the prehistory not only of the Greeks, but also of barbarian peoples, whose origins could be connected with the activities of Greek heroes.13 The hellenocentric scheme was embedded in the works of universal historians, as we can see from the early books of Diodorus, while the first book of Dionysius of Halicarnassus is a perfect illustration of how it could be applied to Rome. Non-Greek reactions to this example of cultural imperialism varied widely. Babylonians, Egyptians and Jews tried to fight back, and their historians wrote accounts in Greek that rejected what they saw as Greek ignorance and lies by asserting their own national traditions. The Romans, by contrast, were pleased to accept what the Greeks were saying about them, and adopted the hellenocentric versions as their own. The first Roman historians, who wrote in Greek, shaped their works accordingly, and presented to a world-wide readership accounts of the Roman past set in a broad framework of Greek-style universal history. The same approach was taken even by the early historians who wrote in Latin and were addressing an exclusively Roman readership. The second-century historians Cassius Hemina and Cn. Gellius are poorly known, but the surviving fragments make it absolutely clear that they too devoted a great deal of space to the pre-foundation period, which they presented as a general account of the early history of mankind and the origins of civilisation. The best-known of all the early Roman historians, Cato the Censor, wrote a historical work that was unusual in that it dealt with the origins not only of Rome, but of all the peoples and cities of Italy and other regions of the Western Mediterranean that were subject to the rule of Rome. Cato’s work, the Origines, seems to have been a mixture of historical narrative and ethno-geographical accounts of the origins of peoples and places that played a part in the story; although it was confined to the Roman empire

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Historiae Mundi of his time, it resembled earlier Greek universal histories (such as the works of Timaeus, who was probably one of Cato’s models), and prefigured later universal histories such as the work of Pompeius Trogus and writers of the imperial period for whom the Roman empire and the inhabited world (the oikoumene) had become synonymous. Velleius Paterculus is a prime example of a writer who created a universal history by selecting certain key events and weaving them into a broad narrative of world history. Clemence Schulze’s contribution (Chapter 8) illustrates this process in a study of Velleius’ account of the rivalry between Rome and Carthage, which is seen not just as a series of major wars that determined the shape of Roman republican history, but as a world event that originated in the distant past and had consequences that went way beyond the destruction of Carthage in 146 BC. For Velleius this history linked past, present and future through the recurring themes of foundation, destruction and renewal, and was far from being a comforting message for his Roman readers. Schulze demonstrates that Velleius’ short history was not a summary for the young or ill-informed reader, but on the contrary a selective account presupposing extensive knowledge of world history, designed to illustrate major universal themes. Yarrow (Chapter 9) examines the problem of for whom and how history becomes universal. To do this she uses the notion of ‘focalisation’. Two forms of focalisation are suggested: one is ‘gentle’, where all points of a perceived periphery of history are interconnected through a focal point; the other is ‘radical’ where that focal point is seen to stand for, or encompass, the whole. Yarrow argues that Roman perceptions of universalism move from the gentle to the radical form of focalisation in the late republican period with the urbs of Rome and the orbis of the world becoming increasingly identified with one another. This phenomenon is not confined to historiography, but is also found in other genres of literature and material culture such as statuary and coins. Nor is this identification innocent or casual; rather it is an assertion of Rome’s rule, and the rightness of that rule, over the world. Yarrow also notes that the locus of this ‘radical focalisation’ began to move away from Rome per se and towards individuals such as Pompey, a process which anticipates some of the iconography of the principate. ‘Universalism’ can therefore be seen as not merely a trend in historiography, but playing an important role in Roman political rhetoric and thought. The interaction in historiography between particular and general (or between local and universal) is a complex process that can be negotiated in various ways. A selective account of particular events can become universal if the events are shown to have universal significance. Even the apparently restrictive genre of annalistic writing can be made to serve the purposes of universal history, as Elliott argues in her analysis of Ennius’ Annales (Chapter 10). The use of the epic genre, the presentation of history in heroic terms, and even the use of Homeric imagery and language, all

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Introduction serve to equate Roman history with that of the whole civilised world. Elliott shows that lines referring to historical Roman battles, so far from attempting to describe what actually happened, as Skutsch supposed, were designed to recall epic scenes from Homer and famous events from Greek history; and the use of flashbacks, allusions and explicit parallels to famous episodes from the Greek historical and legendary tradition gave Roman events a wider significance across space and time. Even the year-by-year format could be applied to universal history, as a way of organising an account of events that were happening simultaneously in different parts of the world, as the later examples of Polybius and Diodorus demonstrated. The next three papers in the collection move the emphasis away from the classical world. Van Nuffelen (Chapter 11) argues that the commonly held view that all Christian historiography is universal is mistaken. He contends that ‘Church historians are not universal historians in any sense of the word’ and that ‘the universal dimension often noticed in chronicles is actually a relic of the apologetic origins of the genre’. The argument observes that as early church historians were engaged in a polemic with their pagan opponents over the credentials of their respective beliefs, their interest in the distant past was not in that past in itself, but aimed to establish the greater antiquity of Hebrew religious traditions over those of classical antiquity. It is also suggested that Christian historiography very often focuses on simply the part played by Christians in history rather than dealing with world history as a whole. Van Nuffelen also points out that many Christian chroniclers do not attempt to cover history from a universal perspective – Eusebius’ chronicle, ‘the mother of all chronicles’, focuses on the Roman empire after the first century AD, and later followers in the tradition, such as Hydatius and John Malalas, show an even more parochial attitude in their work. Moreover it is contended that the tradition of becoming a continuator of Eusebius itself created an illusion of an interest in universal history where none existed. Van Nuffelen concedes that there are exceptions among early Christian writers, such as Orosius and Philip of Side, who can be seen as universal historians, but insists that they are very much exceptions to a general lack of interest in universalism found in Christian authors. Fear (Chapter 12) argues that one of these exceptions, Orosius, marks an important development in Western historiography. While a thoroughgoing Christian apologist, Orosius consciously chooses to avoid church history as his theme, but instead to apply a Christian interpretation to secular history hence investing it, for the first time, with a universal meaning. This approach to the secular world had been rejected by Orosius’ Christian predecessors and contemporaries for whom secular history was either an irrelevance or merely a quarry of exempla for other purposes. Orosius’ novel approach made possible a universal Christian vision of history as it absorbed all of history into one over-arching narrative. While

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Historiae Mundi later Western historians have sometimes abandoned the divine element of this grand narrative, they have very often retained its linear structure. Thus, Fear argues, Orosius is a key element in the development of modern historiography, especially those forms of it which use a narrative of ‘progress’ and indeed of the concept of ‘modernism’. Di Branco, in his study of the ways in which Graeco-Roman historiography was perceived, narrated and represented in Arabic universal historiography (Chapter 13), agrees that assent to a monotheist confession fundamentally changes the way that history is perceived. As he puts it: ‘from the Christian point of view as well as from the Islamic one, human life and history make sense only with reference to God: it is not chance that in the Christian orient and in the lands of Islam world history is narrated as sacred history’. Di Branco notes Mango’s comments that Byzantine world chronicles with their mixture of didactic and providential characteristics closely parallel the interests of Islamic historians. He goes on to suggest that John Malalas’ Chronographia, especially given its diffusion into the Syriac-speaking world, could have formed an important, albeit indirect influence on Islamic historiography. While not denying the originality of Muslim writing, Di Branco sees Islamic history as potentially a re-elaboration and re-interpretation of Byzantine models of writing history. One objection to such a position is that little Byzantine history was in fact translated into Arabic. However, as Di Branco points out, that is because Muslim scholars were interested in the core ideas presented by such history rather than the data they contained. It is therefore the notion of history seen under the universal eye of God that interested Muslim writers, not data about the Christian and pagan past. Two closing essays examine the ways in which ancient texts and ancient historical examples were used as a foundation for nineteenthand twentieth-century views of universal historiography. While he firmly believed that the ancients were incapable of writing universal or world history, Graeco-Roman antiquity was important to G.W.F. Hegel’s conception of history: in the Lectures on the Philosophy of World History, the rise and fall of both Greek and the Roman worlds demonstrated his principle that Geschichte refers to the social, political, economic, artistic, religious and psychological transformations undergone by humans: the movement of such spirit was the essence of history, and the study of that spirit was the essence of historiography. Taken as a whole, history for Hegel was non-cyclical and teleological. He understood its telos as a sort of collective self-determination of humanity, working unbeknownst to us as the internal moving principle of history. He saw the Greek and Roman worlds as grandiose and necessary phases of humanity’s movement towards selfdetermination – a state in which individuals understand themselves as having ‘universal’ value, such as in the modern conception of ‘universal rights’. While the Greek and Roman worlds had in fact never produced such a conception, their culture and deeds (together with those of the

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Introduction ensuing feudal world) represented for Hegel indispensable precursors of modern universalistic perspectives on humanity and its history. Allegra de Laurentiis’ paper (Chapter 14) teases out Hegel’s notion of philosophical world history in his Lectures on the Philosophy of History and the Philosophy of Right and in particular its paradoxical relationship with antiquity. She observes that Hegel reworks Aristotelian themes beyond Aristotelian horizons: while drawing on Aristotle’s view of the origins of the polis to claim that the Staat is the first principle and final cause of mankind’s development, Hegel adds an unnatural dimension, conceiving of history as a movement away from society’s natural origin; for Aristotle on the other hand, the evolution of the polis was natural and inevitable. There are other gaps: whereas for Aristotle, history happened at one pace within the Greek polis-world and another in the barbarian world, for Hegel, the advent of modern civil society and the expansion of the nation state on a global scale meant that universal historiography could be written only in modernity. Classical Greek ideas about change in polis societies appear significantly less global than does Hegel’s conception of world history as progress in the consciousness of freedom: unlike himself, Hegel argues, the ancients were unable to transcend their own Zeitgeist. While he thought that the ancients failed to realise genuinely universal perspectives, Hegel used his view of the Greeks as the foundation for another fundamental about historiography: he viewed the Greeks as the inventors of historiography; they therefore pre-empted his view that historical events only acquire meaning when they are recorded or recollected. Unlike Fear and Di Branco, who deal with a linear notion of universal history, Farrenkopf (Chapter 15) examines the role Roman history plays in the thought of perhaps the most well-known proponent of cyclical history: Oswald Spengler. According to Spengler, ‘Romanness … will always offer to us, who are dependent upon comparisons, the key to understanding our own future’, indeed he goes so far as to assert that the decline of Graeco-Roman civilisation and the decline, as he saw it, of modern western civilisation were ‘a completely identical event’. Farrenkopf traces Spengler’s method of analysis of these two processes and his attempts to place his own times into the continuum of the universal rise and fall of civilisations. The Great War is likened to the Second Punic War; Spengler sees internal decline, both in terms of morality and a failure to reproduce as the foremost factors in the collapse of Rome. As Farrenkopf points out, Spengler’s prophecies about the rise of Germany to world domination, perhaps as much influenced by his patriotism as his scholarship, failed to materialise, yet he did also hold out the possibility that America would assume this mantle. This in turn leads to the opportunity to undertake a Spenglerian analysis of American world power. *

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Historiae Mundi Universal historiography remains a complex and fascinating field. In antiquity this tendency presented a method, or perhaps more correctly, a diverse family of methods for both understanding the past and also interpreting the present in the light of the past. Despite its paradoxical and slippery nature, the urge to produce universal history has continued, as we can see from the papers in this volume, to perform both roles through the ages down to the present day. Therefore, whether or not we give assent to such universalising projects, they were, and remain, an important part of human intellectual endeavour and as such are worthy of serious study. It is hoped that this volume will provide material of interest not only to those already working in this field, but also an introduction for the general reader to the riches to be found within it. Notes 1. On the relationship between local and universal historiography, see Clarke (2008) 107, 115-19, 174, 175-93, 345. 2. See Butterfield (1931). 3. Alonso-Núñez (1990) 173. See, importantly, Alonso-Núñez (2002). The latest article-length study is Marincola (2007). 4. See Clarke 1999. Marincola has distinguished two types: those universal in time and space and those universal in space: Marincola (2007) 171. 5. Sacks (1981) 108-13. 6. Momigliano (1984, 1986). Compare the view of Alonso-Núñez (2002). 7. Clarke (2008) 97-8. 8. For a recent survey of the state of ‘global’ history and its relation to ‘universal’ history, see Crossley (2008). Recent examples of the genre include McNeill (1980); Fukuyama (1992); Diamond (1997); Bonnaud (2004). 9. For surveys of the subject, see Burde (1974); Alonso-Núñez (2002). 10. For an account of the origins of the genre, see Momigliano (1984). 11. Obvious omissions: Ephorus, Pompeius Trogus, Posidonius and Agatharchides who have been looked at from universalist perspectives by Clarke (1999, 2008: 96-109), Yarrow (2006) and Ameling (2008). 12. Jacoby (1949); Immerwahr (1966) 16, 19, 149. 13. Bickerman (1952).

Bibliography Alonso-Núñez, J. (1990), ‘The emergence of universal historiography from the 4th to the 2nd centuries BC’, in H. Verdin, G. Schepens and E. de Keyser (eds), Purposes of History: Studies in Greek Historiography from the 4th to the 2nd Centuries BC (Leuven): 173-92. Alonso-Núñez, J. (2002), ‘Herodotus’ conception of historical space and the beginnings of universal history’, in P. Derow and R. Parker (eds), Herodotus and his World (Oxford): 145-52. Ameling, W. (2008), ‘Ethnography and universal history in Agatharchides’, in T. Corey Brennan and H.J. Flower (eds), East and West. Papers in Ancient History Presented to Glen W. Bowersock (Cambridge, MA and London): 13-59. Bickerman, E.J. (1952), ‘Origines gentium’, Classical Philology 47: 65-81.

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Introduction Bonnaud, R. (2004), Les universaux de l’histoire (Paris). Burde, P. (1974), Untersuchungen zur antiken Universalgeschichtsschreibung (Munich). Butterfield, H. (1931), The Whig Interpretation of History (London). Clarke, K. (1999), ‘Universal perspectives in historiography’, in C. Kraus, The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts. Mnemosyne Supplement 191 (Leiden, Boston and Cologne): 249-79. Clarke, K. (2008), Making Time for the Past: Local History and the Polis (Oxford). Crossley, P. (2008), What is Global History? (Cambridge). Diamond, J. (1997), Guns, Germs and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies (New York). Fukuyama, F. (1992), The End of History and the Last Man (New York). Gombrich, E.H. (1985), Eine kurze Weltgeschichte für junge Leser (Cologne). Ibn Khaldun (1981), Muqaddimah, tr. Franz Rosenthal (Princeton). Immerwahr, H. (1966), Form and Thought in Herodotus (Chapel Hill). Jacoby, F. (1949), Atthis: The Local Chronicles of Ancient Athens (Oxford). McNeill, W. (1980), The Human Condition: An Ecological and Historical View (Princeton). Marincola, J. (2007), ‘Universal history from Ephorus to Diodorus’, in J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography (Oxford): 171-9. Marx, K. (1867), Das Kapital: Kritik der politischen Ökonomie (Hamburg). Momigliano, A. (1986), ‘Two types of universal history: the cases of E.A. Freeman and Max Weber’, Journal of Modern History 58: 235-46. Momigliano, A. (1984), ‘The origins of universal history’, in Settimo Contributo (Rome): 77-103. Sacks, K. (1981), Polybius on the Writing of History (Berkeley). Spengler, O. (1918), Der Untergang des Abendlandes: Umrisse einer Morphologie der Weltgeschichte. Band 1: Gestalt und Wirklichkeit (Vienna) Spengler, O. (1922), Der Untergang des Abendlandes: Umrisse einer Morphologie der Weltgeschichte, Band 2: Welthistorische Perspektiven (Munich). Toynbee, A.J. (1934-61), A Study of History (Oxford). Yarrow, L. (2006), Historiography at the End of the Republic: Provincial Perspectives on Roman Rule (Oxford).

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Metabole Politeion as Universal Historiography Peter Liddel Definitions of universal historiography Graeco-Roman historiography was polemical in terms both of methodology and substance; universal historiography was no exception.1 In an attack on predecessors who claimed to have written ta katholou (which may be defined as ‘general’ or ‘universal’ history), Polybius sneered at those who comprised in their histories ‘all events in Greece and abroad’, pointing out that some of them had written a slighter sketch of the Punic wars than those who scribble down memoranda of events on the walls of their houses (5.33.5). For Polybius, previous attempts at universal history had produced works too superficial to live up to the genre’s promise (5.33.7). His attack therefore was directed not against the principle of universal historiography but was aimed at what he saw as the failings of those who claimed to have pursued it. On the other hand, Polybius showed sympathy for the genre when he compared universal historiography (both ta katholou and that written about the oikoumene as a whole) with the works of Timaeus, who wrote the history of only one region, ‘seeking fame in a vinegar-saucer’ (12.23.7).2 As Sacks points out,3 Polybius’ words suggest that he conceived of two kinds of universal historiography. He distinguished the Ephorean or Diodoran interpretation of writing universal history subject by subject or country by country (kata genos; cf. Diod. Sic. 5.1.4),4 from the idea that universal history is about synthesis, and bringing out the ‘general and comprehensive scheme’ of events – the second form emerges clearly in his claim at innovation at 1.4.2-3. Polybius’ comments implied that ‘universal historiography’, as he knew it, referred to two distinct forms of history-writing. On the one hand it referred to attempts to write a history of the whole known world, in other words history that is universal in terms of space. Polybius thought that this form has its shortcomings, for a patchwork of local histories does not automatically realise universality in meaning or interpretation. But it could refer also to those histories which devise schemes of historical explanation that are universally applicable.5 We shall return to Polybius later, but for now I shall deploy his second definition of universal history. Whereas some historians, following Alonso-

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Peter Liddel Núñez, have viewed universal historiography as a genre that deals with the whole history of mankind,6 it may also be conceived of as a kind of historiography that attempts to formulate universally applicable developmental patterns which might go some way in explaining the past or even predicting the future: this is the way in which, through varying methodologies, Frazer, Hegel, Engels, and Marx thought about the past.7 Indeed, in his Creighton Lecture of 1981, Momigliano pointed out that GraecoRoman and Jewish historians identified four universalising patterns through which the past could be viewed: as a succession of empires, a succession of races, a succession of technological discoveries or through the analogy of the human life-cycle.8 In an article of 1986, however, he identified a fifth scheme that appeared in the Graeco-Roman tradition: the tendency, reproduced by the nineteenth-century historian Edward Freeman, to base universal history on an account of ‘the succession of political institutions’.9 But the mode of universal historiography which I intend to elucidate in this paper concentrates not so much on the history of institutions like magistracies, assemblies and councils; rather I shall be investigating the significance for universalist thinking of ancient Greek perspectives on the shifting balance of power between individuals, large groups, and small groups.10 Constitutional change and ‘revolution’ The Marxist tradition of universal historiography emphasises the significance of revolution: ‘the bourgeoisie cannot exist without constantly revolutionising the instruments of production, and thereby the relations of production, and with them the whole relations of society’, wrote Marx and Engels in The Communist Manifesto.11 Marx saw revolution as the key to all political and social emancipation.12 However, modern historians have often struggled to translate the modern idea of revolution into terms which are applicable to ancient Greek history.13 It certainly was not the case that the Greeks were unfamiliar with violent political upheaval or other transformations, but according to some historians they lacked a concept that maps on to the modern notion of revolution as great socio-political change: Ober, for instance, suggests that ancient Greek historians thought of the Cleisthenic revolution not so much as radical upheaval, but, rather, ‘in the antiseptic terminology of constitutional change’.14 My interest in this paper is not so much in looking for revolutions in ancient Greek history, but rather in highlighting the fact that the prospect of constitutional transformation (in terms of which groups participated in politics) was a preoccupation of Greek politicians, historians, and philosophers: this is indicated in both literary and epigraphical evidence. This discourse of explaining, mapping, predicting, and preventing shifts in political power was so widespread that it amounts to a strand of universalism in Greek historical thought. As Kostas Vlassopoulos points out to me, my investiga-

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1. Metabole Politeion as Universal Historiography tion of how historians conceptualise shifts in the balance of governmental power between different civic groups is one detail of a bigger picture: Greek historians develop theories of power shifts which are universal in application in many broader senses too (Thucydides’ concept of dynamis, for example), and an investigation of them may bring out more underlying forms of universalism. But for now, the focus remains upon metabole politeion in the sense of shifts of governmental power. The first part of this investigation will examine the evidence for ways in which Greek cities expressed publicly their memories of, and insecurities about, constitutional transformation. This contributes an element to the broader thesis of this paper about the prevalence of discussion of power-shifts both in literature and the evidence for public discourse, it is also my intention to address a contemporary position in modern scholarship – principally that which, extrapolating from the events which took place in the aftermath of the Athenian oligarchies at the end of the fifth century, says that there was a tendency of Greek cities in post-revolutionary situations to define their memories of upheaval in terms of forgetfulness and amnesty.15 My suggestion is that while amnesia was a valuable tool in certain circumstances, both the memory and prospect of constitutional transformation were also deployed successfully where circumstances suited. Both real and imaginary transformations loomed large in Greek conceptions of past and future time, and sometimes these transformations took on the sense of radical or violent political change. This tendency, I suggest, is visible in the discourse of Greek city-states particularly as it was expressed in publicly-inscribed documents but was made into a universal scheme in historiography and political theory. Public discourse of constitutional change Myths about, and histories of, constitutional transformation were central to Greek interpretations of the shift towards mass rule. In Athens, the assassins of Hipparchus, Harmodius and Aristogeiton, were associated with the emergence of isonomia in Athens (Athenaeus 695a-b): the Athenians forgot about the reign of Hippias in order to exclude the possibility that the end of the tyranny or the establishment of equality before the law was in any sense caused by the intervention of an external power. Of course, this was a memory that some, Thucydides for instance, contended (Thuc. 6.53),16 but there existed physical monuments which would have impressed upon viewers the significance of the tyrannicides (Agora 3.25680). The late fourth and early third centuries BC provide more documentary evidence for memories of the end of non-democratic regimes. In situations where there was no amnesty, or when it was easier to blame political upheaval on a foreign usurper, Greek states were comfortable with remembering an anti-democratic past. The political capital offered by the memory of an oligarchy is clear in the decree for Kallias of Sphettos of

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Peter Liddel 270/69 BC, where the honorand was praised for his role in the epanastasis which overthrew the Antigonid dominance of Athens while also talking about the ways in which Kallias distanced himself from the activity of the oligarchy backed by Demetrius (SEG xxviii.60 lines 11-20, 27-32, 80-3). Commemorating a revolutionary end to a tyrannical past was endemic to the Greek world, not just Athens: the Erythraians, for instance, maintained a statue of their own tyrannicide, and the restoration of that monument in the third century was seen as an important part of the public image of the restored democracy (IK Erythrai 503). Similarly, the Eretrians of the late fourth century BC expressed on stone the intention to remember the restoration of democracy by crowning the inhabitants of the city at the procession of Dionysos (IG XII ix 192). Commemorating the restoration of democracy was a way that communities put a closure on the period of tyranny while also providing moral authority to the demos, and reinforcing the impression of political harmony.17 Just as individual politicians sometimes warned of the threat of constitutional change (e.g. Thuc. 6.38.1-4), Greek cities frequently expressed fear of future constitutional transformation towards the rule of one or the few. This emerges in some Athenian institutional procedures: for instance, the Athenian jurors swore not to vote for tyranny and oligarchy (Dem 24.149).18 On the other side of the fence, it is conceivable, if we believe Aristotle, that in some oligarchies the citizens swore to maintain hostility to the demos (Aristotle, Politics 5.7.19; cf. Andocides 1.98). The inscribed evidence of anti-tyranny legislation also suggests that individual proposers and indeed whole communities sought political capital and reassurance by making publicly-acceptable expressions of their insecurities about the potential threat of political upheaval. The Athenian anti-tyranny law of 336, while expressing suspicions about the role of the Areopagus under a hypothetical non-democratic regime, is reluctant to name the threats to democracy (RO 79). On the other hand, a document from Eresos on the island of Lesbos outlaws Agonippos, a former tyrant, and his family, and identifies the family of Apollodorus as a threat to constitutional stability (RO 83). All this was written up as an account of an exchange designed to appeal to Eresos’ Macedonian rulers who themselves found it convenient to claim that they were upholding constitutional government.19 While so far we have dealt mostly with the internal concerns of individual Greek poleis, it certainly appears to have been the case that the drafters of alliances in the fifth and fourth centuries BC realised that fear of constitutional transformation was a condition that afflicted the whole Greek world: in the fifth century, the Athenians made their Colophonian allies swear not to oust their democratic leaders (IG I3 37 lines 43-51); from the fourth century, there exist numerous examples of alliances between Greek states in which pledges guaranteeing mutual constitutional stability are exchanged by the parties swearing.20

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1. Metabole Politeion as Universal Historiography At the beginning of their era of power over the Greek world, the Macedonians noticed the threat of political upheaval felt among subject poleis: the oath of the League of Corinth made its takers swear not to overthrow the constitutions existing in each state (RO 76); anyone who did so was to be an enemy to all those who took part in the peace (Dem. 17.10). The rhetoric was of course malleable: if a Hellenistic ruler found it necessary to change a constitution in order to establish himself, it could be presented as a return to an ancestral arrangement (a habit which has its echoes in classical Athenian claims about restoring the patrios politeia). This is one possible implication of the arrangements for the Chians sent by Alexander, presented to them as the correction (diorthosis) of their laws and the curtailment of a barbarian-imposed oligarchy (RO 84 A 3-7, B 15-19). The notion of constitutional restoration was far clearer in Polyperchon’s edict which talked about restoration of democracy (apokatastasis demokratias) as an excuse to overthrow the pro-Cassander regimes installed by Antipater (DS 18.55.2-4; cf. 18.56.3). The Macedonian kings’ superimposition of power over domestic forces of change is tellingly different from the rhetoric of the Athenians in the fourth century, who, in the charter of their confederacy, had declared a policy of constitutional non-interference in order to ground their claim about allowing their allies their autonomy and freedom (RO 22 line 21). Therefore, the rhetoric of constitutional stability and change appears to be well-established in Greek diplomatic language by the fourth century BC and took on different forms according to the balance of power that underlay the rhetoric. So far I have suggested that Greek cities publicly displayed their pasts and futures in transformative terms, often viewing the past as a move away from the rule of one or the few: constitutional change, therefore, was a strand of history central to the identity of many cities, and one which they tended to revisit and revitalise when it proved useful to do so. Greek states appear to have worried that internal or external factors would give rise to a reversal to the rule of one or the few. They proclaimed measures which would stop it in its tracks. I have suggested a number of ways in which the rhetoric of constitutional transformation was invoked in interstate diplomacy and in particular the ends to which it was put by Hellenistic cities and Hellenistic monarchs seeking to ingratiate each other as upholders of some form of constitutional government. It has become clear that while constitutional transformation was an issue that Greeks regarded as something that afflicted poleis individually, the invocation of constitutional guarantees in inter-state treaties suggests that Greek states believed there was potential for change to take place in coincidental ways in different communities right across the Greek and non-Greek world: there are hints of universality in even polis-based documentary discussions of constitutional change.

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Peter Liddel Literary perspectives on metabole politeion I want now to leave behind the public discourse of the Greek city states in order to investigate the reception of ideas about constitutional transformation in literary genres. Unsurprisingly, some historians were more interested than others in the notion of constitutional transformation (metabole politeion): it was possible to observe its occurrence without formulating grand theories about it or even commenting on its nature. Some, like Theopompus, were not interested in power shifts between the many and the few, but rather in how constitutions degenerate according to the morality of their rulers.21 On the other hand, the author of the Athenaion Politeia saw it as the key to understanding the history of Athens. In the conclusion of the historical first half of the work, he counted eleven metabolai that took place in Athens from the time of Ion to the re-establishment of democracy (Ath. Pol. 41.1-3). But of course there is no strong implication that this pattern is one to be repeated in other politeiai.22 For this author, constitutional transformation did not represent a universalising trope. I now turn to some authors who offer universalising perspectives on constitutional change. The universal application of the idea of constitutional change happens for the first time in the poetry of Theognis, who warns at 43-52 that if the kakoi are insolent, they may give rise to a monarchy. These lines may be a response to a particular scenario, but the warning is generic and its value universal.23 Herodotus, a historian whose work has long been viewed as offering universal perspectives,24 was the first extant Greek historian to introduce patterns of constitutional transformation to historiographical analysis, and he did so in his Constitutional Debate (Hdt. 3.80-3). Darius, who advocated the position that the Persians should retain a monarchy, was the only one of the three interlocutors to take up the notion of shifts of power between the many, the few and the one: the other speakers spoke only in terms of constitutional degeneration. Darius suggested that the murderous stasis of a democracy or the corruption of an oligarchy could be resolved only by the inevitable return to monarchy, a process which he held to illustrate the superiority of monarchy as a form of government (Hdt. 3.82.3-4). The fact that this argumentation is reserved for the character who prevails in the debate and turns out to become the king of Persia suggests that Herodotus approved of Darius’ analysis. Therefore Darius may be the figure whom Herodotus implicates as recognising the universal truth that the Orient is fated to revert to a state of one-man rule whatever form of government it attempts to establish: the Orient is destined to endure a cyclical history and to revert to one-man rule. For Herodotus, however, constitutional transformation happened rather differently in the Greek world: this is suggested in Sosicles’ words to the assembly of the Peloponnesian League, which warn that the resto-

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1. Metabole Politeion as Universal Historiography ration of tyranny in Athens would be akin to turning the universe on its head (5.92a1); elsewhere, he noted that the Persians were happy to introduce democratic institutions to the Greek communities of Ionia (Hdt. 6.43). Earlier, his assertion that Athens performed better on the battlefield once she had overthrown the shackles of one-man rule is a clear indication that he believed that the shift of power to the hands of many represented progress (Hdt. 5.78). This suggests a linear, non-cyclical view of how constitutional transformation works at least in Athens: there is no indication from Herodotus’ work that Athens will ever again endure tyranny. Herodotus, therefore, introduced thoughts about frameworks of constitutional transformation to historiography, and the fact that they preoccupy Darius and Sosicles, two influential speakers, suggests that he recognised the significant rhetorical power of talking about the threats to these established patterns. Thucydides appears to have held that constitutional transformation happened according to certain patterns. This is most clear from observations in the archaeologia: at 1.13.1, where he tells us that the growing power of Greece and the growing significance of money led to the establishment of tyranny in place of hereditary monarchy, and at 1.18.1, his identification of Sparta as the power that put down tyranny throughout most of Greece. But these all took place in what Thucydides regarded as the distant past; his thoughts about constitutional transformation elsewhere suggest that he thought rather differently about the contemporary world. Thucydides’ analysis of political change is dominated by the ‘law of decay’ (2.64.3), and it is possible that his observation that Pericles’ leadership turned to a monarchy (2.65.9) resembles Darius’ warnings at Hdt. 3.82.4,25 but it is clear from the comments connected with Phrynichus that he is cynical about the sociological force of constitutional transformation: states, he said, ‘were more interested in being free under whatever kind of government they happened to have than in being slaves, whether under an oligarchy or a democracy’ (Thuc. 8.48.5-6). Elsewhere, Thucydides has a lot to say about stasis, identifying war as its chief cause, and dwelling, in the Corcyrean episodes, on the destruction and reversal of customs that it entailed (Thuc. 3.82). But as Price has argued, Thucydides did not perceive stasis as happening according to any particular patterns: indeed, his definition of stasis says that the organisation within which it emerges is transformed with the onset of the condition.26 We can conclude that Thucydides appears to avoid conceiving of constitutional transformation, in his own time, as structured or universalist in any sense. It is even possible that he was reacting to what he saw as the contemporary misconception of measuring time by political transformation.27 It is clear, therefore, that Herodotus and Thucydides do not subscribe absolutely to a universalist view of constitutional change: Herodotus views it as working according to different patterns in the barbarian world (where it keeps reverting to monarchy) and Greek world (where there is some

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Peter Liddel suggestion of an idea of progress); Thucydides appears to be cynical about the tenacity of patterns of constitutional change. What I suggest we can see from Herodotus and Thucydides is that the theme was manipulated and criticised in a way that reflected their particular textures and intentions. Therefore the reception of the concept of constitutional transformation appears complicated. The theory of constitutional transformation is absolutely central to Plato’s Republic.28 Book 8 of this work is the earliest extant example of a comprehensive scheme of constitutional transformation: he charts the degeneration of the kallipolis through timocracy (the rule of those possessing honour), oligarchy (the rule of the few), democracy (the rule of the demos) to tyranny (545c-68d). The deviant behaviour of the ruling class, who fall victim to human passion, is the cause of these changes (546d), and this is illustrated in disagreements among them (545d), the compromising of educational standards (546d-7e), the accumulation of wealth in individual hands (550e-1b), the bankrupting effects of extravagance (555b), or an excess of liberty in private life (562c-e).29 The Republic’s analysis of constitutional transformation was carried out without historical reference. Contrarily, passages in book 3 of the Laws draw on the historical examples of the Persian and Athenian constitutions (as well as the mythical ‘Dorian Confederacy’) in order to construct a theory about the moral decay of constitutions and its prevention (694a-701d). The key to constitutional stability was identified by Plato too as the behaviour of the rulers (683e), not the people. Whereas in the Republic, the emphasis in the discussion of political transformation is on who holds power, in the Laws, notwithstanding his interest in the origins of aristocratic rule (680b-1d), his discussion was dominated by discussion of the decay of constitutions rather than of power shifts between the few and the many. Aristotle, in the fifth book of his Politics, took issue with Plato’s discussion of shifts of power between groups in his Republic.30 By reference to a range of examples (including ones from Egypt, Macedonia and Carthage) Aristotle worked out explanations for change and stability in a wide range of constitutions, and it is reasonable to assert that he believed these schemes to be universally applicable across the world. It was in book three that he first made a statement as to the working of constitutional transformation, where he remarked that the normal flow of constitutions progresses from kingship to oligarchy to tyranny to democracy (Politics 3.10.7-8). For Aristotle, constitutions were divided not only according to the number of those who hold power, but according to their behaviour: there existed good and bad forms of one-man rule (kingship and tyranny), the rule of the few (aristocracy and oligarchy), and the rule of the masses (politeia and ochlocracy). Early Greek states were ruled by kings, and the barbarians still are (Politics 1.1.7). But it is only in book 5 that he substantiated the scheme of constitutional transformation by reference to historical example. In that book his treatment of the principles of political

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1. Metabole Politeion as Universal Historiography transformation began with causes which apply universally (katholou) to all kinds of change and all kinds of constitution (5.2.1-5.3.7); he moved on to the likely chain of events for transformation in the case of each form of constitution (5.4.1). Generally, it was competing conceptions of justice, understood as the proportionately equal distribution of goods, that gave rise to revolutionary violence (5.1.3-5; 5.2.1-3). But Aristotle had a number of reservations about claiming absolute universality for the scheme of changes that he outlines: he recognised the existence of constitutional safeguards which might halt the pattern of constitutional change (5.7-9); he acknowledged that upheavals might give rise not to a transformation but a smaller change in the nature of a constitution (5.1.4); he noted that upheaval could lead to shifts not in the number of power-holders but to a transformation from good to bad government (or vice versa: 5.5.12); he recognised the possibility of alteration by small stages (5.2.9) and that there exist geographical and petty causes of revolutions and strife (5.2.125.3.1; 5.4.6). Unlike Plato, he allowed for universality of transformative schemes to be undermined by historical contingency, observing, for instance, that external pressure can be an important cause of change (5.4.3; 5.6.9). Furthermore, his account ended with a criticism of Plato’s scheme of constitutional change in the Republic as too inflexible and misjudged (5.10.1-7); he mistakenly attacks it as cyclical, claiming, wrongly, that Plato believes that tyranny changes into the best constitution (5.10.3).31 Aristotle, therefore, while advancing the empirically-based application of the theory of constitutional transformation to its furthest reaches, at the same time queries its applicability: it appears that he is simultaneously exploring and disputing its universality. At this point we may draw two conclusions: (a) Aristotle’s theories of constitutional change serve to emphasise both the universality of constitutional transformation but also the diversity of its details; (b) Aristotle suggests that particular safeguards may be introduced in order to stabilise constitutions: this means that political science is able to overcome the natural tendencies of constitutional transformation. Moreover, Aristotle is suggesting that metabole politeion (constitutional transformation) is a universal feature of political communities but that mapping it in a single pattern as Plato does is misguided. But while Aristotle contested the absolute applicability of universal constitutional change in the second half of the fourth century, we have already noted that conceptions of constitutional transformation were still important in the discourse of Greek political life beyond this time; they were far from dead also in historiography. The analysis of Greek constitutional transformation was presented in its most detailed form by Polybius, in whose work a system of constitutional change, known as anacyclosis, is elaborated in a theoretical portion of book 6. It is set out in a concise version at 6.4.7-12 and is substantiated in more depth at 6.6-9.32 For Polybius, the cycle was natural in the sense that human nature and reason

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Peter Liddel cause the changes: aspiration and admiration of honourable behaviour give rise to change from monarchia to a form of kingship known as basileia (6.4.7-8); superabundance, vanity and the desire for distinction, combined with the envy and resentment of others, give rise to tyranny (6.7.7). Envy again leads to the overthrow of tyranny by an aristocracy (6.7.9-8.1), and indulgence leads to the transformation of that into oligarchy (6.8.4-5). Jealousy and hatred leads the people to overthrow the oligarchs (6.9.1);33 the people’s thirst for reputation and gifts makes them corrupt (6.9.6-7), and further degeneration gives ultimate rise to one-man rule (6.9.9): this completes the circle of constitutional change, the cyclical nature of which was what distinguished Polybius’ contribution.34 This theory is set out in these chapters without reference to historical example, but he appears to have believed that every state, if left to its own devices, would undergo this form of constitutional transformation. The theme was a cornerstone of his historical analysis in book 6, bringing out the way in which the stability of the Roman constitution surpasses its Greek equivalents: while even Rome was bound to go through a decline (6.9.12-14), Polybius suggested that Rome appears to have stalled the passage of anacyclosis as much as possible by virtue of the mixture in her constitution.35 Polybius of course knew that Plato and other philosophers had created a scheme of natural constitutional change (6.5.1): but what he claimed to be doing was to create an accessible theory (6.5.2) which would appeal to the koine epinoia, the common intelligence of mankind, which he could substantiate with detailed discussion, and which contributed to the pragmatike historia which Polybius thought was useful for the politician and statesman. The impression that he viewed constitutional transformation as the key to universal historical understanding emerges most clearly at two points: first, in the preface to book 6, in which he insisted that the form of a state’s constitution is the font of all its achievements (6.2.9-10); second, in his insistence that anyone who ‘clearly perceives’ anacyclosis, ‘the natural course of constitutional change’ (haute phuseos oikonomia, kath’he metaballei) would be able to work out the formation, growth and likely future of a state (6.9.10-13). Accordingly, the historian combining detailed historical knowledge with awareness of anacyclosis is able to get a grasp of what Polybius stated back at 1.4.2-3 to be the desideratum of universal history: understanding the general and comprehensive scheme of events (he katholou kai sullebden oikonomia ton gegonton). It appears that Polybius was either ignorant of or ignored Aristotle’s critique of the schematisation of constitutional transformation.36 Indeed, Polybius went a step further by making the scheme a central part of a historical analysis and making it circular (6.9.9). Of course it is possible that his scheme implied informed criticism of Aristotle: Polybius also demonstrably criticised Aristotle by making a stand for the general application of history (against the famous critique in the Poetics: see Hartog, this volume; Aristotle, Poetics 9.1451b 5-11).

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1. Metabole Politeion as Universal Historiography As a way of understanding Polybius’ decision to apply the analysis of constitutional transformation to history, I find very useful Champion’s suggestion that he did this both to reassure his Greek readers that Rome was subject to the inescapable forces of decline and degeneration and to appeal to philhellenic Romans by presenting Rome as a model Greek politeia.37 But two further possibilities emerge in the light of the broader prevalence of constitutional transformation. First, that Polybius introduced the scheme in order to demonstrate that he was engaging with, improving upon, and introducing to a historical analysis, what he thought was one of the key traits of Greek philosophical, political and historigraphical interpretation. Second, that he introduced the scheme to make his new kind of universal history more persuasive to readers who were familiar with Greek political theory: it was a work which was more interested in elucidating a scheme for thinking about the passage of history rather than attempting to write down everything. To engage a theory of constitutional transformation with the narrative of history was the ultimate act of sumploke, of weaving history and theory into a whole. One reservation, however, must be considered: Polybius’ cyclical view of history as constitutional transformation is more obvious in book 6 than any other part of his work. Throughout the rest of his history, his vision is quite different, and suggests that history moves towards a fixed point: Rome’s domination of the Mediterranean (see Hartog, Sheridan, this volume). Polybius appears, therefore, to have developed two notions of universal change; it may even be the case that whereas the former type was designed to appeal to political thinkers of the Greek tradition, the latter type was one which was designed to appeal to admirers of the Roman empire. Conclusion I have suggested that the notion of constitutional transformation, in the sense of the shift of governmental power between the one, the few and the many, pervaded the public documentary discourse of the Greek city states in the classical and Hellenistic periods, historiography, and both Platonic and Aristotelian political science. I observed a broad tendency of poleis enactments to present both their pasts and futures in terms of constitutional transformation. On one level, I set this theory out as a challenge to the current scholarly tendency to conceive of an amnesiac inclination among the Greek states when it came to thinking about constitutional transformation. On another level, I suggested that Herodotus and Thucydides manipulated and criticised the notion of constitutional transformation in order to reproduce the patterns and textures of history that they held to be all-pervading: their applications of the scheme suggest that it was good to critique as much as it was good for thinking about the past. Plato in the Republic devised a literal scheme of constitutional transfor-

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Peter Liddel mation, and opened the way for Aristotle, in book 5 of his Politics, to introduce it to an empirical analysis and at the same time to query the universality of its applicability. Polybius was the historian who introduced the scheme to historiographical analysis, and made it circular, as part of his effort to devise a universal scheme of historical change and to explain the rise of Rome. Such a scheme, was for Polybius but not for Herodotus, unaffected by distinctions of ethnicity, and was for Polybius but not for Thucydides or Aristotle, relatively untouched by historical contingency. For Polybius, therefore, it carries with it the implication that mankind is either same everywhere or that man’s historical experience is universally the same and does not change over time. We can conclude with the observation that there is considerable overlap between perceptions of constitutional change in publicly-displayed documentation of individual Greek states, historiography, and philosophy: it may be therefore the case that this was a discourse which pervaded both political and intellectual life. In terms of constitutional transformation, the same mindset of memories, fears and hopes were common to both the local and the universal levels of narrative. But I should end with a reservation: this search to identify metabole politeion as a stratagem for thinking about universal historical change has admittedly proved problematic: only with Plato and Polybius (and, to a certain degree, Aristotle) did schemes of constitutional transformation offer a way of thinking about history. Only with Polybius did the scheme become circular.38 The theme of decay, or perhaps a downward spiral, was probably accepted much more widely as a universal law of historical change (it was accepted by Thucydides and Theopompus, for instance, but is also central to Plato’s and Polybius’ schemes of change). While metabole politeion was deployed by some writers as a way of thinking universally about history, it is an interpretation which would not have been accepted by all practitioners of universal historiography. Notes 1. See Clarke (1999) 278; generally, see Lateiner (2007). I would like to thank Brian Sheridan and Kostas Vlassopoulos for their comments on this paper. 2. For another attack on the historiography of small matters, see Polybius 29.12.2-5. 3. Sacks (1981) 108-13. 4. Interpretation of the phrase kata genos has been controversial, but is generally reckoned to refer to geographical organisation: see Drews (1976); Clarke (2008) 106 with n. 74. 5. Compare Sacks’s reading of Polybius’ twin understanding of universal history as quantitative (amount of work and geographical extent) and qualitative (unifying theme): Sacks (1981) 105. 6. This ‘rigorous’ definition of universalism is used by Clarke (1999) 250 and Alonso-Núñez (1990) 173 is that it is the ‘history of mankind from the earliest times and in all parts of the world known to them’. Marincola has distinguished

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1. Metabole Politeion as Universal Historiography two types: those universal in time and space and those universal in space: Marincola (2007) 171; cf. Clarke (1999), distinguishing spatial and temporal universality. 7. Crossley (2008) 27-65. For Hegel’s view of world history as a series of transformations, see de Laurentiis (this volume). 8. Momigliano (1982). 9. Momigliano (1986) 8, contrasting the work of E.A. Freeman, a historian of federations, monarchies and parliaments, with the Jewish tradition, which placed religion at the centre of historical understanding. 10. On this way of thinking about Greek politics, see Cartledge (2001) 57. 11. McLellan (1977) 224. 12. Marx, in McLellan (1977) 71. In particular Marxian historians, taking a lead from Lenin, have conceived of a notion of global crisis and used it to develop the basis of a global programme and an expectation of ‘world revolution’: see Hobsbawm (1986) 18. The concept of revolution has been deployed in other traditions: see, for instance, Kuhn (1970); Koselleck (2004) 43-57. 13. Osborne, observing that there never was a definitive democratic revolution at Athens (2006) 28; this is a view worked out also by Finley (1986). Ober (1996), on the other hand, argues that it is helpful to see the events of 508/7 BC as the results of a revolutionary situation. 14. Ober (1996) 34. 15. Loraux (2006), but to a lesser extent Wolpert (2002) 140. Shear, in a paper entitled, ‘Stasis, “good victory”, and the Athenian demos’, at the meeting of the APA in 2005, argued that the Athenians created a ‘good victory’ out of stasis by identifying democratic partisans as Athenian resistors to external enemies. 16. Note, contrarily, Anderson’s argument that the tyrannicides’ acts were represented as restorative, not reactionary: Anderson (2003: 206). 17. On tyrant-slaying as therapeutic conflict, see Ober (2003); on the slaying of tyrants, see Friedel (1937). 18. For other oaths against political transformation, see Demosthenes 24.145; Aristoph. Thesm. 334-8; RO 88.11-16. 19. Other anti-tyranny legislation: ML 83; SEG 51.1105; IOSPE iv 79; IC iii.4.8; IK Ilion 25; cf. Teegarden (2007). 20. RO 41 lines 24-34; IG II2 97 lines 2-11; IG II2 116 lines 16-29; IG II2 230.8-11; IK Sinope 1 lines 27-31. 21. See for instance FGrH 114 F 114 on Strato and Nicocles. For Theopompus as a universal historian, see Marincola (2007) 174-6. On the moral decay of democracy, see, for instance, Isocrates, Areopagitikos 14-15. 22. [Aristotle] writes of the politeia becoming more democratic and declining: see Rhodes (1981) 482-3. 23. See Nagy (1985) 41-6. 24. Jacoby’s (1949) theory was that Herodotus’ was a universal history as one which tried to encompass the history of the world, and that his investigation reflected his own transformation from ethnographer to historian. Immerwahr suggested that while his work was not designed as a universal history, it had the outlook of a universal historian: it was a universality of ‘viewpoint rather than subject matter’ Immerwahr (1966) 16, 19, 149. 25. The idea that democratic leadership may transform into monarchy may be taken as far back as Solon (F9 West): Hornblower (1987) 70 n. 27. 26. Price (2001) 4; see also Balot (2006) 89, arguing that at a time of stasis, ethics break down in a Greek city.

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Peter Liddel 27. For Thucydides as a champion of stability see Hornblower (1987) 161-3. 28. See Coumoundouros (2009), arguing, among other things, that Plato presents a possible schema of regime change, but not one that is intended to be exhaustive. 29. Similarly, in the Seventh Letter (326c-d), Plato stresses that it is not the rulers but the spirit of the people who form the basis for constitutional change. 30. The centrality of book 5 of Aristotle’s Politics to his thought is suggested by the closing words of the Nicomachean Ethics, where he states that the work that is needed for him to complete a philosophy of human affairs must be a peri politeias (10.9.22). The work that he then anticipates will be the one which, on the basis of a collection of constitutions, will consider what institutions are preservative, and what are destructive of politeiai. On Aristotle’s book 5, see Polansky (1991). 31. For a defence of Plato’s position, see Coumoundouros (2009). 32. Ryffel (1949), suggesting linear development of the idea of constitutional change from the sophists to Polybius. 33. As Nippel (1994) 9 observes, Polybius’ view of Roman ‘democracy’ did not, like other definitions of democracy, emphasise direct participation in decisionmaking, but a more representative form of democracy. 34. Walbank (1972) 140. 35. Walbank (1972) 145-6. 36. Walbank (1972) 32 n. 3 [33]. 37. Champion (2004) 98-9. 38. Pace Fear, this volume, arguing that anacyclosis was pervasive throughout the Graeco-Roman tradition of historiography.

Bibliography Alonso-Núñez, J. (1990), ‘The emergence of universal historiography from the 4th to the 2nd centuries BC’, in H. Verdin, G. Schepens and E de Keyser (eds), The Purposes of History: Studies in Greek Historiography from the 4th to the 2nd centuries BC (Leuven): 173-92. Anderson, R. (2003), The Athenian Experiment: Building an Imagined Political Community in Ancient Attica, 508-490 BC (Michigan). Balot, R. (2006), Greek Political Thought (Oxford). Cartledge, P. (2001), Spartan Reflections (London). Champion, C. (2004), Cultural Politics in Polybius’s Histories (London and Berkeley). Clarke, K. (1999), ‘Universal perspectives in historiography’, in C. Kraus (ed.), The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts. Mnemosyne Supplement 191 (Leiden, Boston and Cologne): 249-79. Clarke, K. (2008), Making Time for the Past: Local History and the Polis (Oxford). Coumoundouros, A. (2009), ‘Does Plato’s account of Politeiai in Republic 8 merit our attention?’, Polis 26: 73-88. Crossley, P. (2008), What is Global History? (Cambridge). Drews, R. (1976), ‘Ephorus’ kata genos history revisited’, Hermes 104: 497-98. Finley, M. (1986), ‘Revolution in antiquity’, in R. Porter and M. Teich (eds), Revolution in History (Cambridge): 47-60. Friedel, H. (1937), Der Tyrannenmord in Gesetzgebung und Volksmeinung der Griechen (Stuttgart). Hobsbawm, E. (1986), ‘Revolutions’, in R. Porter and M. Teich (eds), Revolution in History (Cambridge): 5-46.

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1. Metabole Politeion as Universal Historiography Hornblower, S. (1987), Thucydides (London). Immerwahr, H. (1966), Form and Thought in Herodotus (Chapel Hill). Jacoby, F. (1949), Atthis: The Local Chronicles of Ancient Athens (Oxford). Kuhn, T. (1970), The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, 2nd edn (Chicago). Koselleck, R. (2004), Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time, tr. K. Tribe (New York). Lateiner, D. (2007), ‘Contest (agon) in Thucydides’, in J. Marincola (ed.), Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography (Oxford), vol. 2: 336-41. Loraux, N. (2006), The Divided City: On Memory and Forgetting in Ancient Athens (New York). Marincola, J. (2007), ‘Universal history from Ephorus to Diodorus’, in J. Marincola (ed.), Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography (Oxford), vol. 1: 171-9. McLellan, D. (1977), Karl Marx: Selected Writings (Oxford). Momigliano, A. (1982), ‘The origins of universal history’, ASNP, serie III, vol. XII, 2: 533-60, repr. in On Pagans, Jews, and Christians (Middletown, CT, 1987): 31-57 = Settimo Contributo (Rome, 1984): 77-103 Momigliano, A. (1986), ‘Two types of universal history: the cases of E.A. Freeman and Max Weber’, Journal of Modern History 58.1: 235-46. Nagy, G. (1985), ‘A poet’s vision of his city’, in T. Figueira and G. Nagy (eds), Theognis of Megara: Poetry and the Polis (Baltimore and London): 22-81. Nippel, W. (1994), ‘Ancient and modern republicanism: “mixed constitution” and “ephors”’, in B. Fontana (ed.), The Invention of the Modern Republic (Cambridge): 6-26. Ober, J. (1986), ‘The Athenian revolution of 508/7 BC: violence, authority, and the origins of democracy’, in J. Ober, The Athenian Revolution: Essays on Ancient Greek Democracy and Political Theory (Princeton): 32-52. Ober, J. (2003), ‘Tyrant killing as therapeutic stasis: a political debate in images and texts’, in K. Morgan (ed.), Popular Tyranny: Sovereignty and its Discontents in Ancient Greece (Austin): 215-50. Osborne, R. (2006), ‘Introduction’ and ‘When was the Athenian democratic revolution?’, in S. Goldhill and R. Osborne (eds), Rethinking Revolutions through Ancient Greece (Cambridge): 1-9, 10-28. Polansky, R. (1991), ‘Aristotle on political change’, in D. Keyt and F. Miller (eds), A Companion to Aristotle’s Politics (Oxford): 323-45. Price, J. (2001), Thucydides and the Internal War (Cambridge). Rhodes, P. (1981), A Commentary on the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia (Oxford). Ryffel, H. (1949), METABOLE POLITEION: Der Wandel der Staatsverfassungen, Noctes Romanae 2 (Bern). Sacks, K. (1981), Polybius on the Writing of History (Berkeley). Teegarden, D. (2007), ‘Defending democracy: a study of ancient Greek antityranny legislation’, PhD Diss. Princeton University (non vidi). Walbank, F. (1972), Polybius (Berkeley and London). Wolpert, A. (2002), Remembering Defeat: Civil War and Civic Memory in Ancient Athens (Cambridge).

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2

Polybius and the First Universal History François Hartog Who was Polybius? He was, after Herodotus and Thucydides, the third great Greek historian. Present at the Battle of Pydna, when the Macedonians were defeated by the Romans in 168 BC, he then spent seventeen years as a hostage in Rome before returning to Greece; he died in 126 BC. Herodotus had described the conflict between the Greeks and the Barbarians, the Persian Wars; Thucydides had chosen to recount the War between the Peloponnesians and the Athenians; Polybius wrote the history of the Roman conquest: not just one Great War but a whole series of conflicts taking place in many different theatres of operation. ‘By what means and under what system of polity (politeia) have the Romans in less than fifty-three years succeeded in subjecting nearly the whole world to their sole government?’ Such was the question that Polybius proposed to answer, for the greatest benefit, he considered, of his readers. With epic as a starting-point, Herodotus desired to be a new Homer, and he finally achieved this, not as a prose-writing bard, but as the ‘father of history’. Challenging Homer as well as Herodotus, Thucydides, as far as he was concerned, wanted to be Thucydides of Athens: the man who had recorded in writing the Peloponnesian War. For ever. Seeing himself as the new Thucydides, Polybius finally became Polybius, the author of the first universal history. Inspired by the Muse, Homer sang the chanson de geste of the Achaeans and the Trojans. Just like Zeus on Olympus, the bard ‘saw’ both sides. From the beginning, Herodotus intended to record for memory the great actions accomplished as much by the Greeks as by the Barbarians.1 But, unfortunately, the era of the epic was over and the inspired or divine vision had been replaced by laborious and hardworking investigation (historia). Without being directly linked to one political power, without being commissioned by such a power, right from the first words, Herodotus came to mark, to lay claim to the narrative beginning with the inscription of the proper noun of a name: his own (following the grapho of Hecateus). He is the author of his logos (or of his logoi); thus he designated his work, and it is from this logos, from the way it was imagined, written and composed, that he finally draws his authority. Here there is a distinct gap compared with the oriental histories. If the Greeks invented anything, it is less history than the historian as writer. If the Mesopotamian scribe has the

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2. Polybius and the First Universal History power of writing (and even its monopoly), he has no power over writing (reserved for the king himself). The Greek historian endeavours to make the power of writing (of which he has no monopoly) also a power over writing. In Greek intellectual history, this type of self-affirmation and this way of producing a discourse were in no way reserved for historiography alone. They are, on the contrary, the hallmark, specifically the signature of a moment (between the sixth and fifth centuries BC) which witnessed, for artists, the philosophers of nature, the doctors, the rise of ‘egotism’: a clear will to sign and lay one’s claim to be an author.2 Man of exile and traveller, the historian calls upon the eye and the ear: he sees and he hears, he informs himself, he collects different versions and he reports them. Putting critical analysis at the centre of his method (the fact of seeing for himself), his own ‘autopsy’ as that of others, Thucydides did not however break with this tradition ‘of both sides’, but he reformulated it. How was he able to know ‘something exact’ about both sides? As he informs us himself, the exile that he suffered allowed him to witness ‘the affairs of both sides – and not only those of the Peloponnesians’.3 Thucydides pretends neither to historein nor to semainein nor to conserve the memory of the great deeds which oblivion threatens to efface. The rupture with Herodotus is clear and the polemical posture wilful. In order to ‘see’, he places autopsy at the centre of his epistemology. Even so, at the same time that he grants to sight the first place, he never uses the word historia, nor historien (whose etymology mixes ‘seeing’ and ‘knowing’), to the benefit of a single verb suggraphein: ‘Thucydides has put down in writing …’. The verb means to take note, to record in writing, or, in a more technical sense, to draw up a bill (for an act), a contract. Suggraphein and suggrapheus (in latin scriptor) become the usual terms to indicate historiographical activity and the historian. The dimension of writing was to pass into the foreground, that of the investigation to fall back. But neither suggrapheus not scriptor was ever to designate the mere historian. Through his ode the bard conferred the kleos: Herodotus wrote so that the marks of the activity of men should not be deprived of kleos, aklea, forgotten. Thucydides gives his narrative as ‘established for ever’. From kleos to ktema, the move is marked. Through the posture that he adopts, the historian intends to address his history to men of the future, transmitting to them, with this narration that he had named, in fact, for ever, the Peloponnesian War, an instrument of intelligibility of present times – yet to come. For, taking into account what men (to anthropinon) are, other similar crises will not fail to break out in the future. It is this permanence of human nature that justifies for Thucydides the exemplarity of this conflict, put down in writing once and for all. With Polybius, also an exile, but in Rome, the rule of the two sides, inherited from the epic story, disappears, especially as the categorisation of Greeks and Barbarians is no longer effective. Where should be Romans be placed? What Polybius considered as his major discovery and the

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François Hartog novelty of his time was the simultaneousness of actions, involving different protagonists, taking place in different places and affecting each other. One can then assert that there are more than two sides or, just as well, that there is only one side, as Rome, in spreading its domination, constitutes the link or plays the role of a liaison officer between these histories, up to that point local and separated. It was this moment, and this movement, that of a first globalisation on a Mediterranean scale, that Polybius attempted to seize and which he wanted to record (capture). Such is the intuition and such will be, from then on, the task of the new historian. The question of how to do this remains entirely open: how to construct and transcribe this point of view on the history of the world? If both Herodotus and Thucydides each had opened their work with an inaugural signature: ‘Herodotus of Thourioi …’, ‘Thucydides of Athens …’, Polybius did nothing of the sort. Polybius – the Megalopolitan, the Achaean, the Greek, the Roman? He does not introduce himself, but begins with a eulogy of history: proof indeed that one is far from the beginnings when it was necessary to construct a place of knowledge and when the identity of the author went through the affiliation to a city. History is from then on a genre, with its conventions, its references and its rules of writing. The absolutely extraordinary character of the deeds that I have undertaken to narrate, writes Polybius calmly, ‘will be sufficient to challenge and incite everyone, young and old alike, to peruse my systematic history’.4 Thus he wins on both counts. By making the laws of the genre his own, he makes himself known and takes his place among historians, but at the same time stands out among them, because, basically, his enterprise has no need to resort to these conventional praises. His radical newness was enough. Apart from their opening signatures, Herodotus and Thucydides are not very eloquent about themselves, whereas Polybius is markedly more so. He intervenes often, first as the author explaining what he wants, or wanted, to do, proposing remarks on the story, being controversial with one or the other, then as a witness or as an actor, especially in the last part of his History. He uses the first as well as the third person. As he explains towards the end of his work, ‘I have to put some variety in the terms used to speak of myself, for the constant repetition of my name might become tedious and if, on the one hand, I constantly said “me” or “thanks to me”, I should finish by irritating, against my will, the reader.’5 As the third great historian after Herodotus and Thucydides, Polybius came later, chronologically of course, but also from the point of view of reputation. Of his History, much longer than those of his predecessors (but he lived much longer than they did!), posterity has preserved only about a third. As early as the first century of our era, Dionysius of Halicarnassus criticised his unattractive style and the fact that the great size of his work (forty books) made it difficult to handle. Unlike Herodotus and Thucydides, Polybius was not a literary model; the literary history of history –

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2. Polybius and the First Universal History the appreciation of historians in terms of their literary qualities leading to the establishment of a canon – such as that developed by Cicero, Dionysius of Halicarnassus or Quintilian and practised in the schools of grammarians, has never considered him as very important. How to write history One could find in Polybius’ work, by browsing through the prefaces and digressions, matter for an authentic treatise on ‘How to write history’. As an exacting defender of the historian’s territory, he shows himself first of all ready to denounce bad historians and other charlatans. Just as in the case of medicine, many aspire to write history owing to the high opinion in which the science is held, but most of them bring to the task absolutely no qualification other than recklessness, audacity and roguery, courting popularity like apothecaries, and always saying whatever they regard as opportune in order to curry favour for the sake getting a living by this means: ‘as happens in medicine, many people devote themselves to historical tasks because of the prestige that science has acquired in the past’, preoccupied with being talked about and being seen in a favourable light, they only write things ‘which seem to them opportune to say so that they can make their living from their works’.6 He is also zealous in his corrections of the errors of others: Timaeus’ innumerable errors, to which he devotes nearly a whole book, not forgetting the errors of other historians. Be that as it may, Polybius, as a connoisseur of the historical genre, has no difficulty in distributing good and bad marks. Bad for Theopompus, good, on the contrary, for Ephorus, his most famous fourth-century predecessors. Then come the different headings usually expected in this type of text: on the usefulness of history, on discourses in history (an obligatory topic since Thucydides), on the faults to be avoided (in particular on useless details or prodigious deeds), on the necessity to explain the intentions and the causes in the accounts of war, on what separates history and eulogy, on the difference between biography and history. More specific was his chapter on the different ways of writing history, in which he explains why he confines himself to the single genre of ‘pragmatic’ history or political history, to the exclusion of the two more attractive alternatives: genealogical history and the one which deals with migrations, the foundations of towns and the links of kinship between peoples. More austere is the history in which the actions of nations, of cities and of heads of state are recorded – the most original – ‘because there is always some novelty in it’, and is thus the most useful.7 Just as there is a ‘theoretical’ medicine, acquired from books – mainly from Alexandria, there is a ‘theoretical’ history, drawing its knowledge almost exclusively from libraries. Thus, to believe, or rather to make others believe that with one single background one is equipped to treat a sick person or to write a good history, is to participate in the same illusion

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François Hartog or the same charlatanism. Who is the historian who pushed almost to caricature this defect? Timaeus, of course, who worked for half a century in the Athenian libraries! Tradition is then called to the rescue and the authority of Heracleitus is invoked to defend the superiority of the eye over the ear: eyes are more faithful witnesses than ears. The Thucydidean autopsy remains the reference. Ephorus himself maintained that if one could witness personally all events it would be by far the best way of being informed. Unfortunately, Timaeus ‘enters on his inquiries by the pleasanter of the two roads, but the inferior one. For he entirely avoids employing his eyes and prefers to employ his ears’. Moreover, while there are two ways of gathering information by hearsay, he satisfied himself with drawing his information from books and hardly cared about collecting oral testimony.8 Without travelling, without observing, with no military or political experience, he nonetheless acquired the reputation of being the master of history, while the true criterion is to be found in personal experience acquired in action and risk (autourgia and autopatheia).9 In actual fact, the patron saint of historians should be, according to Polybius, not Herodotus nor Hecataeus, but Odysseus in person, for ‘He visited the cities of many peoples, whose spirit he got to know and, on the sea, he endured many ordeals.’ He represents the complete historian: he saw, he knew for himself, and he experienced difficulty. Since Thucydides at least, what the historical inquiry costs (in all meanings of the word) the man who practises it is proof of the seriousness which the historian does not hesitate to boast about. But let’s be careful: the historian in Odysseus is not just a war correspondent. To make this clear, this time Polybius calls upon Plato. In the same way that societies will only go well when kings are philosophers and philosophers kings, history will only go well when statesmen consider that to write is the finest and most necessary of tasks and when the future historians understand that a political background is indispensable.10 Polybius, who probably became a historian because he was no longer able to be a man of action, was adamant that playing a role in history should not be separated from writing history. But he is fully aware that from then on political decisions are taken in Rome and that he addresses (initially or only) Greek readers, but also, he hoped, Romans, men who were attracted to political history, having the taste to understand what happened in the past and what is happening at the moment. All in all, this treatise on the writing of history would endorse eulogies that Polybius qualified at the beginning of his preface, as suitable for history, mistress of life. History offers ‘the most efficient political education’, ‘the best training for action’; it teaches ‘to bear the reversals of fortune with dignity’.11 If he had limited himself to this single defence and illustration of history, Polybius would appear as a fastidious defender of the genre, not dreading controversy, not dissatisfied with himself and willingly giving lessons, all contained in a framework of quite classical

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2. Polybius and the First Universal History epistemology, in the manner of Thucydides, who had experience and autopsy as his master-words. To write ‘the general’ The road to Rome was for Polybius, one might say, his road to Damascus. There, he saw universal history and believed that Rome was its instrument, for there was certainly a renewal of the times, an innovation of Fortune, that can be dated to the 220s when the Second Punic War started: ‘the affairs of Italy and of Libya have been interwoven (sumplekesthai) with those of Greece and of Asia, all leading up to one end’.12 What intellectual instruments could the historian use, as the models that he had at his disposal did not allow him to see what had happened from 220 to 168 BC? How could he guarantee his remarks or his authority, when, by definition, he could not be everywhere at the same time? All the critical analysis in the world would not be enough. The central notion he called to his aid was that of sumploke. Evoking the art of weaving, the word means, in the first place, the action of intertwining the warp and the weft. Among the atomists, such as Leucippus and Democritus, it expresses the necessary conjunction of the first elements. Taken up by the Stoics, the notion expressed the necessary sequence of natural events as humans, finally the form of Destiny or of Providence.13 Applied to history, the notion held that before 220, what happened in the world had a ‘disseminated’ (sporadas) character, for ‘there was no more unity of conception and of execution than unity of place’.14 After 220, by contrast, history started to shape itself ‘as an organic whole’ (somatoeide) and events, like a textile, to ‘interweave’ one with another. Today, to invoke another metaphor, one talks of ‘connected’ history. At this moment of his effort of conceptualisation, Polybius wrote ‘history’ (historia) in the singular. Whereas before dispersed actions (pragmata) had been produced, at that moment there was one unique history (that which was unfolding) which happened to be also the one that Polybius was in the process of writing. The same word, at this point, came to designate history both as an event and as a narration. But how can one see this interweaving which transformed history into a living body? What point of view can enable this? To solve this difficulty, Polybius resorted to another notion, which is also an image: that of the body. The history-event is, according to him, like a body. However, this metaphor of the body had been used for some time in the domain of literary composition. Aristotle used it in his Poetics. Lucian will use it precisely to talk of historical narration. The body is thus valid both as ‘form of the content’ of history and as ‘form of its form’.15 The question of ‘how to see?’ still remains open. Thanks to sunopsis, answers Polybius, that is to say thanks to the faculty of ‘seeing all

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François Hartog together’, embracing with one single regard, it is no longer a question of seeing (just) the two sides, like Zeus in Homer, but seeing everything simultaneously. The Muses of the epic tradition had the reputation of being present everywhere, even being able to see and know everything. Deprived of this vision of a divine nature, the historian had to find substitutes and to invest himself personally. Sunopsis also belongs to the vocabulary of philosophy. It denotes the ambition to seize (understand) the totality (wholeness) and, especially for the Stoics, it is the expression of the understanding (grasp) of the universe as an organic system.16 Lastly, sunopsis is the result: what the historian shows his reader, in producing a synoptic narration. By introducing the concept of sunopsis, Polybius called upon these different meanings and registers rolled into one, with the hope of winning on all counts. In order to justify resorting to these concepts (in which the real plan and the metaphorical register mingle), an historical operator and a guarantor were needed. Polybius found them in Fortune, the last reason and the last instance, but whose favourite way of intervening is by the unexpected event. ‘What gives my work its peculiar quality (idion kai to thaumasion) and what is most remarkable in the present age is this: Fortune has guided almost all affairs of the world in one direction and has forced them to incline towards one and the same end (ton auton skopon); a historian should likewise bring before his readers under one synoptical view the operations by which she has accomplished her general purpose.’17 Placing himself in Fortune’s point of view, the historian has to propose, precisely through his synoptic narration, an analogue (parallel) of this new direction given by Fortune to the affairs of the world. And the forty books make up ‘so to speak a continuous texture in which one can follow the course of the events’.18 The narration models itself upon the events, without there being, in principle, any distance or disparity between what happened and what is related. The only limitation is that the historian cannot escape narrative diachrony (he can only relate one action after another). The simultaneous character of the sunopsis can be negotiated only in developments that follow one another. Aware of the problem, Polybius established a rule. He would present the events Olympiad by Olympiad (a period of four years), then year by year within each Olympiad, and he would always cover the different theatres of operation in the same order: Italy, Spain, Africa, Greece, Asia, Egypt. It was thus a question of creating an impression or an effect of sunopsis for the reader. Polybius knew well that he was working in approximation. Analogue was also a substitute. How does Fortune act? Like a tragic playwright. The vocabulary used by Polybius shows this. The reader in fact becomes a spectator of this new performance, in which Fortune knows how to surprise and how to practise, with consummate art, the tragic reversal (peripeteia): this against all expectations, remaining unpredictable, but turning out to be necessary in

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2. Polybius and the First Universal History the end. Hence the insistence placed by Polybius in his preface on the astonishing, the surprising (paradoxon) of his subject. He is like the scribe of the play written by Fortune, or her transcriber. Herodotus had constructed his narration starting from the epic tale, both in continuation and in breaking with it. Polybius turned towards tragic poetry, but concluded that history was definitely superior to tragedy. History is an authentic tragedy – it does not only involve the machinations of Fortune, but, in addition, it is a true tragedy: genuine. For Polybius, the confrontation occurs less directly with classical tragedies themselves than with Aristotle’s Poetics. Why? Because one finds there certainly a whole meditation on tragedy, but also, and probably above all, because there is the famous chapter 9, of which every historian or future historian should have heard, even if he has not read it! It was there that Aristotle had established, just in passing, the superiority of tragic poetry over history. In this sense, one can read Polybius’s text as a long-postponed reply to Aristotle.19 Polybius refuted him, or rather jostled and plagiarised him, by turning Aristotle’s own weapons against him. As a result, his ‘How to write history’ becomes more significant and interesting. How does Polybius name his new history? Until now, the habitual translation has been ‘universal’ history, but Polybius designated it ‘general’ history, or ‘according to the general’.20 Ephorus, according to Polybius, had attempted to ‘write the general’ (katholou graphein).21 But this concept of ‘general’ is none other than that used by Aristotle when he writes that ‘poetry is a more philosophical and more serious genre than history: poetry says rather what is general (ta katholou), history what is particular (specific) (ta kat’ hekaston). Part of the general is the species of men who happen to say or to do such kind of things according to likelihood or necessity, it is the aim of poetry which attributes names; while the particular, is what Alcibiades did or underwent’.22 The domain of history is above all that of the random succession of the particular. Polybius takes the exact opposite view of these considerations (which must have become fairly widespread in the intellectual milieus of the time). Furthermore, in histories Aristotle noted that ‘one exposes necessarily not a single action, but a single time, everything that happens during this time concerning a single personage or several, and of which each element has a link with the other at the quite by chance’. It is not because the battles of Salamis and Himera in Sicily took place at the same time that they would have the same conclusion, in the same way ‘in the epochs which follow each another, one act (deed) can follow another, without there being a single conclusion’.23 The tragic poet, on the contrary, composes a narrative (muthos), which forms (makes up) a single and complete action, ‘with a beginning, a middle and an end, so that like an animated being, unique and forming a whole, it procures a specific pleasure’.

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François Hartog Everything happened as if Polybius had transferred Aristotle’s definition of muthos (considered as a ‘system of acts’, a plot) all of a sudden onto history, at least his history. Does he not state in his preface, that it forms a whole, that it leads towards a single end, that it has a beginning and an end, and that it is like a great living body?24 From the 140th Olympiad, history is thus. Never, I have already noted, does Polybius pause over the ambiguity of the history-event and the history-narration. More exactly, he does not perceive it, because it is vain or meaningless. Fortune, as a tragic author, settles the question by making it disappear. Once more he chooses the opposite view to Aristotle. Already inferior to tragedy, history could not pretend to achieve the status of a science, because, following Aristotle’s famous definition, there is no science except of the general. Polybius does not hesitate an instant to qualify history as a science (episteme), provided that it is practised with the necessary critical rigour.25 From one ‘general’ to another, or, from tragedy to science! But from Aristotle’s ‘general’ to Polybius’s katholou there are several modifications. For the central opposition of the general and the particular, he substituted, in fact, another. The general is the whole: this totality which makes up history from the year 220 and which should be encompassed with a single regard. From then on, ‘general’ history opposes partial history (kata meros), that which suits what happened before, when affairs were dispersed, but which today misses its purpose, for, even placed end to end, local histories will never make up a general or global history: they lack the essential, the sumploke, this weaving and fabric of the living body. Lastly Polybius bestows a spatial, geographical aspect onto his history, by slipping from the general (to katholou) to the catholic (historia katholike). With the use of this adjective the meaning changes: ‘catholic’ history, universal history, yes, but in the spatial sense, as it were a question of relating how the Romans had conquered nearly the totality of the inhabited world. We are now far away from Aristotle. At this point Polybius had only to drive his argument home by concluding that history was superior to tragedy: ‘the aim of history and that of tragedy are not identical, but contrary’. Calling upon what is plausible, tragedy in fact has to display all the resources of persuasion, to ‘captivate its audience and enchant on the moment’, whereas history, through actions and true discourses, should instruct and convince ‘for all the succession of times’ those wanting to be instructed.26 To complete the movement, Polybius then brandished the old and famous opposition of Thucydides between ceremonial discourse, composed for the pleasure of the instant, and the austerity of the historical narrative whose only aim is to be of use. But, this time, it is tragedy that finds itself rejected towards the present and, finally, towards misrepresentation, whilst history, making itself recognisable as a true tragedy, imposes itself, once more, as ‘something acquired for ever’. The parenthesis is closed: Polybius is the new Thucydides, or a post-Aristoteleian Thucydides.

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2. Polybius and the First Universal History But this rapid attack on Aristotle’s standpoints leaves behind it an enduring aporia as a legacy, against which history was to stumble right up to the modern epoch. For Aristotle, the poet was he who made (poiein) narratives (muthoi) which, through the employment of mimesis, represent actions. History, on the contrary, is neither on the side of making nor of representation: the historian does not make the facts, he contents himself with ‘saying what happened’ (legein ta genomena) and, in no case, does it fall upon him to poiein ta genomena.27 For Aristotle as for all the ancient historians, including Polybius, the facts are there (the events have taken place). The historian is not then a ‘poet’ nor a ‘poietes’ (poietes), but only an ‘exhibitor’ (menutes). He has to strive to be ‘a mirror’ reflecting without distortion what he receives, as Lucian said. He does not have to seek what to say, but only how to say it. However, as soon as one transfers onto the historical narrative what the tragic muthos defines – such is, we have already seen, Polybius’ operation – one makes him pass to the side of poiein, of poetic act and of representation. Not at all, Polybius would have replied, as the tragic poet, it is not I, but Fortune. I remain firmly on the side of the only legein, I say what happened, as they are events that have been effectively woven thus by Fortune. My only merit (and it is an important one) is that I am the best mirror to receive and to send back the whole of history as such. Certainly, but when the guarantors (Fortune or God) have disappeared, the difficulty will not fail to reappear: tell or do? Not at all in the sense of inventing completely, but to represent what happened, in a set of problems of mimesis, such as has been analysed by Paul Ricoeur in a masterly fashion in his Time and Narrative. Seeing history from Rome, Polybius forced himself to understand what had happened: not only how the Greeks had been defeated – that would be at best a question of ‘partial’ or local history – but how the Romans conquered the world. To see from Rome and to see as Rome did: to write a universal history. In this as Rome is housed his whole historiographical process and all the ambiguity of his position. As Rome was to adopt the point of view of Romans on their conquest: to use the Roman eye and to become their agent. As Rome is also to see what the Romans did not see and were incapable of seeing. The sunopsis, this vision of the vanquished, displayed before the eyes of the Greeks what they had not been able to see, but, in the same movement, it showed the victors their conquest as they had never yet seen it, that is to say read it.28 Hence the solution, both theoretical and practical, finally found by Polybius, the sunopsis, is the very point of view of Fortune. This seeing as Fortune has the advantage of offering an absolute point of view, an outside viewing point, which makes Polybius’ historiographical operation possible, but at the same time it constitutes its blind spot.

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François Hartog Notes 1. Hdt. 1.1. 2. Lloyd (1987) 58-70. 3. Thuc. 5.26.4. 4. Polyb. 1.1.4. 5. Polyb. 36.2.12. 6. Polyb. 12.25e, 2-3. 7. Polyb. 9.2.5. 8. Polyb. 12.27.2-4. This passage makes clear that reading goes through the ear rather than through the eye, whether Timaeus reads himself or uses a reader. 9. Polyb. 12.27.7. 10. Polyb. 12.28.1-4 11. Polyb. 1.1.2. 12. Polyb. 1.3.4. 13. Walbank (1985). Pédech (1964) 507. 14. Polyb. 1.3.3. 15. Zangara (2007). 16. Zangara (2007). 17. Polyb. 1.4.1-2. 18. Polyb. 3.32.2. 19. Hartog (1999) 109-11, 140-3. 20. Polyb. 1.4.2: he ton katholou pragmaton suntaxis. 21. Polyb. 5.32.2. 22. Arist. Poetics 1451b 5-11. 23. Arist. Poetics 1459a 22-29. 24. Polyb. 1.1-4. 25. Polyb. 1.4.9; 2.1.7 ; 4.40.1. 26. Polyb. 2.56.11-12. 27. Arist. Poetics 1451b 30. 28. Koselleck (1997) 239.

Bibliography Hartog, F. (1999), L’histoire d’Homère à Augustin, Préfaces des historiens et textes sur l’histoire (Paris). Koselleck, R. (1997), L’expérience de l’histoire, tr. A. Escudier (Paris). Lloyd, G.E.R. (1987), The Revolution of Wisdom (Berkeley). Pédech, P. (1964), La méthode historique de Polybe (Paris). Walbank, F. (1985), ‘Symplokê: its role in Polybius’ Histories’, in F. Walbank, Papers in Greek and Roman History and Historiography (Cambridge): 313-24. Zangara, A. (2007), Voir l’histoire, le récit historique à l’époque hellénistique et romaine (Paris).

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3

Diodorus’ Reading of Polybius’ Universalism1 Brian Sheridan In this paper I examine the historical thought of Polybius and Diodorus Siculus and their relationship with one another. I argue that these two writers had very different views on what constitutes universal historiography. To begin with I consider whether the generally low estimation of Diodorus’ ability is merited. In the second section I trace the influence of Polybius’ ideas on the writing of history by Diodorus. In the third section I argue that the historical vision of these two writers is very different. Finally, I suggest that Diodorus, to some degree, resisted the contemporary intellectual draw of Augustan Rome. In order to place this paper into some context I need to look briefly at some of the work on Diodorus Siculus’ Bibliotheke. In particular I want to examine the traditional argument that Diodorus is a derivative, and therefore inferior, historian. Proponents of this argument often cite the General Proem to the Bibliotheke as an example of the derivative nature of Diodorus’ writing.2 It has long been noted that there are correspondences between the General Proem and Polybius’ Introduction.3 More trenchant are the criticisms of Jane Hornblower, who states that ‘[The] theme of universal history and the utility of history are characteristically Polybian, and there is a general imitation of Polybius in spirit.’4 Indeed, for Hornblower, Diodorus is not only derivative, but mendacious with it:5 He was untroubled to make a claim that was demonstrably false: and most of his statements about the way he approached his work cannot be taken as sincere. The Proem, which presents the author as a serious historian, is therefore in conflict with the title of the book, which seems to announce a compilation.

More recently, P.J. Stylianou, author of a commentary on book 15 of the Bibliotheke, suggests that Diodorus ‘may have adopted the number forty from Polybius whose work he tried to imitate in other respects’.6 While both Hornblower and Stylianou refer vaguely to Diodorus’ imitation of Polybius; their comments ought to be viewed in relation to their generally low estimation of the abilities of Diodorus as a writer of history.7 Hornblower even lists a number of correspondences between Diodorus and Polybius, which demonstrates, in her view, that ‘there is general imitation

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Brian Sheridan of Polybius’.8 Unfortunately, Hornblower does not discuss these passages. However, once we cast aside the traditional contempt for Diodorus and examine the evidence it will be possible to develop a more nuanced understanding of Diodorus and the Bibliotheke and of the historiographical tradition which underpinned it.9 The problem, in my view, is that the correspondences between Diodorus and Polybius, which have long been noted, have never been examined in detail. With few exceptions therefore, Diodorus is viewed as derivative.10 Furthermore, the weaknesses of Stylianou’s and Hornblower’s arguments are evident in other respects of which I will mention two. Hornblower falls into a bout of name-calling in order to make the point that Diodorus should not be treated seriously:11 Niebuhr described him as ‘naïve, unlearned, totally spiritless, without judgment, silly incompetent even as an epitomiser’, one of the ‘worst historians who has come down to us in either of the languages of antiquity from any period’; and Mommsen, equally damning, spoke of the ‘incredible foolishness and even more incredible unscrupulousness of this most miserable of all writers’.

The second example relates to Stylianou’s use of defensive footnotes: having laughed off Diodorus’ claim that he spent thirty years writing and preparing the Bibliotheke, he asks us to compare a superior historian such as Dio Cassius who spent a mere twelve years on his history.12 A glance at the footnotes, however, tells us that Dio Cassius may have spent only twelve years writing his history, but he spent another ten preparing it. I should add that I have chosen some of the harsher comments. In addition, several writers over the last thirty years have attempted to take a different approach by testing some of the assumptions which underpin received wisdom on Diodorus and the Bibliotheke.13 Diodorus and his sources It is impossible to discuss the Bibliotheke at any length without looking at the relationship between Diodorus and his sources. In this paper his relationship to one particular source, Polybius, will be fundamental, but a more general discussion is necessary at the outset. For the majority of scholars Diodorus is little more than an unintelligent compiler who achieved no originality in any aspect of his work.14 However, in one aspect at least Diodorus did achieve originality; this was in the conception of his Bibliotheke.15 Before Diodorus no writer had attempted to record the history of the world from the beginnings of time – including the mythical past – down to his own day.16 Even if this is accepted, many scholars will point to a slavish, almost mechanical reliance on his sources for the narrative of the Bibliotheke.17 There is no doubt that

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3. Diodorus’ Reading of Polybius’ Universalism Diodorus did depend on literary sources for his information; he was writing non-contemporary history and the libraries of Rome were indispensable for such a task.18 However, there is evidence that Diodorus was a critical reader of these sources and not a mere siphon. This is evident from the numerous citations of earlier historians – and indeed poets, philosophers and orators – which demonstrate that Diodorus did not always accept prima facie information which he found in any given writer. In addition, Diodorus was willing and able to gather information during his travels beyond the libraries of Rome.19 In the first section of this paper, therefore, I want to consider some examples which demonstrate Diodorus’ ability to read his sources critically.20 In book 14 Diodorus notes the size of the army mustered by the Carthaginians before their invasion of Sicily in 396 BC.21 More importantly Diodorus compares two sets of figures – the first from Ephorus, the second from Timaeus – demonstrating that Diodorus consulted two sources on this point of detail.22 Moreover, the level of detail involved in this reference indicates that Diodorus had both sources close at hand while he was composing this section or,23 at the very least, that he had taken sufficiently detailed notes in order to allow him to draw this comparison of troop numbers.24 Another illustration of Diodorus’ methodology concerns his comparison of authors on more than points of detail. Such source references demonstrate emphatically, in my view, that Diodorus used and compared two or more sources for substantial sections of his narrative. One example of this type of reference comes from book 3 and involves the use of Agatharchides and Artemidorus. Diodorus explains his use of those two authors as follows: We must distinguish between the historians: many have written histories of Egypt and Ethiopia, of which some have relied on false reports while others have, in order to add flavour, fabricated many stories themselves are not trustworthy. On the other hand, Agatharchides of Cnidus, in the second book of his work on Asia, the geographer Artemidorus of Ephesus, in his eighth book, and certain others who live in Egypt have formed the basis of my account and are on the whole accurate (Diod. Sic. 3.11.2).25

This is one of the most explicit source references in the Bibliotheke and it indicates that Diodorus was more industrious than scholars have previously believed. The reference outlines Diodorus’ methods while composing his account of Egypt and Ethiopia in book 3. This passage informs us that Diodorus’ account is a combination of several elements: book 2 of Agatharchides’ On Asia, book 8 of Artemidorus of Ephesus and ‘certain others whose homes were in Egypt’.26 Diodorus then teases out his methodology a little further, specifically in relation to his independent research:27

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Brian Sheridan In addition, when I visited Egypt myself I met with many of the priests and had words with not a few of Ethiopian ambassadors who were in Egypt. Having inquired carefully with them on each topic and having tested the words of the historians we have composed our account in accordance with those things on which they all agree (Diod. Sic. 3.11.3).

This reference indicates that Diodorus did not accept prima facie the accounts provided by Agatharchides and Artemidorus, but rather that he compared ‘the words of the historians’ with the original primary sources. The original primary sources in this case are the temple archives, to which he had access while he was in Alexandria.28 To the material found in the temple archives, Diodorus added the information that he acquired through conversations with Ethiopian ambassadors in order to augment the accounts of Agatharchides and Artemidorus. The same method is proposed for his description of Arabia which, he tells us, will be based on ‘the royal records preserved in Alexandria, and in part upon what we have learned from men who have seen it with their own eyes’ (3.38.1) and again in his proposal to describe Britain (3.38.2).29 In this section I have argued that Diodorus was a more critical reader than some have thought. In the following section I will look more closely at his relationship with one particular source – Polybius. I will argue that Diodorus did not try to imitate Polybius but rather that he was influenced by his ideas on the writing of history and that the Bibliotheke is the result of that influence. The correspondences between Diodorus and Polybius There are similarities between some of the statements made by Diodorus in the General Proem and Polybius in the Introduction to his Histories.30 As I noted earlier, some modern scholars propound the view that Diodorus simply took these statements from Polybius in order to add a veneer of quality to the opening of the Bibliotheke. Such a view fails, however, to take account of the aims and objectives of both writers. I will begin by examining the utility of history as set out by the two historians. On the basis of this it is clear that the best education is one that is gained from universal history. For it is this alone which, without any danger, allows us to decide what is fitting at any time in any circumstance (Polyb. 1.35.9-10). By introducing an education that is useful and free from danger they secure for their readers through this universal history a most noble experience (Diod. Sic. 1.1.1).

For Polybius history offers the reader experience of many situations without the necessity of having to go through them. Diodorus makes a

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3. Diodorus’ Reading of Polybius’ Universalism similar claim. This is an example of a direct correspondence, which means the same thing for both authors. However, the utility of history had been a persistent theme with historians since Thucydides,31 if not earlier.32 It is not evidence that Diodorus copied an idea which he found in Polybius. Moreover, Diodorus was aware of the importance of the historiographical tradition and of his debt to that tradition and this is a point which he makes quite clearly at the beginning of the Bibliotheke.33 In the following two passages we will see another correspondence between the two writers. However, it will be evident that the similarities are superficial as both writers develop a more detailed explanation of their objectives. Although the benefit of history for the reader lies in the number and variety of circumstances contained therein, most writers have written either of one people, one city or of isolated wars. Few, on the other hand, have attempted to write a universal history which starts at the beginning and ends with their own day (Diod. Sic. 1.3.2). Although most historians have undertaken to write of isolated wars and other events which were connected with them, none, as far as I can see, have attempted to understand the broader picture, to discover when events happened and how and what was the final result (Polyb. 1.4.3).

It is not difficult to see the influence of Polybius on Diodorus in this passage. However, it should also be apparent that Diodorus and Polybius have different ideas on how to improve on earlier writers. Polybius sees the problems with history written of isolated events; Diodorus wants to write of ‘the events connected to all peoples’. Both Polybius and Diodorus proceed to explain further why their particular brand of history will be better than their predecessors’. Once again, as with the passages quoted above, we see in the following excerpts that though there is a correspondence between the authors, there is a deviation between the two passages: It is impossible for us to achieve this comprehensive view from those histories which record isolated events: one might as well try to obtain an impression of the shape, arrangement and order of the whole world by visiting each of its most famous cities in turn or looking at separate plans of them, an approach which is not in the least likely to yield the right result. It has always seemed to me that those who believe they can obtain a just and well-proportioned view of history as a whole by reading separate and specialised reports of events, are behaving like a man who, when he has examined the dissected parts of a body which was once alive and beautiful, imagines that he has beheld the living animal in all its grace and movement … The fact is that we can obtain no more than an impression of a whole from a part, but certainly neither a thorough knowledge nor an accurate understanding (Polyb. 1.4.5-10).34

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Brian Sheridan For Polybius, ‘histories which record isolated events’ prevent the reader from gaining a comprehensive view of an event. To understand an individual event it must be seen in a broader context. It is only then that the historian can examine the causes and repercussions of that event. It is for this reason that Polybius will write the type of history that he does. When we look at the corresponding passage from the Bibliotheke there is a difference. On the whole, such a history is better than all others to the same degree as the whole is more useful than the part and continuity than discontinuity, and, again, as an event whose date has been examined thoroughly is more useful than one of which it is not known when it happened (Diod. Sic 1.3.8).

When Diodorus tells us that ‘the whole is more useful than the part and continuity than discontinuity’, there are clear echoes of Polybius. Like Polybius, he also identifies the limitations of earlier historical monographs, but unlike Polybius, Diodorus points to the span of such histories. While Polybius focuses his gaze and that of his reader on one event and attempts to write a comprehensive history of that one event, Diodorus is interested and will write the history of all events based not on cause and effect but on a chronological spine. He will start at the beginning and continue until he reaches his own day. Polybius’ influence on Diodorus is evident in the General Proem. However, Diodorus does not imitate Polybius; rather, he develops his ideas so that they have a rationale within the Bibliotheke, which is significantly different from the rationale they have within the context of the Histories. They were both aware of the need to develop new formats for the writing of history. In answer to this need both choose to write universal histories. Ultimately, however, Polybius’ Histories and Diodorus’ Bibliotheke have very little in common. Polybius’ view of universal history In contrast with Hartog and Liddel (in this volume) I find it difficult to outline Polybius’ conception of universal history. Hartog argues that historians reflect the events which they record: thus, Polybius was able to write universal history because ‘from this point onwards, history becomes an organic whole … and all events bear a relationship and contribute to a single end’.35 Thus, he argues the history of the rise of Rome was a universal history. Was this just one of many possible universal histories? Following on from this, Liddel suggests that Polybius distinguished two types of universal history: the Ephorean on the one hand and his own, a history which aimed at a ‘general and comprehensive scheme’ of events on the other. In the following section I look at some of Polybius’ comments and argue that Polybius struggles to set out what he means when he talks of universal history.

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3. Diodorus’ Reading of Polybius’ Universalism In book 2 Polybius tells us that he had no predecessors when it came to universal history:36 ‘For I do not confine myself, as earlier writers have done, to the history of one nation alone, such as Greece or Persia, but have set myself to describe what was happening in all the known parts of the world at once.’ In contrast he tells us later that Ephorus of Cyme was the ‘first and only’ to write such a history.37 Ephorus wrote a history in thirty books, which began with the return of the Heracleidae and culminated with the siege of Perinthus in 340 BC. It included accounts of the Barbarian east as well as the Greek sphere. Perhaps it is owing to the inclusion of the material pertaining to the Barbarians – thus, his narrative covered more than one nation – that Polybius accorded Ephorus the accolade of being the first universal historian.38 However, one might ask if there is, in fact, a contradiction between these two statements? It is possible that Polybius means that many had attempted, but only Ephorus had succeeded in writing universal history. However, such an interpretation raises another issue. For it is difficult, I would suggest, to discern many, if any, similarities between the thinking of Polybius and Ephorus.39 Thus we must look for further clarification from Polybius. So what can we learn of Polybius’ historical objectives? Near the beginning of his introduction, Polybius provides a critique of the historiographical tradition. There, he claimed that ‘nobody … had made the effort to examine the general and comprehensive scheme of events’.40 This is an important statement in relation to Polybius’ historical objectives and it gives us some understanding of the type of history that he will be writing, and that is often assumed to be universal history.41 When Polybius looks back on the works of earlier historians, he concludes that the limited scope of their works detracted from their historical value, but this is only part of the problem. As a result of the limited scope of their works, historians have not explained adequately the reasons why isolated wars and events happened. For as Polybius continues: We must conclude that specialised studies and monographs contribute very little to our grasp of the whole and our conviction of its truth. On the contrary, it is only by combining and comparing the various parts of the whole with one another and noting their resemblances and their differences that we shall arrive at a comprehensive view, and thus encompass both the practical benefits and the pleasures that the reading of history affords (Polyb. 1.4.10-11).42

However, having noted the problems with earlier works of history and indicating the advantages that universal history has over specialised studies, Polybius subsequently states that it would not be possible to write a universal history. Polybius explains his rationale in the following way: It will therefore be my task to describe first of all how and at what date the Romans established themselves in Italy, and what considerations impelled

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Brian Sheridan them to cross the sea to Sicily, which was the first country beyond the shores of Italy on which they set foot. The actual cause of their crossing must be stated without comment, for if I were to pursue the cause of the cause, I should fail to establish either the starting point or the fundamental principle of my history. The starting-point must be fixed at a moment which is agreed and recognised by all, and can be clearly identified from events, even though this may require me to retrace my steps for a short period and summarise the intermediate happenings (Polyb. 1.5.2-5).43

It is evident from Polybius’ remarks that he does not believe that it is possible to write universal history as it would later be envisaged by Diodorus. For had Polybius attempted to find the ‘cause of the cause’, his work would have lost its focus. As a result Polybius is content to fix the starting point of his history at a moment in the recent past, specifically the year 264 BC which is the end point of Timaeus of Tauromenium’s history.44 In fact, Polybius’ Histories, while it eschews isolated wars and their connected events, is itself something less than he has promised. He then describes exactly what his theme is to be:45 There can surely be nobody so petty or apathetic in his outlook that he has no desire to discover by what means and under what system of government the Romans succeeded in less than fifty-three years in bringing under their rule almost the whole of the inhabited world, an achievement which is without parallel in human history (Polyb. 1.1.5).46

Polybius, therefore, emphasises the importance of geographical breadth in a universal history. Polybius’ universal vision is limited, however, by his choice of subject and by his perception of the movement of history. Polybius does not view history as a linear progression. Rather, he appears to view history as converging towards a point; he views the emergence of Rome as a world power in those terms and, thus, sets out to write his Histories. Universal history, for Polybius, is a way in which it is possible to make sense of the emergence of Rome.47 Diodorus’ view of universal history Diodorus leaves the reader under no illusion regarding the scope of his history and the deficiencies he had noticed in earlier historians.48 For him the problem is primarily a matter of temporal depth. The longer the time span covered by a historian the more beneficial the history will be. Diodorus sums up the problem with earlier historians thus: Most writers have written either of one people, one city or of isolated wars. Few, on the other hand, have attempted to write a universal history which starts at the beginning and ends with their own day (Diod. Sic. 1.3.2).

It is reasonable to compare Diodorus’ comments on earlier historians with

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3. Diodorus’ Reading of Polybius’ Universalism those made by Polybius. Any author setting out to write a universal history would make the same observations. In addition, Polybius did not in Diodorus’ view, at least, ‘[record] the events connected with all peoples’. Although Diodorus, like Polybius, reflects on the scope of earlier works of history, he shapes his criticism of them in a manner different from Polybius. He does not emphasise the lack of perspective that results from history written of ‘isolated wars’. Diodorus sums the problem simply as a failure to ‘record the events connected with all peoples’. Essentially the problem is a lack of universality in the histories that have been written in the past. While Diodorus does reflect the statements found in Polybius, he is justified in making the comments because from his point of view, nobody including Polybius had written anything but the history of isolated events. Diodorus’ solution to the problem is also different to the solution offered by Polybius. Diodorus tells us: For if one handed down to memory the history of the whole world, as if it was one city, beginning with the most ancient times and continuing down to his own time, it is clear that he would have a great task, yet he would have written the most useful universal history for the interested reader (Diod. Sic. 1.3.6).

This is the defining statement of the Bibliotheke. Diodorus, like Polybius, emphasises the advantages that universal history has over the histories of isolated events. Yet when we consider the scope of the Bibliotheke and compare it with the scope of the Histories of Polybius the similarities end. Diodorus’ history will encompass all events including the mythological period down to the author’s own day, ‘whereas Polybius produced a work organised around a particular moment in history’.49 It is important to judge Diodorus’ history by examining the relationship between the General Proem and the Bibliotheke. Only by understanding the Bibliotheke on its own terms can we see how it is distinct from the histories that have preceded it. Based on this analysis Diodorus is, from the outset of the Bibliotheke, making a statement which is at odds with the ideas found in Polybius’ Introduction. In contrast with Polybius, Diodorus’ vision of universal history is more extensive. Like Polybius, Diodorus advocates the importance of geographical breadth when writing universal history. Thus he will cover the ‘affairs of the entire world’. Unlike Polybius, however, Diodorus prioritises the need for chronological depth in a truly universal history. The reason, I suggest, is that Diodorus views history as a linear progression moving relentlessly from the mythical past right down to the present day and on into the future. For Diodorus, therefore, the universal historian must strive to capture on the page the movement of history.

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Brian Sheridan The aspirations of the age In a recent article Katherine Clarke concludes that universal history was ‘the product of the aspirations of the age … the ambitions for world conquest harboured by Pompey, Julius Caesar and Augustus formed the continuous backdrop for the writing of this type of universal account’.50 In the final section of this paper I want to suggest an alternative factor which led Diodorus to write universal history. In the first part of this paper I noted the influence of Polybius; in this section I will make some brief comments on the influence of Augustus and the Roman project. The Bibliotheke did not, in my view, seek to glorify or to reflect the grand ambitions of Augustan Rome. In this respect, as I noted above, Diodorus provides a contrast with Polybius. Indeed, in this regard we ought to remember that Diodorus was a Sicilian émigré who saw his homeland used as a pawn by successive Roman generals and governors.51 Although Diodorus does pay at least two compliments to Rome, on the whole he is at best ambivalent to his adopted city: he thanked her for the libraries and for ridding Sicily of the tyrants.52 Moreover, of the two great cities in which Diodorus resided, it is the Egyptian capital, Alexandria, which he considered to be the first city of the civilised world.53 Universal history, therefore, provided Diodorus with the opportunity to place Rome within a broader context. It also gave Diodorus, and his readers, a different perspective: Rome may be today’s superpower but history in general and universal history in particular teaches us that empires rise and fall. Moreover, Diodorus was not the only writer of his age to use universal history for this purpose. A younger contemporary of Diodorus, the poet Ovid, adopted a similar approach in the Metamorphoses.54 At the end of the poem Ovid puts a speech into the mouth of Pythagoras, who muses on the rise and fall of empires:55 So we see times change and nations rise and fall. Troy was so great in her wealth and people that for ten years she was able to lose so many men during the war; but now humbled and all her glorious wealth is ancestral burrows and ancient ruins and dust … Now, Dardanian Rome, so rumour has it, is rising; beside that river that flows from the Apennines. Foundations are being laid for a mighty city, one that changes as she grows and the time will come when it is the capital of the world (Ov. Met. 15.420-35).

The most important part of the speech is, in my view, what Pythagoras does not say but which the logical implication of the speech is: that in the end, Rome must fall. In the case of Ovid it may be literary one-upmanship. By writing an epic poem whose narrative begins with the creation out of chaos and ends with the year of Ovid’s birth, the poem literally consumes the Aeneid, the Epic of Rome. Diodorus and Ovid were contemporaries in a changing world and each in their own way attempted to represent that world. For Ovid, the image

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3. Diodorus’ Reading of Polybius’ Universalism of Rome, created so earnestly by Vergil and Augustus, may have been only one reality. In his own way Diodorus also attempted to explain his world. There is also no doubt, in my view, that Diodorus was influenced by Polybius. In conclusion, I would suggest that while Polybius chose universal history as the ideal canvas upon which to sketch the emerging dominance of Rome, Diodorus Siculus chose universal history for a very different reason. Diodorus viewed universal history as one possible way by which he could place Rome’s achievement into a broader context. Notes 1. I thank Dr Peter Liddel and Dr Andy Fear and all the delegates who made the Universal History conference such an enjoyable event. I would like to thank Ruth O’Hara and Billy Hanan and the anonymous referee for reading and commenting on a draft version of this paper and Mark Humphries for guiding this piece of research through its formative stages. Finally, I would like to take full credit for all of the errors that remain. 2. Nock (1959) 5, to take one example, referred to Diodorus as having the ‘proem style of a small man with pretensions’. 3. Wesseling (1746) pace drew attention to correspondences between Diodorus and Polybius without, however, drawing any assumptions from those correspondences. Kunz (1935) 73-82 argued that Diodorus had drawn the material for his General Proem from Polybius. Sacks (1990) 9-11 provided the first re-evaluation of Diodorus’ source for the General Proem; he argued that Diodorus was not indebted to any individual source for such non-narrative material. Sacks (1981b) 434-3 provides an important study of Diodorus’ non-narrative material. 4. Hornblower (1981) 25. 5. Hornblower (1981) 26. 6. Stylianou (1998) 23. Cf. Rubincam (1998b). 7. Stylianou (1998) 1 states at the outset of his commentary that the ‘cardinal fact about Diodorus is that he was a second-rate epitomator who generally used first-rate sources’. He ends his review of Sacks (1990) with the following remark: ‘Had these survived (the narrative histories and the chronographers) who would pay the slightest attention to Diodorus?’ Such a comment shows a misunderstanding of Diodorus and his place within the historiographical tradition, which this chapter seeks to address. Stylianou, however, is not alone: many before him have made similar comments. In fact there is a circular argument at work here: Diodorus is a bad historian, therefore ideas which are of any interest must be taken from elsewhere, ergo, Diodorus is a copier. Sacks (1981b) 442 correctly notes that ‘The entire question of intellectual influence upon Diodorus has been prejudiced by early assumptions’. 8. Hornblower (1981) 25 n 28. 9. See n. 29 below. 10. Palm (1955) demonstrated that Diodorus’ language was consistent throughout regardless of which source he may have been using at any given stage. This was an important basis for all future studies of the Bibliotheke. Drews (1960), (1962); Sacks (1981) 434-41, (1990), (1996) 213-32; Rubincam (1969), (1987) 31328, (1998a) 67-87, (1998b) 210-14; Green (2006); Even more recently, Wirth (2007) has added to our understanding of the second half of the Bibliotheke. Bosworth (2003) 193-5 also provides a useful discussion of later writers such as Diodorus.

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Brian Sheridan 11. Hornblower (1981) 19. 12. Stylianou (1998) 21. 13. See n. 10 above. 14. Knock (1959) 5; Murray (1975) 215; Hornblower (1981) 17; Wecowski (2004) 160. 15. Rubincam (1987) 315. 16. Diod. Sic. 1.3.2. 17. Wachsmuth (1895) 97; Schwartz (1905) 669; Meister (1973-4) 454-9; Bizière (1975) ix; Rutter (1976) 157-8; Hornblower (1981) 28; Stylianou (1998) 2. 18. At 1.4.3 Didorus refers to the libraries in Rome and their importance for his research. There is certainly no question that Diodorus claimed to be doing anything other than using literary sources. In fact, it is Diodorus himself (1.5.2) who complains about literary pirates. 19. 1.4.1-3; 1.44.1-2. Hornblower (1981) 25 states that ‘claims to have traveled widely in order to avoid the mistakes of the common historians is certainly false …’. Billows (1990) 343 n. 32 is less convinced of the falsity of Diodorus’ comments. 20. A comprehensive examination of these references will appear in a forthcoming article. Here I will take some examples which should prove the general point. 21. 14.54.5-6. Similar examples may be found as follows: Ctesias and Herodotus (2.15.1-2, 2.32.), Ephorus and Timaeus (13.54.5, 13.60.5, 13.80.5, 14.54.6), Cleitarchus and Ctesias (2.7.3), Oenopides of Chios and Agatharchides (1.41.1-4), Timaeus and some unnamed historians (20.79.5, 20.89.5), Ctesias and Athenaeus (2.20.3). 22. Schwartz (1905) 669, 687; Stylianou (1998) suggests that Diodorus used an unknown chronographer from which he took comparisons of this type. 23. On Diodorus’ use of Timaeus and Ephorus, see Pearson (1984) 1-20 who argues against Laqueur’s theory (1936) 1076-1203, that Diodorus used Ephorus as his principal source and then inserted extracts from Timaeus. Also see Bissa, in this volume, 2-4, 8. Pelling (1979) and (1980) provides a useful examination of ancient research methods which are an important piece of the puzzle; space constraints prevent me from discussing them here. 24. Diodorus includes a lot of detail on troop numbers in the Bibliotheke. For example, he is the only source to provide a breakdown of the army which Alexander led into Asia in 336 BC (17.17.3-4). 25. All translations, unless stated otherwise, are my own. 26. See 3.11.3 where Diodorus refers to his conversations with Ethiopian ambassadors who were visiting Egypt while he was there. 27. Further examples of independent research are: discussion with Egyptian priests (1.37.4, 1.69.7), examination of temple archives (1.69.7), royal archives in Alexandria, libraries at Rome (1.4.2, 1.4.5), and conversations with Ethiopian ambassadors (3.11.3). 28. Diod. Sic. 1.44.1-2 tells us that he visited Alexandria sometime between 60 and 56 BC. 29. Diodorus’ description of Britain is not extant. It was to be attached to his narrative of the deeds of Julius Caesar. 30. Polyb. 1.35.9-10 with Diod. Sic. 1.1.1; Polyb. 1.4.3. with Diod. Sic. 1.3.2; Polyb. 1.4.5-10 with Diod. Sic. 1.3.8. 31. Thuc. 1.22; 2.48.3; Isoc. Nic. 35, Arch. 59; Arist. Rh. 1.1368a29. 32. This was a constant idea as we can see from at least two Roman historians, Tac. Ann. 3.65 and Sall. Iug. 4-5 in which both writers refer to the utility of history. 33. At 1.5.2 Diodorus requests that, ‘what we have done well may not be the

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3. Diodorus’ Reading of Polybius’ Universalism object of envy, and that the matters wherein our knowledge is defective may receive correction at the hands of more able historians’. Wirth 2007 argues that this was one of the reasons why Diodorus concentrated on Rome in the second half of the Bibliotheke, it was not to glorify her rise but rather a warning against a future fall, a future fall that might be prevented by history. 34. Tr. I. Scott-Kilvert. 35. 1.3.4 (tr. I. Scott-Kilvert). 36. 2.37.4. 37. 5.33.2. At 5.33.1 Polybius notes that some had claimed to write universal history. 38. Diodorus, 5.1.4, praises Ephorus for the arrangement of his material because Diodorus tells the reader Ephorus wrote history kata genos. On the misunderstanding of this term see Drews (1963) 244-55 and (1976) 497-8. Drews concludes that Ephorus attempted (only attempted because it was not always possible) to concentrate on one theatre of action in any given book, at least this is what Diodorus appears to be telling us. 39. On this, see Sacks (1981) 98. There, Sacks notes that Dion. Hal. On Thuc. 5-6 did not distinguish universal history as an independent sub-genre. 40. 1.4.3. 41. Shutt (1938) 54; Walbank (1958) 9; Marincola (2001) 121. 42. Tr. I. Scott-Kilvert. 43. Tr. I. Scott-Kilvert. 44. Shutt (1938) 53 makes this point; it was of course traditional to begins one’s history at the closing point of one’s predecessor. Polybius claims that the date is agreed upon, but by whom? It would appear from the date chosen that the answer to that question is Timaeus. 45. Polyb. 1.1.5-6. 46. Translated by I. Scott-Kilvert. 47. For an alternative view, see Hartog (in this volume). 48. 1.3.1. 49. Sacks (1981a) 97. 50. Clarke (1999) 277-8. Compare Alonso-Núñez (2002) 96 who argues that the Augustan age saw the flourishing of universal history, not its genesis. 51. See Bissa, in this volume, who discusses the influence of contemporary events on Diodorus’ depiction of good and bad statesmen. 52. Diod. Sic. 1.4.2 (libraries); 19.1.1 (tyrants). For a discussion of Diodorus and Rome, see Sacks (1990) 117-59; Wirth (2008) pace. 53. Diod. Sic. 17.52.5. 54. Wheler (1995) 203; Wheeler (2002) 164. 55. Cf. Ov. Met. 1.2-4 introduces the poem in terms similar to those found in Diodorus’ General Proem: ‘spin me a thread from the world’s beginning to my own lifetime, in one continuous poem’.

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Brian Sheridan Billows, R.A. (2000), ‘Polybius and Alexander historiography’, in Alexander the Great in Fact and Faction (Oxford). Bosworth, A.B. (2003), ‘Plus ça change … ancient historians and their sources’, Classical Antiquity 22: 167-97. Biziere, F. (1975), Diodore de Sicile: Bibliotheque historique Livre XIX (Paris). Burton, A. (1972), Diodorus Siculus Book 1: A Commentary (Leiden). Clarke, K. (1999), ‘Universal perspectives in historiography’, in C.S. Krauss (ed.), The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts (Leiden): 249-79. Clarke, K. (2008), Making Time for the Past: Local History and the Polis (Oxford). Drews, R. (1960), ‘Historical Objectives and Procedures of Diodorus Siculus’ (Diss., Johns Hopkins). Drews, R. (1962), ‘Diodorus and his sources’, American Journal of Philology 83: 383-92. Drews, R. (1963), ‘Ephorus and history written kata genos’, American Journal of Philology 84: 244-55. Drews, R. (1976), ‘Ephorus’ kata genos history revisited’, Hermes 104: 497-8. Green, P. (2006), Diodorus Siculus Books 11-12.37.1 Greek History 480-431 The Alternative Version (Texas). Hornblower, J. (1981), Hieronymus of Cardia (Oxford). Laqueur, R. (1936), ‘Timaios’, in G. Wissowa (ed.), Pauly’s Real-Encyclopädie der klassischen Alterumswissenschaft (Stuttgart), 6: 1076-1203. Meister, K. (1973-4), ‘Absurde Polemik bei Diodor’, Helikon 13-14: 454-9. Marincola, J. (2001), Greek Historians (Oxford). Momigliano, A. (1987), ‘The origins of universal history’ in On Pagans, Jews and Christians (Middleton, CT): 31-57. Murray, O. (1975), Review of Burton (1972) in Journal of Hellenic Studies 95: 214-15. Palm, J. (1955), Über Sprache und Stil des Diodoros von Sizilien (Lund). Pelling, C.B.R. (1979), Plutarch’s method of work in the Roman lives’, Journal of Hellenic Studies 99: 74-96. Pelling, C.B.R. (1980), ‘Plutarch’s adaptation of his source-material’, Journal of Hellenic Studies 100: 127-40. Peremans, W. (1967), ‘Diodore de Sicile et Agatharchide de Cnide’, Historia 16: 432-55. Rubincam, C. (1969), ‘Diodorus and His Sources’ (Diss., Harvard). Rubincam, C. (1987), ‘The organization and composition of Diodorus’ Bibliotheke’, Echoes du Monde Classique 31: 313-28. Rubincam, C. (1997), ‘The organization of material in Graeco-Roman world histories’, in P. Binkley (ed.), Pre-Modern Encyclopaedic Texts (Leiden): 127-36. Rubincam, C. (1998a), ‘Did Diodorus Siculus take over cross-references from his sources?’, American Journal of Philology 119: 67-87. Rubincam, C. (1998b), ‘How many books did Diodorus originally intend to write?’, Classical Quarterly 48: 210-14. Rubincam, C. (1998c). ‘New approaches to the study of Diodorus facilitated by electronic texts’, Mediterraneo Antico 1: 505-13. Rubincam, C. (2003), ‘Numbers in Greek poetry and historiography: quantifying Fehling’, Classical Quarterly 53: 448-63. Rutter, N.K. (1973), ‘Diodorus and the foundation of Thurii’, Historia 22: 155-76. Sacks, K. (1981a), Polybius on the Writing of History (California). Sacks, K. (1981b), ‘The lesser prooemia of Diodorus Siculus’, Hermes 110: 434-41.

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3. Diodorus’ Reading of Polybius’ Universalism Sacks, K. (1990), Diodorus Siculus and the First Century (Princeton). Sacks, K. (1996), ‘Diodorus Siculus: conformity and creativity’ in S. Hornblower (ed.), Greek Historiography (Oxford): 213-32. Schwartz, E. (1905) ‘Diodoros’, in G. Wissowa, (ed.), Pauly’s Real-Encyclopädie der klassischen Alterumswissenschaft (Stuttgart), 5: 663-704. Shutt, R.J.H. (1938) ‘Polybius: a sketch’, Greece & Rome 8: 50-7. Stylianou, P.J. (1998), A Historical Commentary on Diodorus Siculus XV (Oxford). Wachsmuth, C.W. (1895), Einleitung in das Studium der alten Geschichte (Leipzig). Walbank F.W. (1945), ‘Phalaris’ bull in Timaeus (Diod. Sic. XIII.90.4-7)’, Classical Quarterly 59: 39-42. Walbank F.W. (1958), A Historical Commentary on Polybius vol. 1 (Oxford). Walbank F.W. (1972), Polybius (California). Wecowski, M. (2004), ‘The hedgehog and the fox: form and meaning in the Prologue of Herodotus’, Journal of Hellenic Studies 124: 143-64. Wheeler, S. (1995), ‘Ovid’s use of Lucretius in Metamorphoses 1.67-8’, Classical Quarterly 45: 200-3. Wheeler, S. (2002), ‘Ovid’s Metamorphoses and universal history’, in D.S. Levene (ed.) Clio and the Poets: Augustan Poetry and the Traditions of Ancient Historiography (Leiden): 163-90. Wirth, G. (2007), Katastrophe und Zukunftshoffnung. Mutmaßungen zur zweiten Hälfte von Diodors Bibliothek und ihren verlorenen Büchern (Vienna).

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4

Diodorus’ Good Statesman and State Revenue1 Errietta Bissa Diodorus is not an admired historian; in modern scholarship he is sometimes condemned as an inept and mindless compiler.2 Yet the Bibliotheke constantly exhibits Diodorus’ own perspective, ideas and exegesis of patterns. As Kenneth Sacks rightly argues: ‘once the belief in Diodorus’ incompetence is put aside, it is easy to establish his authorship of important concepts in the Bibliotheke’.3 His interest in mythology and his criticism of his predecessors who rejected it as the exclusive province of mythographers is a telling example, backed up by six books on the subject.4 Diodorus has a particular perspective, both on what universal history is and on what its uses are. For the Sicilian historian, universal history is the history of mankind and the main actors are not events and causality but people.5 The focus of Diodorus on people rather than on events is obvious in his vision of the purpose of universal history; it is a teacher, a moralising force for the betterment of mankind, not merely an explanatory tool for current political circumstances.6 Unlike Polybius, who follows closely the Thucydidean model of kinetic history, Diodorus does not follow a specific model of static or kinetic but prefers a blending of the two in a vision of history that places man at the centre of the stage; events become the expression of human activity.7 In Diodorus’ moralising view of history, a special place is reserved for leaders as major players in events and thus as figures of interest, not only as representatives of larger units, but also as individuals.8 Diodorus is, of course, a product of his own times. Living and writing during the fall of the republic, a time when great personalities dominated the history of the Mediterranean, certainly influenced Diodorus’ perception of previous eras.9 Diodorus views history as a means of education for leaders and, thus he provides examples for their edification. The good statesman has some basic characteristics in the Bibliotheke, which are best seen in the eulogy for Epameinondas of Thebes:10 … in (Epameinondas) all virtues were found together, strength of body and natural oratorical ability and in his soul, brilliance, hatred of money (misarguria), fairness and most of all bravery and strategic talent, beyond that of anyone else. (15.88.3)

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4. Diodorus’ Good Statesman and State Revenue Here, Epameinondas’ aretai are not merely theoretical but are exhibited in, and proven by, his achievements.11 In Diodorus, the good statesman does not fail, but achieves the ultimate goal of making his homeland greater than before.12 This characterisation of Epameinondas has often been attributed to Ephorus, mainly because of the sentiment that Epameinondas brought about the Theban hegemony, which Strabo ascribes to the Kymaian.13 Yet the characteristics of Epameinondas as a good statesman, his fairness, lack of avarice, bravery, strategic talent and oratorical ability, are common to Diodorus’ characterisations of good statesmen throughout the Bibliotheke.14 While Ephorus was most probably the main source for Diodorus’ account of the fourth century, the unity of the characteristics of the good statesman in the Bibliotheke militate against a purely Ephoran narrative in the case of Epameinondas. One of Epameinondas’ virtues is misargur8a, ‘hatred of money’. The word is found in Diodorus alone and provides us with a window into his view of the relationship between the statesman and the economy.15 Misargur8a does not imply ignorance of the economy but, like fairness and brilliance, is one of Epameinondas’ aretai that have to do with the soul.16 Misargur8a is the exact opposite of filargur8a, ‘avarice’ or ‘love of money for its own sake’.17 His usual expression relating to the lack of filargur8a is ¢filargur8a/ ¢fil£rguroj, which means precisely ‘freedom from avarice’ rather than ‘hatred of money’.18 For the opposites, he uses either filargur8a/fil£rguroj or the more common pleonex8a, ‘greediness’ and ‘excess’.19 ,Afilargur8a is a Diodoran word par excellence, since from Homer to the Bibliotheke it is used only once in other texts.20 Diodorus’ decision to use misargur8a only for Epameinondas is interesting. Misargur8a is a very powerful word denoting not simply ‘a lack of avarice’ as ¢filargur8a but an active ‘hatred of money’. The use of the stronger word complements the Diodoran view of Epameinondas as the ultimate good statesman. The relation between leadership and money is a major concern in many of Diodorus’ characterisations. From the Greek world, a good example is Pittacus of Mytilene: (Pittacus) seemed to all to be the perfect man possessing of every virtue. In his laws, he showed himself a statesman and prudent, in his beliefs a just man, in the contest of arms a brave man, and in relation to profit in the greatness of his soul not avaricious (¢fil£rguroj). (9.11.2)

A considerable part of Diodorus’ account of Pittacus, as found in the epitome, relates to his lack of avarice, including two anecdotes describing him turning down monetary awards. His judgement of the Mytilenian lawgiver could not be more positive.21 Diodorus does not mention revenue specifically but Pittacus’ ¢filargur8a is stressed repeatedly in the surviving fragments. The greatest example is, of course, Aristeides the Just, whom Diodorus

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Errietta Bissa applauds for his character and conduct during the initial stages of the Delian League: On the issue of the contributions, he made the division so exact and fair that all the poleis were happy. And as he took part in the achievement of impossible things and achieved the greatest glory over his fairness, for the excess of fairness he was called Just. And at that time the evil of Pausanias robbed the citizens of naval hegemony, while the arete of Aristeides gave Athens that same leadership. (11.47.2-3)22

Turning to Rome, Diodorus singles out ¢filargur8a as the principal arete of Aemilius Paulus, the conqueror of Macedon: And to many it has seemed that Aemilius Paulus superseded in lack of avarice (¢filargur8an) those of the Greeks, who were until that time praised for this, Aristeides and Epameinondas. They, when given money by people for profit, refused to take the bribes, while he having power could have whatever he wanted but wanted nothing. (31.26.2)

Aemilius Paulus is a good statesman in Diodorus and his characterisation is based mainly on his ¢filargur8a; he is even ascribed one of the characteristics of the Diodoran ‘culture-hero’: invention.23 Diodorus’ source for Aemilius Paulus is Polybius, who also stresses Aemilius’ relation with money and compares him with Epameinondas and Aristeides.24 Diodorus, however, adds his own take on events, not only by providing the characterisation of ¢fil£rguroj but also by offering a comparison between Aemilius and current Roman practices.25 Diodorus singles out Caesar as the best of Roman statesmen. Caesar lived during Diodorus’ lifetime and his impact on Roman and Mediterranean politics and reality was part of the historian’s life. In Diodorus’ eyes, Caesar is the ultimate Roman statesman, a parallel to Epameinondas for the Greeks, and deserving both the praise of history and the godhood that has been given him.26 His ¢filargur8a is one of the characteristics that Diodorus specifically mentions: This man throughout exhibited nobility, oratorical skill, strategic talent and lack of avarice (¢filargur8a); for that he deserves to be accepted as just and deserving of the praise of history for his kindness. The extent of his deeds was greater than that of any of the Romans before him. (32.27.3)

Conversely, filargur8a is a characteristic of the Diodoran bad statesman, best illustrated in the characterisation of Hiero of Syracuse. His predecessor and brother, Gelon, is used as the exemplary good tyrant that none of the later tyrants in Sicily managed to emulate.27 Gelon is directly contrasted with his brother Hiero, who is specifically called avaricious and violent:

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4. Diodorus’ Good Statesman and State Revenue Gelon, being loved by everyone for his goodness, lived his life in peace until his death. Then Hiero, the eldest brother, succeeded to the monarchy but did not rule in the same way. He was avaricious (fil£rguroj), violent and generally the opposite to his brother’s simplicity and goodness of heart. (11.67.3-4)

Avarice was, according to Diodorus, the downfall of Perseus, king of Macedon. Perseus is one of Diodorus’ bad statesmen and his filargur8a and desire for personal profit over the enrichment of his homeland are mentioned as the reason for the downfall of the Macedonian kingdom:28 Not abandoning profit and desire for gain even under the most despairing of circumstances can only be thought of as the actions of a man completely insane. One should not wonder how the Romans defeated the Macedonians but rather how the Macedonians managed to resist for four years with such a man as their leader. (30.21.2)

Military issues, strategy and morale do not enter the Diodoran account; for the Sicilian historian, avarice was the downfall of the Macedonians. The comparison with Alexander, the man who made Macedon a world power, is damning for Perseus.29 More importantly, Perseus is directly contrasted with the man who defeated him, Aemilius Paulus.30 The characterisations of the two leaders are directly opposite, since the great virtue of Aemilius was lack of avarice, while the downfall of Perseus and Macedon is attributed specifically to his avaricious character and love of gain. Filargur8a and its opposite ¢filargur8a (or misargur8a in the case of Epameinondas) are seen as attributes of the soul in Diodorus’ statesmen, as is expressly mentioned in the cases of Epameinondas and Pittacus. In some cases, however, the Sicilian historian takes the theme beyond character into the political actions of a statesman, particularly in relation to state revenue. Care of revenues is attributed as a defining policy characteristic of some good statesmen, such as Sitalkes of Thrace: In that time, Sitalces, king of the Thracians, took the throne of a small country. And through his own bravery and talent he increased the kingdom greatly, ruling the conquered fairly, being brave and talented in battle and, further, taking good care of revenues. At the end, he achieved such power that his kingdom in Thrace became larger than that of any of the kings before him. (12.50.1)

Sitalces is not a Greek leader but a Thracian barbarian, yet in the Diodoran view of the universality of history, Sitalces becomes a fine exemplum of the good statesman. Sitalces’ characterisation precedes the narrative of his involvement in the Peloponnesian War and directly influences the reader’s view. The parallels between Sitalces and Epameinondas are clear in their respective characterisations. They are both brave and talented, their rule is fair and these aretai are exemplified in their achieve-

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Errietta Bissa ment of making their respective homelands greater and more powerful than before. Sitalces is not a fil£rguroj: he does not covet money for its own sake, but like his fairness and his bravery, his care for revenues is used to increase the power of his homeland. The characterisation is the same in the case of Philip II of Macedon, especially as exhibited in his use of the Pangaion mines, the increased exploitation of which, Diodorus notes, enabled Philip to make Macedon a major power in the Greek world.31 Philip, like Sitalces, takes care to increase the revenue of the state but is not fil£rguroj as becomes apparent in the implicit contrast with many of the Greeks who, it is implied, let their love of money make them traitors: From these, he quickly amassed great wealth and through the abundance of money, he brought the Macedonian kingship to great heights of power. He minted a gold coinage, which was called Philippeion after him, and thus he put together a great force of mercenaries and bribed many of the Greeks to turn traitor to their homelands. (16.8.6-7)

Most importantly, like Sitalces, Philip uses the revenue amassed to further the cause of his homeland. Diodorus is well-disposed towards Philip and considers him a good statesman. Philip’s positive presentation in the Bibliotheke is seen primarily in the anachronistic relation the historian creates between him and Epameinondas.32 Approval of Philip is also seen in his final characterisation, which differs sharply in its favourable tone to those of Plutarch, Arrian and Theopompus.33 Philip in the Bibliotheke is not the irresponsible meddler we find in Plutarch, he is not Arrian’s flawed father of greatness or Theopompus’ king of vices, but a successful statesman and king in his own right.34 Another of Diodorus’ good statesmen whose economic policy relating to revenue is mentioned is Artaxerxes.35 Artaxerxes’ characterisation as a good statesman is seen in his use of fairness in ruling his subjects, parallel to both Sitalces and Epameinondas.36 A further parallel between Diodorus’ ultimate good statesman, Epameinondas, and Artexerxes is his popularity: (Artaxerxes) took great care of revenues and military affairs and ruled fairly the whole of his kingdom; thus he became extremely popular with the Persians. (11.71.2-3)

The good statesman in the Bibliotheke is implicitly popular; popularity, like an increase of the homeland’s power, is one of the achievements of the good statesman through his aretai. Diodorus does not consider care of revenue merely a minor characteristic of his good statesman but an important aspect of his leadership. This is best illustrated in the case of certain bad statesmen, the later kings of Cyrene, where misappropriation of state revenue is presented as proof of their wickedness. The Battiads exhibit the opposite behaviour to that of

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4. Diodorus’ Good Statesman and State Revenue Sitalces and Philip: instead of increasing the revenue of the state, they appropriate and squander it. The brief comparison with the original Battus is striking, especially since the founder of the dynasty is presented as fair and popular, both characteristics of the good statesman: The later kings (of Cyrene) did not rule like the first Battus had. He, depending solely on his position as king, had ruled fairly and popularly; more importantly, he honoured the gods greatly. But his successors ruled more and more tyrannically, taking the state’s revenues as their own and showing disrespect to the gods. (8.30.1)

Further, the cases of Sitalces and Philip demonstrate that Diodorus does not consider revenue an end unto itself. Care for revenue must play a role in the ultimate goal of the good statesman, the betterment of the homeland. This is best illustrated in Diodorus’ summary judgement of Remphis, one of his quasi-mythological pharaohs, who is condemned as a mere steward, since he amassed but did not use revenue.37 Diodorus clearly blames filargur8a for Remphis’ failed regime, parallel to the Battiads of Cyrene and opposite to the characterisations of good statesmen: After the death of Proteas, his son Remphis succeeded to the throne. He devoted his life to taking care of revenues and amassing wealth but due to his small-mindedness and avarice (filargur8an |qouj) he spent nothing either to adorn the gods or help his people. So he became not king but a good steward and instead of the glory of virtue, he preferred to amass more wealth than his predecessors. (1.62.5-6)

The Diodoran view of the purposes of history and specifically universal history is closely connected to his desire to provide exempla for the edification of his contemporaries and future generations. In his characterisation of statesmen, the Sicilian historian considers money-related issues, such as filargur8a, to have been particularly important in the development of one’s life and career. That becomes particularly obvious where Diodorus points out a statesman’s use and abuse of state revenue. The Sicilian does not provide us with much detail on the practicalities of such use, except in the case of Philip, where the Pangaion mines are specifically mentioned. That is probably a consequence of the brevity of Diodorus’ account and of the variability of probable revenues in different states and areas. It would be easy and well within the tradition of Quellenforschung in modern Diodoran scholarship to ascribe the important place of filargur8a and its opposite, ¢filargur8a, as well as its relation to revenue policies in the Bibliotheke, to some lost historian. Ephorus would be the obvious choice due to his purported connection with the moral perspectives of Isocrates.38 However, the wide chronological spectrum of examples from semi-mythological Egypt to Diodorus’ own lifetime make the subject of

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Errietta Bissa filargur8a/ ¢filargur8a and revenues as part of the characterisation of statesmen a pair of continuous themes in the Bibliotheke. As Sacks rightly argued, such unity of theme demonstrates Diodorus’ creativity and his political and philosophical perspective on leadership.39 Of particular interest is whether the inclusion of this element in the statesman’s characterisation is purely a Diodoran idea or the product of an outside influence beyond that of a particular source. On the one hand, Diodorus was certainly influenced by his own times, experience and political reality. Diodorus was writing at the end of the republic. In the eastern Mediterranean, politics had become the arena of personalities instead of political entities since the death of Alexander. The Hellenistic kingdoms were politically dominated by the kings themselves and the members of court; thus policy was in the hands of individuals rather than councils or assemblies as had been the case in the greater part of the Greek world in the archaic and classical periods. Consequently, a statesman’s attitude to money and particularly his policies towards revenue were simultaneously more important politically and more visible to the public. At the time Diodorus was writing, this situation had also become prevalent in the western Mediterranean as the Roman state was dominated by specific individuals rather than the collective political entities of the Romans. Diodorus was probably more sensitive to this shift since, as a Sicilian, he had been exposed to a long history of individuals dominating politics from as early as the late archaic period, particularly in Sicily’s greatest state, Syracuse. The contemporary situation in the Roman empire, with its great and influential leaders whose attitude to money and policies on revenue affected millions, certainly influenced Diodorus’ view of statesmen throughout history.40 Beyond the contemporary influences on Diodorus’ views, one is bound to question whether the Sicilian historian was further influenced by past historians. Certainly, the inclusion of economic matters and particularly revenue in the characterisation of statesmen appears not to be a widespread phenomenon of the first century BC, given that Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Diodorus’ contemporary, does not include it in his characterisations of statesmen. Possibly Dionysius’ lack of references to the economy or revenues is a reflection of the state of knowledge about the archaic period in his time.41 The loss of such a great part of Hellenistic writing makes the inquiry into pre-Diodoran historiography fraught with difficulty and uncertainty, since one can trace trends mainly through their existence, or lack of it, in the historians of the classical period, long before Diodorus, and later authors of the Roman imperial period. The extant historians of the classical period, Herodotus, Thucydides and Xenophon, exhibit interest in both revenue and statesmen but do not connect the two to the degree and in the way that Diodorus does. For Herodotus, the rarity of discussion of revenue

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4. Diodorus’ Good Statesman and State Revenue is itself interesting; his characterisations are based on other elements of a statesman’s political career. This omission is painfully obvious in the Constitutional Debate where avarice does not even play a role in the tyrant’s bad qualities.42 Even when matters related to wealth are mentioned in a tyrant’s characterisation, such as in the case of Polycrates of Samos, Herodotus is more interested in arrogance than in attitudes to money.43 The only possible exception is Herodotus’ reference to the judgement of Darius by the Persians. Darius, because of his institution of regular tribute, is called a kapelos, a shop-keeper, and unfavourably compared with his predecessor, Cyrus the Great.44 Thucydides was interested in revenue, particularly in relation to its effect on war-efforts, but the role of economic factors (such as those related to the Megarian decree or the Periclean strategy) is overlooked in favour of hubris and imperialism.45 More importantly, Thucydides’ characterisations of politicians are lacking in anything relating to the economy and particularly revenue. That is clearly exhibited in his characterisation of Cleon and the judgement of the politicians of the 420s whose changes in financial policy, successful or not, are known chiefly from inscriptional evidence, especially the tribute reassessment of 425 BC.46 Thucydides is less interested in politicians effecting change than in change itself: this is demonstrated in his reference to the imposition of a pan-Aegean importexport tax in lieu of tribute, where the change is implicitly attributed to the Athenians as a people rather than to the proposal of a specific politician or group.47 Xenophon exhibits almost no interest in revenue and revenue policy in the Hellenika. Interestingly one of the two references to revenue is in a statesman’s characterisation. Polydamas of Pharsalus, a minor figure, is judged as a good statesman by Xenophon on the basis of his hospitality and his care for the Pharsalian revenues.48 However, Polydamas is the single exception in Xenophon’s characterisations, which in their overwhelming majority ignore economic matters. The three extant historical works of the classical period suggest that attitudes to money and particularly revenue policies were of little interest to classical historians. One may even argue that the economy is not truly considered an element of politics, at least as far as politicians are concerned. Yet, judging from Xenophon’s other works, in particular the Poroi, it is clear that revenues and economic policy were of interest to politicians. Moreover, Xenophon includes attitudes towards money and particularly revenue policies in his characterisation of statesmen outside the Hellenika, such as in the Hiero, the Kyropaideia and the Anabasis.49 Clearly, there must be a reason why Xenophon, who otherwise exhibits such interest in revenue policy, excludes it from the Hellenika. The relative chronology of Xenophon’s works (both the Hellenika and the Poroi were written late in his life) shows that he did not have a change of heart or a revelation of the importance of revenue that led him to the Poroi.

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Errietta Bissa Consequently, judging from Xenophon’s different attitude in the Hellenika in comparison to his other works, it is possible that the conventions of historiography in the classical period did not encourage the inclusion of revenue and attitudes to the public economy in the characterisations of statesmen in historical works. The next extant historian is Polybius, who gives revenue and the wealth it accrues for a state a significant role in his work: this is testified by its inclusion in his initial explanation of the power of Rome and its paramount role in explaining the Rhodian disaffection with the Romans.50 In the case of Chairon of Sparta, Polybius also includes a politician’s attitude to revenue in his characterisation.51 Polybius exemplifies the tendency to involve the economy in what is essentially a military history as the backdrop to imperialistic expansion. Although on rare occasions he mentions a statesman’s relationship to money, he does not take the extra step of connecting his characterisation of statesmen with their revenue policy as Diodorus does. Like his extant predecessors, Polybius examines states and revenue only when it directly affects the larger issues of history. Diodorus is the next extant historian in line and embodies the step that his extant predecessors never take. The ideas and the shadowy connections were there long before Diodorus but it is not until the Sicilian that they are made explicit. It is possible that at some point in the Hellenistic period, some other historian, now lost, made similar connections. I will not speculate on the content and style of the lost Hellenistic historians. However, it is clear that in the extant texts, Diodorus is the first to link statesmanship and revenue, to make the public economy a major part of political reality. Until something surfaces that proves otherwise, Diodorus is the undisputed first. The Greek historians of the imperial period are more interested in the public economy and particularly in revenues. Appian singles out revenues, especially those pertaining to the military, as one of the areas of interest to the historian, and throughout his work revenues are mentioned.52 However, he does not make revenue policy a consistent part of his characterisation of politicians, except in an indirect manner, such as in Mark Antony’s posthumous criticism of Caesar’s spending policy.53 Cassius Dio follows a similar route to Appian, since he includes revenues in his presentation of decision-making processes, especially in the early principate as can be seen in the monarchy debate.54 Like Appian, however, he does not include attitudes to money or revenue policy in the characterisation of his statesmen. Arrian, possibly influenced by his source material, does not follow the trend of inclusion, since his only mention of a revenue policy in the Anabasis is in Alexander’s speech at Opis relating to Philip’s revenue policies.55 The similarities between Arrian’s and Curtius’ accounts show that this part of the speech is based on an older source.56 The nearest to Diodorus’ method of inclusion of attitudes to money and revenue in the characterisation of politicians is interestingly not a histo-

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4. Diodorus’ Good Statesman and State Revenue rian but a biographer, Plutarch. Plutarch both in his Lives and in other works includes both attitudes to money and revenue policies in his characterisations with numerous examples, mainly from the Greek world.57 Plutarch’s many references and the parallels between his presentation and that of Diodorus provide us with an interesting insight into the Diodoran tendency. Plutarch is a historical biographer and his interest is in individuals rather than the narrative of events. Diodorus, although he primarily deals with the narrative of events in his work, given his interest in leaders as individuals and policy-makers, approaches a biographical mode of thinking and characterisation. Interestingly, this follows a tendency seen since Xenophon, where his biographical works, such as the Kyropaideia and the Hiero are more interested in revenue policy, than his historical writing in the Hellenika (see n. 49). It is quite clear that while both revenue and statesmen are of interest to historians from Herodotos onwards, Diodorus is the only one to make a clear link between his characterisation of statesmen and their attitude to money and particularly revenue policy. As mentioned above, this to some extent may be attributed to Diodorus’ experience of contemporary politics. Given the scope of Diodorus’ work, which covered the whole of known history to his own times, it is not surprising that the Sicilian historian extended his understanding of contemporary politics and the role of revenue within them to bygone times. Attitudes to money, and policy towards revenue and the public economy in general, appear to be mainly part of the anecdotal tradition of biography rather than history. From Xenophon’s attempts at inclusion, mainly in the Kyropaideia, to Plutarch’s many and varied anecdotes about statesmen’s relation to money and economic policy, biography rather than history appears to be the inspiration and likely source of information for Diodorus’ inclusion of revenue policy in his characterisations. The possible influence of biographical convention in Diodorus’ historical method may be the most likely explanation of not only the inclusion of attitudes to money and revenue policies in his characterisation but also of other aspects of his judgement on situations and individuals, such as the importance of piety.58 In general terms, the historiography of the late republic and empire exhibits a more profound interest in economic policy, particularly in relation to revenues, and its impact on politics, than classical historiography, a trend apparent since Polybius. However, the inclusion of attitudes to money and particularly revenue policy in the characterisation of statesmen appears to be a purely Diodoran addition to ancient historiography, which, nevertheless, did not take hold in the post-Diodoran era. Diodorus’ departure from convention must be attributed to the influence of the biographical tradition as well as on the influence of contemporary politics.

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Errietta Bissa Notes 1. I would like to thank Dr Peter Liddel and Dr Andy Fear, as well as the speakers and audience of the Universal History conference, for their comments and suggestions on an initial version of this paper. My profound thanks to Prof. Hans van Wees for the invitation and to the audience of the Institute of Classical Studies Ancient History Seminar in London for their comments and suggestions on a later version of this paper. I would like to express my gratitude to Prof. Hans van Wees for his encouragement and support in my exploration of Diodorus. My thanks to Miss Charlotte Greenacre and Dr Federico Santangelo for reading and commenting on versions of this paper. I would also like to thank the personnel at the Institute of Classical Studies library in London and the university library at the University of Wales Lampeter for their help and guidance. As usual all mistakes, miscomprehensions and misadventures are my own. A version of this paper appeared in the Lampeter Working Papers in Classics (http://www.lamp.ac.uk/ric/workin_papers). 2. Volquardsen (1868); Schwartz RE (1903); Wilamowitz (1908) 14; Cawkwell (1981) 69; Hornblower (1981) 27; Andrewes (1985) 190; Stylianou (1991), (1998). Of particular interest is the accusation that Diodorus slavishly follows his sources. In the few instances where Diodorus demonstrably follows the works of earlier historians, it is obvious that he follows them closely. Such close attention to his sources should be regarded with admiration and relief, not scorn, since otherwise Diodorus’ value would be greatly diminished. In this respect Diodorus’ value is not as ‘one of the most eligible subjects for the operations of Quellenforschung’, as Hornblower (1981: 19) suggested, but rather he is valuable as a historian who does not depart from his evidence into wild rides of fancy. For an example from classical Greek history, see the parallels between FGrH 70 F191.3-5 and Diodorus 11.59.3. On Diodorus as preserving not creating history, see Sacks (1990: 3). That Diodorus did not follow his sources slavishly or stupidly copying them, see Rubincam (1998a). For the method of the later historians, like Diodorus, who do not depart from their sources, see Bosworth (2003). 3. Sacks (1994) 214. For the most powerful defence of Diodorus the historian, see Sacks (1990). A number of scholars have pointed out Diodorus’ strengths and his contributions to historiography. For Diodorus as the first writer of holistic universal history, see Burton (1972) 37. For the epic scope of Diodorus’ history and its success, see Rubincam (1987) 314. 4. Diod. Sic. 4.1.2-3; Strogetsky (1986) 103. On the moral lessons of myth and the stoic influence on Diodorus in this issue, see Mortley (1996) 90-1. 5. For the influence/expression of the Stoic ideal of the brotherhood of man in Diodorus, see Baldry (1965) 71, 187-8; although note that Baldry attributes these to Poseidonios not Diodorus himself. 6. Diod. Sic. 4.1.4. Strogetsky (1986) 103; Rubincam (1987) 315; Sacks (1994) 215: ‘the use of history as a moral force can be shown to play a significant role in Diodorus’ historical outlook’. On the differences in perspective on the value and influence of history between Diodorus and other historians, see Sacks (1990) 24-5. 7. Kinetic history is the history of battles and events as exemplified by Thucydides, while static history is the history of culture and peoples at peace as exemplified by Herodotus. For more on this division, see Strasburger (1966) and the review by Murray (1968). On Diodorus as a blend of static and kinetic history, see Murray (1972) 212. For the differences of Polybius’ and Diodorus’ views of universal history, see Sheridan in this volume.

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4. Diodorus’ Good Statesman and State Revenue 8. Diod. Sic. 1.1.5; Strogetsky (1986) 104; Lefèvre (2002). 9. Schwartz (1903); Strogetsky (1986) 101. 10. For Epameinondas as the ultimate good statesman in Diodorus, see Drews (1962) 388. 11. Diod. Sic. 15.88.4. 12. Drews (1962) 392. 13. Str. 9.2.2 (FGrH 70 F119). Jacoby (1963) 69 made the connection between Diod. Sic. 15.88.3-4 and Str. 9.2.2. See also Stylianou (1998) 10, 110. 14. Alganza Roldan (1992). 15. LSJ s.v. misargur8a and TLG search (eighth to first century BC). 16. ,Afilargur8a is consistently considered an attribute of the soul in Diodorus, as for example in the case of Pittacus (9.11.2). 17. LSJ s.v. filargur8a. 18. LSJ s.v. ¢filargur8a. 19. LSJ s.v. pleonex8a. Hornblower (1981:50) considers the influence of Hieronymos on Diodorus on the theme of pleonex8a but, as Sacks points out (1990: 20-1) pleonex8a is a constant theme in the Bibliotheke, which is found in books that cannot be sourced back to Hieronymos. 20. [Hp.] Decent. 5.1. This assertion is based on data from TLG search (eighth to first century BC). Even where Diodorus is known to paraphrase his source, as in the case of the characterisation of Aemilius Paulus based on Polybius, ¢filargur8a is a purely Diodoran assertion: compare Diod. Sic. 31.26.2 and Polyb. 31.22. 21. Diod. Sic. 9.11.1. 22. The Diodoran account of the beginnings of the Delian League follows another historian, since Thucydides is reticent on the role of Aristeides. The similar, if more detailed, account of Plutarch (Arist. 24) shows that Aristeides’ actions regarding the phoros were recorded in some historical source. 23. Diod. Sic. 30.20. On culture heroes and their defining characteristics in Diodorus, see Sartori (1984) 494 and Sacks (1990) 68. 24. Polyb. 31.22. 25. Diod. Sic. 31.26.2. Sacks (1990) 47. 26. Diod. Sic. 32.27.3. Rubincam (1998b) 229, 233. Caesar as a ‘culture-hero’ comparable to Alexander and the mythological demigods: Sartori (1984) 530, Sacks (1990) 74-6. 27. Thus, Gelon is the paradigm that Theodoros brings in his castigating speech to the Syracusans against Dionysius: Diod. Sic. 14.66. 28. I disagree with Sacks (1990: 52) on the supposedly variable characterisations of Perseus in Diod. Sic. 30.21.2 and 32.4, since the second passage has to do with the behaviour of the Romans and other imperialists (Philip, Alexander), particularly relating to the employment of epieikia. Perseus is not portrayed as a good statesman nor as a victim on his own right but merely as the recipient of a Roman lack of epieikia. 29. Diod. Sic. 30.21.3. 30. Diod. Sic. 30.20. 31. Diod. Sic. 16.8.6-7. 32. Diod. Sic. 16.2.3. 33. Diod. Sic. 16.95. On the characterisation of Philip in Theopompus, see FGrH 115 F27, F224-5; Alonso-Núñez (1990) 179; Murray (1946); Connor (1967). On the parallels between Philip and Caesar in Diodorus, see Prestianni (1991) 51. 34. Plut. Alex. 9-10; Arr. An. 3.6.5-6. 35. Diod. Sic. 11.71.1-3

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Errietta Bissa 36. On epieikia as part of the good characterisation in Diodorus, see Sacks (1990) 78-9; (1994) 217. For the view that such characterisation shows Diodorus as a poor historian, see Stylianou (1991): ‘the indiscriminate use of words like epieikia and philanthropia is not surprising in a moralising hack and a poor stylist to boot’. 37. Diod. Sic. 1.62.5. On the possible identification of Remphis, see Oldfather (1933) 1.62.5, Wirth et al. (1992) 1.62.5 and Burton (1972) 185. 38. Sacks (1994) 214. I agree with Sacks (1990: 31): ‘Judging the worth of a historical figure or event is obviously not the exclusive characteristic of the so-called Isocratean “school of history”.’ 39. Sacks (1994) 215, 231. 40. On Diodorus’ perspective as subject not conqueror: Sacks (1994) 220. 41. Mentions of revenue in Dionysius: Ant. 20.15 (Brettioi), 8.73-5 (Distribution of land, traditionally 483 BC). Dionysius does mention care for revenues as part of a politician’s responsibilities in his Rh. 5.5. 42. Hdt. 3.80-3. On pleonexia and its absence in the Constitutional Debate, see Gammie (1986) 174, 191. 43. Hdt. 3.122-5. 44. Hdt. 3.89. 45. Revenue and success in war: Thuc. 2.13. Economic impossibility of the Periclean strategy: Cawkwell (1975) 54-5. For Thucydides pushing into the background the Megarian Decree unlike the comic writers, see Ar. Ach. 530-8, and unlike Ephoros, see Diod. Sic. 12.38-40, with Flower (1998) 369. 46. ML 69. For the debate on the exact relation between Kleon and the reassessment, see Meiggs & Lewis (1989) 192-7; Hornblower (1991) 124-5, 137-8. Kallet-Marx (1993) 164-70 argued that Thucydides is interested in results rather than decisions and thus did not mention the reassessment. Although her argument does not consider Thucydides’ dislike of Cleon and the politicians of the 420s, as well as the possible impact of mentioning the reassessment on Thucydides’ portrayal of the Periclean policy, the main point remains valid. Thucydides is interested in ‘first occurrences’ and overall results rather than specific politicians and policies in shaping revenue. 47. Thuc. 7.28.4. 48. References to revenue in the HG: 5.2.16 (Acanthians), 6.1.2-3 (Polydamas). 49. Hier. 9.6-10, 11.5; Cyr. 1.6.9-11, 8.1.9-12; An. 1.9.19. 50. Power of Rome: Polyb. 6.50.6; along with the Roman Politeia and tychê, see Alonso-Núñez (1990) 188. Rhodian disaffection: Polyb. 30.31. 51. Polyb. 24.7.1-7. 52. Praef. 61.1-62.6, Pun. 268-271, BC 1.4.27, 4.2.5, 4.12.99-100. 53. BC 3.2.20. 54. 47.14, 48.34. Bosworth (1988) 99. 55. An. 7.9.3. 56. Quintus Curtius 10.2.15ff. Bosworth (1988) 112. For the similarities and differences between Curtius and Arrian, see Bosworth (1988) 102. Different positions on the initial authorship of the concepts in the Opis speech: Ptolemy: Tarn (1948) 2.290-6; Cleitarchus: Wust (1953/4:187); Arrian: Brunt (1983) 533. 57. Arist. 4, 24; Luc. 20; Crass. 17; Ages. 35; Alex. 15; Moralia 342d, 812f, 842f, 852b. 58. An example of the importance of piety in Diodorus’ characterisation of statesmen is his favourable judgement of Philip II of Macedon for the piety and reverence towards the gods he exhibited in the Third Sacred War. Diod. Sic. 16.64.2-3; Drews (1962) 391.

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4. Diodorus’ Good Statesman and State Revenue Bibliography Alganza Roldan, M. (1992), ‘Epaminondas (D.S. XV 88)’, Florentia Iliberritana 3: 39-46. Alonso-Núñez, J.M. (1990), ‘The emergence of universal historiography from the 4th to the 2nd centuries BC’, in H. Verdin, G. Schepens and E. de Keyser (eds), Purposes of History (Leuven), Studia Hellenistica 30: 173-92. Andrewes, A. (1985), ‘Diodoros and Ephoros: one source of confusion’, in J.W. Eadie and J. Ober (eds), The Craft of the Ancient Historian (Lanham), 189-98. Baldry, H.C. (1965), The Unity of Mankind in Greek Thought (Cambridge). Bosworth, A.B. (1988), Conquest and Empire: The Reign of Alexander the Great (Cambridge). Bosworth, A.B. (2003), ‘Plus ça change … ancient historians and their sources’, Classical Antiquity 22: 167-97. Brunt, P. (1983), Arrian (Cambridge, MA). Burton, A. (1972), Diodorus Siculus Book 1: A Commentary (Leiden). Cawkwell, G. (1975), ‘Thucydides’ judgement of Periclean strategy’, in D. Kagan (ed.), Studies in the Greek Historians, Yale Classical Studies 24: 53-70. Cawkwell, G. (1981), ‘The King’s Peace’, Classical Quarterly 31: 69-83. Connor, W.R. (1967), ‘History without heroes: Theopompus’ treatment of Philip of Macedon’, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 8: 133-54. Drews, R. (1962), ‘Diodoros and his sources’, American Journal of Philology 83: 383-92. Flower, M.A. (1998), ‘Simonides, Ephorus and Herodotus on the battle of Thermopylae’, Classical Quarterly 48: 365-79. Gammie, J.G. (1986), ‘Herodotus on kings and tyrants: objective historiography or conventional portraiture?’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 45: 171-95. Hornblower, J. (1981), Hieronymus of Cardia (Oxford). Hornblower, S. (1991), The Greek World 479-323 BC (London). Jacoby, F. (1963), Die Fragmente der Griechischen Historiker Teil 2c Kommentar zu nr. 64-105 (Leiden). Lefèvre, F. (2002), ‘Le livre XVI de Diodore de Sicile: observations sur la composition et sur le traitement des grands personages’, Revue des Etudes Grecques 115(2): 518-37. Kallet-Marx, L. (1993), Money, Expense and Naval Power in Thucydides’ History 1-5.24 (Berkeley). Meiggs, R. and Lewis, D. (1989), A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions: To the End of the Fifth Century BC (Oxford). Mortley, R. (1996), The Idea of Universal History from Hellenistic Philosophy to Early Christian Historiography (Lampeter). Murray, G. (1946), ‘Theopompus: or, the cynic as historian’ in G. Murray, Greek Studies (Oxford): 149-70. Murray, O. (1968), ‘Most politick historiographer’, Classical Review 18.2: 218-21. Murray, O. (1972), ‘Herodotus and Hellenistic culture’, Classical Quarterly 22: 200-13. Oldfather, C.H. (1933), Diodorus of Sicily, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, MA). Prestianni, A.M. (1991), ‘Diodoro, Filippo II e Cesare’ in E. Galvagno and C. Moze Ventura (eds), Mito, Storia, Tradizione. Diodoro Siculo e la Storiografia Graeca (Catania): 33-52

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Errietta Bissa Rubincam, C.R. (1987), ‘The organisation and composition of Diodoros’ Bibliotheke’, Echoes du Monde Classique 31: 313-28. Rubincam, C.R. (1998a), ‘Did Diodorus Siculus take over cross-references from his sources?’, American Journal of Philology 119: 67-81. Rubincam, C.R. (1998b), ‘How many books did Diodorus Siculus originally intend to write?’, Classical Quarterly 48: 229-33. Sacks, K. (1990), Diodorus Siculus and the First Century (Princeton). Sacks, K. (1994), ‘Diodorus and his sources: conformity and creativity’, in S. Hornblower (ed.), Greek Historiography (Oxford): 213-32. Sartori, M. (1984), ‘Storia, utopia e mito nei primi libri della Bibliotheca Historica di Diodoro Siculo’, Athenaeum 62: 492-536. Schwartz, R. (1903), ‘Diodoros von Agyrion’, Real-Encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft 5.1: 663-704. Strasburger, H. (1966), ‘Die Wesensbestimmung der Geschichte durch die antike Geschichtsschreibung’, Sitzungsberichte der Wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaft an der Johann Wolfgang Goethe-Universität Frankfurt/Main 5.3: 1-58. Strogetsky, V. (1986), ‘Diodoros of Sicily and the problem of universal history’, Concilium Eirene: 101-6. Stylianou, P.J. (1991), ‘Review of K. Sacks, Diodorus Siculus and the First Century’ Bryn Mawr Classical Review. Stylianou, P.J. (1998), Historical Commentary to Diodoros Book 15 (Oxford). Tarn, W.W. (1948), Alexander the Great (Cambridge), 2 vols. Volquardsen, C.A. (1868), Untersuchungen über die Quellen der Griechischen und Sicilischen Geschichten bei Diodor, Buch XI bis XVI (Kiel). Wilamowitz, U. (1908), Greek Historical Writing and Apollo (Oxford). Wirth, G., Veh, O. and Nothers, T. (1992), Diodoros Griechische Weltgheschichte Buch I-X (Stuttgart) Bibliothek der Griechischen Literatur Band 34. Wust, F. (1953/4), ‘Die Rede Alexanders des Grossen in Opis, Arrian VII 9-10’, Historia 2: 177-88.

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5

Strabo and the Development of Ancient Greek Universal Historiography Johannes Engels We know of a number of Greek and of Roman authors who considered themselves primarily as writers of a different genre than that to which modern manuals usually attribute them. Strabo, who came from Amaseia, a city in northern Pontus, and lived from about 63 BC to the twenties AD, saw himself as an aner philosophikos, a member of the social and economic elite of the Augustan empire, as author of a historical work, and only secondarily as a chorographos, that is an author of a cultural or human geography of the Mediterranean world. Strabo’s main work was entitled Historika Hypomnemata. This continuation of Polybius’ universal history focused on big issues, ‘world affairs’ of the Mediterranean under Roman rule and the actions of leading men, fitting themes for a universal history (see Strabo 1.1.22-3 = FGrH 91 F 2). Today, however, except for twenty fragments, this work is lost. The preserved fragments treat incidents of Alexander’s lifetime (F 3), Hellenistic and Jewish history of the second and first century BC (FF 4, 6, 7, 10-18), and the lives and deeds of famous Romans, such as Sulla, Pompey and Caesar (FF 7, 8, 13, 14, 16, 19). The latest incidents which can be precisely dated are F 19, concerning the omina before the assassination of Caesar in 44 BC, and F 18, concerning the conquest of Jerusalem by Sossius and Herodes and the execution of Antigonus in 37 BC. It is probable that F 20 Ambaglio, which tells of a battle between Roman and Ethiopian troops belongs to the first decade of the principate and relates to a campaign led by C. Petronius, if indeed the fragment may safely be assigned to Strabo’s Historika Hypomnemata. Since Strabo’s main work is lost, whereas the description of the world, Geographika, has been handed down to us almost completely in seventeen books,1 today Strabo is usually known as an ancient geographer. In my view, there are good reasons to assume that the Historika Hypomnemata were completed at the end of the twenties BC or shortly after that date and to regard his Geographika as a work of the Augustan period.2 During the first years of the reign of Tiberius, Strabo merely added updating notes to the first draft of Geographika and perhaps also to his universal history, until his death (which should be dated soon after 23 or 24 AD, the latest date mentioned in the Geographika).3 The small number

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Johannes Engels of short notices which can be safely dated after 14 AD does not justify an interpretation of Strabo’s Geographika as a Tiberian work.4 If one compares all passages which mention Octavian/Augustus and Tiberius, and then adds the two excursuses in the Geographika on the growth of the Roman republic at the end of book 6 and on the size and structure of the Roman empire at the end of book 17, it appears that both kolossourgiai primarily give testimony of the Augustan age.5 Strabo’s Historika Hypomnemata found a small ancient readership during the first century AD. This is quite clear from the small number of extant papyri showing passages from Strabo’s works.6 Moreover, later writers only very rarely quoted from Strabo. Plutarch, an unusually well-read author, quotes from the Historika Hypomnemata in his Lives of Sulla, Lucullus and Caesar.7 Flavius Josephus8 consulted Strabo on some subjects in Contra Apionem and in Antiquitates Iudaeorum and Tertullian in De anima (FGrH 91 F 5 = Tert. De Anim. 46). However, except for Josephus, no other leading historian of the early imperial age seems to have made use of Strabo’s historical work. We cannot be sure of whether the complete Historika Hypomnemata were still extant in the tenth century AD, when Byzantine scholars systematically took many excerpts from famous ancient universal historians’ works, for instance from Polybius’ Histories, Diodorus’ Historike bibliotheke and Nicolaus of Damascus’ Histories; they did not take any excerpts from Strabo’s universal history. Nor did the well-read Photius refer to Strabo in his ninth-century Bibliotheca. Indeed, during the first century AD, Strabo’s description of the civilised world, the Geographika, nearly suffered a similar misfortune. For, except by Athenaeus, this second Strabonian work was also only very rarely quoted. Luckily, during the sixth century AD and with influential works such as Stephanus of Byzantium’s Ethnika, there was a change for the better: Strabo saw a remarkable increase in his popularity as a geographer, especially in Constantinople. Consequently, from the ninth to the twelfth century Strabo was simply called ‘the geographer’ by Byzantine scholars.9 In the Western medieval tradition, however, Strabo seems to have been unknown even to exceptionally well-read, encyclopaedic scholars. One may take as a typical example Isidore of Seville, author of the Etymologiae sive Origines, who did not use Strabo as a source on geographical issues.10 To judge from the dimensions which Strabo planned for his two works, he clearly considered the universal history as his main work. Apart from the few surviving fragments and the reported book-numbers, we can surmise the fullness of detail and the scholarly character of his universal history from the complementary historical and political notes in his geographical treatise. Following Polybius’ example, Strabo probably began his universal history with a kind of a prokataskeuê on Alexander the Great and his praxeis (see FGrH 91 F 1 = 11.9.3 and F 3 = 2.1.9).11 Then he sketched the formation of Alexander’s ‘Universalreich’, its disintegration

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5. Strabo and Ancient Greek Universal Historiography into several Hellenistic monarchies, federal states and cities and the rise of Rome to the ruling power of the Mediterranean world down to the decisive years 168 and 146/5 BC.12 On the basis of Strabo F 1 and several passages in the Geographika, I presume that this introductory section may have covered four books. Contrary to Anton Miller and more recent scholars, I do not think that we have sufficiently strong evidence to demonstrate that Strabo wrote a separate third book on the Praxeis Alexandrou.13 With book 5 the main section of Strabo’s historical treatise in 47 volumes (i.e. 43 plus 4) began, which offered a continuation of Polybius’ Histories. Hence, in T 2 we read the alternative title Ta meta Polybion for this main section. One may compare the size of seventeen volumes of his Geographika which Strabo regarded as a sufficiently detailed complete geographical treatise. Still, the Geographika remains the most detailed cultural geography in the Greek or Latin language. By his decision to continue Polybius’ Histories Strabo implicitly criticised Posidonius of Apameia who already had composed Historiai as a continuation of Polybius. Posidonius’ two main works, the Historiai and Peri Okeanou,14 were among Strabo’s main sources and at the same time the most important competitors to his Historika Hypomnemata and Geographika. In this work we read a critical review of Posidonius’ geographical treatise. There are also other passages in Strabo’s Geographika where he dissociates himself from Posidonius’ tenets and style. It is also clear that Strabo did not agree with Polybius’ methodological principles of writing ‘pragmatic history’ and that he did not share his ideas about the personal qualities of an ideal historian. Following Polybius, a ‘pragmatic’ historian should have been involved in the history of his age in a leading position, e.g. as a general or statesman (see Polybius’ books 12 and 18). Strabo, however, breaking with his Pontic family’s tradition as generals, priests and counsellors to the king, did not hold any high-ranking political office or military command. He was primarily a scholar, as we may conclude from his rich notes on his philosophical education and his friends and acquaintances among philosophers and orators or the famous men of letters whom he mentions. Only occasionally Strabo may have given his personal advice to his high ranking Roman friends such as C. Petronius or especially Aelius Gallus as a member of their cohors amicorum.15 However, on the basis of our knowledge of Strabo’s life and his circle of acquaintances it has not been possible to demonstrate a personal connection to truly leading Romans of his age, that is to Pompey, Caesar, Augustus himself, Agrippa, Drusus, Germanicus or Tiberius. Hence his opportunities to learn about important contemporary political plans and developments were more restricted than they had been for his predecessors Polybius, an intimate of the Scipiones, or Posidonius and Theophanes of Mytilene, friends and advisors of Pompeius Magnus. Among Augustan universal historians Timagenes of Alexandria and Nicolaus of Damascus will have been in closer connection with decisive figures of the Augustan age than Strabo.

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Johannes Engels In theory the ancient genre of universal history did not know of any limitations concerning time and space.16 José-Miguel Alonso-Núñez once held that ‘universal historians strictly speaking are only those who deal with the history of mankind from the earliest times, and in all parts of the world known to them’.17 But this definition is hardly matched by any one of the Greek and Roman authors. Strabo was surely influenced by the sequence of world empires, and he regarded Augustan Rome as the last and so far the best political structure to guarantee peace, welfare and a high level of civilisation for as many people as possible in the Mediterranean oikoumene. Moreover, Strabo clearly dissociated himself from the pessimistic views his predecessor Polybius expressed in the last books of his universal history on Rome as the ruling power of the world. But Alonso-Núñez perhaps overstated the importance of the historical succession of world empires leading to the Roman empire as the most important concept of ancient universal historiography.18 In contrast to Posidonius and to Diodorus Strabo was less influenced by Stoic ideas about a cycle of historical periods as a concept of world history, although he praised the Stoics as his favourite philosophical school and made some remarks on the effects of divine pronoia on geographical structures and historical events.19 Greek and Roman universal historians considerably differ from one another with regard to the periods of time which they covered. The best ancient universal historians cautiously did not even attempt to describe the history of all ages and of the whole world known to their age, but focused on certain periods and regions of the world. Their individual selection depended on their cultural background and philosophical concepts of history. Arnaldo Momigliano called this feature of ancient historiography a ‘focalized universality’.20 To judge from the fragments of his historical work – no fragment refers to a person or an event earlier than the fourth century BC – and primarily from many remarks in his Geographika, Strabo had no intention of giving a full account of the earliest periods of history and of the spatium mythicum, let alone of going back to the beginning of the world.21 In this respect he dissociated himself significantly from his contemporaries Pompeius Trogus, Diodorus and Nicolaus of Damascus. Diodorus, for instance, regarded the early mythical age in the first books of his Bibliotheke as a ‘cradle of civilisation’. He described mythical rulers as models of behaviour for his readers. He dwelt upon Heracles’ labours and feats. Diodorus reproached his predecessor Ephorus for having neglected the spatium mythicum and focused on the historical periods.22 Strabo, for his part, except for numerous passages discussing foundation stories of cities (ktiseis), explanations (aitia) of cults, oracles, statements in Homer and defences of the poet,23 also focused on more recent historical periods. Greek universal histories from Ephorus on became more detailed as the historical narration approached the authors’ lifetime. In Strabo’s case, 43 books covering a period of about 120 years would have allowed for a

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5. Strabo and Ancient Greek Universal Historiography detailed treatment of the great transformation of the late Hellenistic world after 146 BC into the Augustan empire. There are only few precisely dated events in the historical notes of Strabo’s Geographika and comparatively crude chronological markers.24 Strabo probably distinguished between three great periods: contemporary history covering events of his own lifetime, the preceding period ‘of Alexander the Great and his successors’, and finally all earlier events of Greek history. However, I presume that in the Historika Hypomnemata Strabo might perhaps have used of more precise chronology which was demanded to a certain degree in this genre. Perhaps he structured his chronology along the years of the reign of rulers or used lists of dynasties as he does at least with the Attalids. On the other hand, there is no text among Strabo’s historical fragments which would show a special scholarly interest in chronology. Therefore, Katherine Clarke, comparing Strabo with Diodorus, justly remarked that Strabo had only a ‘fragmented sense of regal time’. In the Geographika he prefers a primarily local or geographical ‘strategy for encapsulating a vast temporal and spatial scope in a universal framework’.25 Strabo also restricted the spatial scope of his interests. Although contemporary geographers knew of considerably larger sections of our globe, Strabo focuses on the Mediterranean world. There is less space than in other ancient historical or geographical works for fabulous people living at the edges of the world, for Antipodes and Antoikoumenai which had been postulated by philosophers, poets and geographers. It is another telling feature of his Geographika that Strabo gives only a short description of the concurring Parthian empire (see particularly 11.9.1-3, but confer also 1.2.1 and 16.1.19 on Parthia as Rome’s rival). In this respect he differed from Pompeius Trogus (see his books 41-2 on Parthian history). However, Strabo had already dealt with Parthian nomima (customs and institutions) and may have given many details in the sixth volume of his Historika Hypomnemata (see F 1). Strabo justifies his regional focus with the argument that his intended readership, the members of the GrecoRoman elite, should benefit as much as possible from his works. This aim demanded a concentration on the Mediterranean oikoumene and the Roman empire as the stage of decisive historical events, and on that region of the world where civilisation had reached its highest level. Of course, these ideas perfectly fit into Augustan propaganda. Strabo saw himself as a conscious heir of a long-standing tradition of Greek historical and geographical writing.26 Contemporary Latin works of history (by C. Iulius Caesar, Asinius Pollio and Pompeius Trogus as the first universal historian writing in Latin) had no decisive influence on Strabo’s views. Perhaps they were merely known indirectly to him, although Strabo knew some Latin and might have consulted them directly.27 He also arrogantly regarded Roman geographical works as completely inferior to their Greek models and little more than bad translations. For he traced back universal historiography to Ephorus’ Historiai and the

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Johannes Engels foundation of geography as a discipline even further back to Homer as archegetes (see 1.1.1-2 or 8.1.1). By taking issue with leading authors of these twin disciplines Strabo intended to compose an encyclopaedic synthesis of all historical and geographical knowledge which so far had been collected in different works. One may compare Diodorus’ self-conscious similar remarks in his Historike bibliotheke (Diod. Sic. 1.3) More radically than his predecessors and contemporaries, Strabo broke with tradition to conceive of universal history as a branch of artificial prose. This is announced by his book-title. For Historika hypomnemata may be called a ‘rhematic title’ (Genette).28 It makes a clear statement on the work’s style and characteristics as ‘research memoranda’, and stresses the author’s method rather than indicating thematic issues. Earlier Hellenistic research memoranda (Hypomnemata) had been published, for instance, by Peripatetic scholars such as Theophrastus of Eresus. Strabo’s work brought the genre of universal history much closer than before to such Hellenistic research memoranda and to the tradition of Alexandrinian commentaries. It strongly dissocated the genre from the dominating influence of Isocratean rhetoric which had been clearly visible already in Ephorus’ and Theopompus’ works. Strabo stressed the multiple benefits (to chresimon) which readers may derive from his works (see F 3) and their morally edifying nature (1.1.22-3). Hence in the fragments of Strabo’s historical treatise and in his Geographika one extremely rarely finds ornate passages which might be compared with the brilliant literary show-pieces of his predecessors Duris of Samos, Agatharchides of Cnidus or Posidonius.29 Given his thorough Greek literary education it would have been an easy task for Strabo to include stylistic devices in his prose. But striving for a sober style Strabo, for instance, only rarely quotes verses of famous poets, except of course those of Homer.30 Direct and indirect speeches are among the typical features of ancient historiography. In the surviving fragments of Strabo’s universal history (FGrH 91 F 1-19), however, there is no hint of speeches, and this impression is confirmed by his historical remarks and excursuses in the geographical treatise. There, we find only rarely short famous sayings or replies (see, for instance, 14.2.24 or 14.5.14). Again, one might compare Diodorus’ critical remarks about lengthy and artificially elaborated speeches in historical works (see particularly Diod. Sic. 20.1-2). It seems that in Strabo’s view lengthy speeches would have spoiled the scholarly character of his treatises. Readers should consult his works for their broad historical and geographical scope and for the fullness of details, not for rhetorical splendour. One may mention as another peculiar feature of Strabo’s works his habit of quoting, unusually frequently, sources by name.31 Most ancient historians (including writers of universal histories) regularly named their sources only when they criticised their predecessors or contemporaries. Most other quotations or borrowings were anonymous.32 Strabo sometimes

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5. Strabo and Ancient Greek Universal Historiography even exaggerates the technique of giving weight to statements by quoting several authorities. Recent research, however, has demonstrated that some of the views to which Strabo subscribes in these passages do not bear close examination, and his technique of quoting and name-dropping is sometimes used as an instrument of camouflage or a diversionary tactic.33 Diodorus argued simply that readers would benefit substantially more from his Historike bibliotheke than from reading other historical works, because his book gave the greatest number of edifying historical examples conveniently assembled in one book and because it had a larger chronological and geographical scope than earlier works (Diod. Sic. 1.1.1-3 and 1.3). Strabo, for his part, refined this line of argument, holding that the Augustan empire and the new monarchical system of the principate, as the main results of the great processes of transformation which he had witnessed, almost necessitated the genre of universal history (with a complementary geographical description of the world) as literary kolossourgiai (see 1.1.23): these were the only literary genres adequate to describe historical phenomena of such dimensions. Consequently, ancient universal historiography flourished during the last generation of the Roman republic and the Augustan era. Significantly, almost all authors of this genre came from the periphery of the empire, for example Pompeius Trogus (a Celt), Posidonius (a Syrian), Nicolaus (a Jew), Timagenes (from Alexandria) and Strabo (from Amaseia in Pontus). The increased importance of geography and ethnography in their works may indeed result from common ‘provincial’ origins.34 I have already stated in this paper that only a few undisputed fragments have been preserved of Strabo’s historical work (see above on FGrH 91 F 1-19 and F 20 Ambaglio). Of course, any attempt to reconstruct in detail Strabo’s historical work appears to be rash given the fact that less than two dozen fragments are preserved. Yet such attempts have been made with the help of sublime methods of German Quellenforschung, the most ambitious by Paul Otto in 1889. These however have rightly provoked harsh criticism. Contrary to subtle studies which have been undertaken on the sources of Josephus’ Antiquitates, Plutarch’s Lives of Sulla, Lucullus, Caesar, and Mark Antony, and on Appian’s Mithridatika, I should also urge caution in formulating far-reaching conclusions concerning Strabo’s universal history on the basis of passages in these works which show only superficial similarities with remarks in the Geographika without explicitly naming Strabo as a source. Indeed, presently there is scholarly consensus that only the characteristics of Strabo’s methods, important historical topics, general ideas about universal history and geography as genres, and his views of leading individuals may be recovered directly from the fragments or indirectly from his Geographika.35 Methodological statements and historical and political notes in Strabo’s geographical work can be used as reliable guides in a study of Strabo’s historical views. For this work followed the same methodological princi-

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Johannes Engels ples as the historical work (see prooimion 1.1.22-3 = FGrH 91 F 2). It discussed similar ‘big’ issues and ‘world affairs’ which are fitting themes for a kolossourgia and aimed at the same readers. Fortunately Strabo’s description of the world has come down to us almost completely. Minor gaps at the end of book 7 (on Macedonia and Thrace) and philological problems of the constitution of many passages in books 1-17 do not present insurmountable obstacles to an analysis. From a detailed study of many scattered passages it appears that Strabo’s identity as a historian and cultural geographer was shaped by his high-ranking Pontic family, his thorough and mainly literary and philosophical Greek paideia, and, more decisively, by the transformation of the Mediterranean world during his life-time which made an impact both on his choice of literary genres and on his pro-Roman and pro-Augustan ideology. Only very rarely does one read a passage in Strabo where he utters a critical opinion on Roman rule in general, although sometimes he criticises the actions and decisions of individual Romans, such as Antony. Accordingly, Andrea Primo suggested that Strabo did not always simply take the Roman point of view.36 Basic historical ideas and main subjects of Strabo’ works can be reconstructed especially from the following passages in the Geographika: – the main prooimion to book 1 (1.1.1-23) and the ‘second prooimion’ to book 8 (8.1.1), – the historical excursus at the end of the description of Italy in book 6 on the rise of Rome to the position of the leading power of the Mediterranean world (6.4.1-2), – the survey of the structure of the Augustan empire, its provinces, cities and neighbouring client kingdoms at the end of book 17 (17.3.24-5), – remarks on Alexander’s campaign and his empire,37 – scattered notes on the dynasties of the Seleucids and the Antigonids (mostly negative, at least on the late kings, particularly 14.5.2 on their ‘worthlessness’) and more positive and focused remarks on the Ptolemies (see esp. 17.1.11) and the Attalids. The excursus on the Attalids (13.4.2) is the most detailed and telling one of its kind in the Geographika, – the detailed description of his home-land Pontus (12.3.9-40) and his native-town Amaseia (12.3.39) which forms a counterpiece to his descriptions of Rome (5.3.7-8) and of Alexandria (17.1.6-10), – the catalogues of andres endoxoi of the Greek poleis whom Strabo regarded as his peers and some of whom were among his personal acquaintances, teachers or friends,38 – finally, a surprisingly great number of remarks on leading Romans of his time. Four people clearly stand out from the rest who are mentioned in the Geographika: Pompey, Caesar, Mark Antony and Octavian/Augustus (but not Tiberius!).39 As with Alexander the Great, these remarks on leading Romans amount to a picture of their main characteristics and most important deeds from Strabo’s perspective as a member of the

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5. Strabo and Ancient Greek Universal Historiography eastern elite. Remarks on Caesar and Augustus mirror similar ones on Pompey and Mark Antony. They communicate to the reader the impression that Caesar and his heir Augustus were the better military leaders, politicians and also the better men. Not surprisingly, Augustus stands out from all leading Greeks and Romans mentioned in the Geographika. The huge size of Strabo’s work corresponded to a pernicious trend in late Hellenistic and Augustan universal histories which reached its peak with the 144 volumes of Nicolaus’ Historiai. A few generations later such kolossourgiai lacked a sufficiently educated and patient readership. Their huge size itself endangered the manuscript transmission of the complete works and in some cases epitomai soon became a substitute for the original works (see Trogus and Justin). Epitomai, breviaria, florilegia, collections of exempla and lexica flourished from the age of Tiberius onwards. ‘Some years after Strabo’s death, people began to like history in abridged form or by way of “famous passages”. It evidently became preferable to read a little about a lot than all about a little.’40 Claire Préaux correctly ascribed the decline (or ‘shipwreck’) of historical literature of the Hellenistic period primarily to the ancient readers: for in that period, according to Préaux, works which did not require more than an hour to read became predominant; she observed a ‘triple indolence’ of readers: they rejected the long speeches, pedantic precision and obscurity of style in the scholarly works of the Hellenistic period.41 Another danger for the preservation of late Hellenistic works such as Strabo’s came from the dominance of the Attic prose style in historiography and oratory from the second century AD onwards. In imperial times a comparatively small number of canonical works increased in importance for the purposes of school education and featured in the collections of private people and public libraries. The opinion prevailed already in the second century AD that even educated people did not need to read noncanonical works anymore.42 This meant that huge works, such as Strabo’s treatises, were less likely to find their way into private or public libraries.43 Finally, the general development of the twin disciplines of Greek history and geography turned out to be detrimental to the preservation of Strabo’s works. For traditional issues of Greek universal historiography could also be treated in large-scale Roman imperial histories such as Cassius Dio’s Roman History or – with a ‘geographical’ presentation of historical material – in Appian’s historical works. Greek geography after Strabo soon was dominated by ‘mathematical’ geographers such as Marinus of Tyrus and Claudius Ptolemaeus. In addition to that ‘lighter’ geographical reading such as Mela’s Latin Chorographia or Greek Perihegesis- and Periplusworks replaced Strabo’s erudite Geographika for many readers’ purposes. In a recent overview of universal historiography from Ephorus to Diodorus, John Marincola44 justly concluded that Greek ‘universal historians are often criticised for what they are not: not primary researchers, not

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Johannes Engels keen political analysts, not discriminating in their use of sources’. In general, they made no pretence to ‘original’ research or ‘originality’ in its modern sense. This holds true also for Strabo. Nevertheless, his work marks an important contribution to universal historiography in Greek and Roman times. He rearranged a huge quantity of historical and geographical material. He initiated chorographia or cultural geography as a branch of geographical writing which he distinguished from the methodologically unreflective Ionian Periplus- and Perihegesis-works from Hecataeus to Artemidorus of Ephesus and dissociated from the ‘mathematical’ branch of geography. All in all, however, Strabo only partly fulfilled his promise (see 1.2.1) to surpass and to substitute the earlier authoritative descriptions of the world by Eratosthenes, Artemidorus and Posidonius with a superior work. Hence, Strabo’s work ironically may even have strengthened a process of stagnation of historical and geographical writing rather than opened up new perspectives for the development of these genres. At any rate, during the first two centuries AD noteworthy Greek universal histories are lacking. Jacoby collected in his magisterial Fragmente der griechischen Historiker a handful of authors whose names today are known only to a small circle of specialists. We do know almost nothing about the history written by C. Sulpicius Galba, grandfather of the emperor Galba (FGrH 92, in Latin?). During Hadrian’s reign Kephalion composed a universal history entitled Musai or Pantodapai historiai as a tribute to Herodotus (FGrH 93). Jacoby sharply criticised this work as an example of the victory of paradoxography and ‘light reading’ over serious historiography. But such works are telling evidence of contemporary readers’ taste. There is also Iason of Argos’ Peri Hellados (FGrH 94) reaching from earliest time to the end of the Lamian War in 322 BC. In Philippus of Pergamon’s case (FGrH 95) the dispute about his lifetime and the thematic focus of his work still goes on due to the fragmentary preservation of his work. Only very few people will have studied the testimonia and fragments of Philippus of Pergamon, Chryserus, C. Asinius Quadratus, Nicostratus of Trapezunt or the famous sophist Philostratus of Athens who was also a historiographer (FGrH 95-99). Dexippus of Athens’ Chronike Historia, however, deserves to be studied thoroughly (FGrH 100 T 2, F 1). He was rightly praised by Eunapius as an educated man and an author full of ideas. The title Chronike Historia and some fragments indicate that this work perhaps showed more similarities with ancient chronographies than with full-scale universal histories. In sum, we have evidence first of a stagnation and then of a crisis of universal historiography which began soon after its akme in the Augustan age and after Strabo’s death. Several explanations have been proposed for this observation, but the debate still goes on. Perhaps a sufficiently strong stimulus was absent from the history of the Roman empire, which made it less of a literary challenge for ambitious universal historians. From the first to the third century AD the Roman empire saw no fundamental

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5. Strabo and Ancient Greek Universal Historiography process of transformation which could be compared with the events of the last generation of the Roman republic and the Augustan principate. Not even the last significant wave of territorial expansion under Trajan gave cause for a description of this period in a contemporary universal history. Instead, authors preferred to praise the emperor’s successes in historical monographs, biographical or panegyrical works. Ancient universal historiography saw the last and substantial development of this genre with the newly conceived Christian works, such as Orosius’ Historiae adversus paganos. They differed in many fundamental aspects from Strabo’s ideas and from the general earlier pagan tradition,45 especially with regard to their linear conception of historical progress and the eschatological foundation of history. Recently, traditional ‘universal history’ or ‘world history’ have been criticised as methodologically insufficient. But ‘global history’,46 the prospective twenty-first-century heir of universal history, still has to develop adequate concepts and literary forms to provide a historiographical answer to the ongoing process of ‘globalisation’. There is also an interesting current discussion on the ‘Wiederkehr des Raumes’ (revival of space as a historical category) and on space as a concept of cultural studies, focusing on the question how precisely one can ‘read time in space’ and on a new sociology of space.47 Strabo would have been amused at the increasing importance of space in modern historiography and political thought. Notes 1. Research on Strabo has greatly benefited from the new scholarly edition of Geographika which is currently prepared by Stefan Radt, see Radt (2002-08), vols 1-4 Greek text and German translations and vols 5-7 (very short) commentaries on books 1-13; a new collection of the fragments of Strabo’s Historika hypomnemata (with English translation and commentary) has been published by Duane W. Roller (2008) for Brill’s New Jacoby (BNJ 91). Unfortunately, Roller restricted himself to very short remarks on the lively scholarly discussion about Strabo’s works in recent years, omitting many important contributions. He also did not refer to the additional fragment which had been added by Ambaglio (1990) to Jacoby’s collection (1926 = 1963) of nineteen fragments in FGrH 91. Other scholars, however, for instance Biffi (2002) arguing on the basis of a comparison with Strabo’s Geographika 17.3, rejected the proposal that this text should be ascribed to Strabo. 2. A scholarly consensus about the date of this work has not been reached yet; see for this early date Engels (1999) 36 and Ambaglio (1990) 380; Jacoby (1926 = 1963) 291 in his commentary on FGrH 91, vol. II C, merely stated that the universal history surely led to the end of the Roman civil wars, but allowed for the possibility that the work ‘beträchtlich darüber hinausreichte’ (extended considerably beyond that date). Syme (1995) 356-67, held that both of Strabo’s works essentially belonged to the Augustan period, and Momigliano (1984) 90 assumed an early date of the historical work of about 30 BC. 3. See 17.3.7 on the death of King Juba II and the succession of Ptolemaios, and on the date of Strabo’s death see Engels (1999) 24-5 and Dueck (2000) 2.

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Johannes Engels 4. For such ‘Tiberian’ notes, see Engels (1999) 348-9. These passages are also discussed by Dueck (1999) 467-78 and Pothecary (2002) 387-438 who regard Strabo as a ‘Tiberian author’. 5. See on the ‘Augustan’ core of Strabo’s works and on passages about Augustus and other members of his family Engels (1999) 337-49. Note also the primarily ‘Augustan’ perspective in 6.4.2 and 17.3.24-5. 6. See on papyri De Luca (2001) 155-60 and Biffi (2002) 37-51. 7. See FGrH 91 F 8 = Plut. Sull. 26.4-5, F 9 = Plut. Luc. 28.8, and F 19 = Plut. Caes. 63.3-5. 8. See FGrH 91 F 4 = Joseph. AJ 13.284, F 6 = AJ 14.111, F 7 = AJ 14.114, F 10 = Ap. 2.83-84, F 11 = AJ 13.319, F 12 = AJ 13.345, F 13 = AJ 14.104, F 14 = AJ 14.34, F 15 = AJ 14.66, F 16 = AJ 14.137, F 17 = AJ 14.139, F 18 = AJ 15.8. No other ancient author refers more often to Strabo’s Historika Hypomnemata. 9. Probably at least one copy of Strabo’s Geographika found its way into the imperial library at Constantinople, following Cavallo (1986) an institution of central importance for the preservation of ancient works. See Diller (1975) 10-18 on sixth-century authors quoting Strabo. 10. See Philipp (1912) 67-86 on Sallust, Plinius, Solinus, Justin, Florus and Festus as Isidore’s geographical sources. 11. For other references to Alexander’s reign in the Geographika see Engels (1998). 12. For 168 as a crucial date in Strabo’s view, see e.g. 6.4.2, 7.7.8 and 7 Fr. 11c Radt, and on 148/146 BC see 8.6.23. 13. See already Miller (1882) and confer Engels (1998) 131-72. 14. See for the fragments of Posidonius’ works Edelstein-Kidd (1988-99) and Theiler (1982); for a discussion of the relation between him and Strabo see Malitz (1983), Engels (1999) 166-201 and Clarke (1999b). 15. Strabo explicitly calls Aelius Gallus his philos and hetairos, see 17.1.46 and 2.5.12 and Engels (1999) 350-3. 16. See on time and space as historical parameters Clarke (1999a) und Clarke (1999b) 249-79. Marincola (2007) 171 distinguished two types of ancient universal history, those universal in time and space and those universal in space. 17. Alonso-Núñez (1990) 173. 18. See Clarke (1999b) 274, criticising Alonso-Núñez’s influential studies (1990) 173-92, (1999) 5-14, and again (2002). 19. On Strabo as a stoic ‘philosopher’ and his cultural geography as a concern of the philosopher see Engels (1999) 40-4 and Dueck (2000) 62-9. See, for instance, Strabo’s remarks on providence (pronoia) in 17.1.36, or on the Rhone and other rivers in Gaul as evidence for the workings of providence in 4.1.14. 20. See Momigliano (1984) 77-103. See also, on various meanings of writing ‘universally’ with reference to Polybius, Sacks (1981) 96-121, and on Ephorus, Theopompus and Diodorus Marincola (2007) 171-9. 21. Similarly, he claims to write an up-to-date geographical description of the civilised world (see 1.2.1 as the first methodological statement of this kind). For his focus on more recent times and up-to-date descriptions, see also for instance 8.3.3 and 8.3.23, two interesting passages coming from a defence of Homer. 22. See, for instance, Ephorus FGrH 70 T 8 = D. S.. 4.1.2-3 or T 10 = D. S. 16.76.5. Diodorus himself proudly defends including the early mythical period before the Trojan War and the famous deeds of the ancient heroes in his universal history, see 1.3.6, 1.4.5-6 and long sections of book 4, for instance on Heracles esp. 4.8.1-3 and 4.39.4.

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5. Strabo and Ancient Greek Universal Historiography 23. On Strabo’s defence of Homer and his purpose and attitude to this poet particularly in view of the historical and cultural goals of the Geographika, see Biraschi (2005) 73-85 with references. 24. On ‘chronological markers’ and chronological systems which fit various historical genres, see Clarke (1999b) and Clarke (2008). 25. Clarke (2008) 148-9. 26. For lists of predecessors see particularly 1.1.1, 1.2.1 and 8.1.1. 27. See for references Dueck (2000) 88-92. 28. See Genette (1997) 55-103 on book-titles, esp. 86-9 on rhematic titles. 29. See, however, Engels (2008) on Strabo’s excursus about noteworthy citizens and constitutional change in Tarsus, as an example of an unusually elaborated passage. 30. See on Strabo’s general use of poetry Dueck (2005b) 86-107 and geographical proverbs and proverbial expressions Dueck (2004) 41-56. 31. See Clarke’s appendix (1999) 374-378 on Strabo’s acknowledged sources arranged region by region. 32. Jacoby (1913) 508 once rightly remarked on this habit which most ancient historians shared: ‘denn man polemisiert gebräuchlicherweise namentlich und entlehnt anonym’ (polemics usually mention names, while borrowings are anonymous). 33. Some pertinent examples of this literary technique may easily be found in Syme (1995) who did not hold Strabo in high regard as a historian in general and particularly on Asia Minor. 34. See on this observation recently Yarrow (2005). Unfortunately, she excluded Strabo from the set of her core authors. 35. See for an overview of recent scholarship on Strabo Clarke (1999b), Engels (1999), Dueck (2000) and Dueck (2005a). 36. See Primo (2001) 199-232. The most convincing example is 14.5.2 on the rise of the pirates in the eastern Mediterranean which was – among other reasons – caused by a detrimental Roman policy. For criticism of certain actions and decisions of leading Romans, see, for instance, some of Strabo’s notes on Antony which are discussed in Engels (1999) 331-7. 37. See Engels (1998) for references. 38. See Engels (2005) 129-43 for references. 39. See Engels (1999) 314-49 for references. 40. Fornara (1983) 191. 41. Préaux (1975-76) 455-62, particularly 460-1 on ‘le naufrage de la littérature historique de l’âge hellénistique’ which must primarily be ascribed to the ancient readers: ‘c’est la règne de l’oeuvre qui n’exige pas plus d’une heure de lecture’ and ‘la triple paresse des lecteurs, qui refusent et les longs discours, et la précision tatillonne et l’obscurité du style, a condamné les oeuvres savantes de l’âge hellénistique qui n’avaient en somme pas trouvé leur langage.’ 42. See for this opinion Hose (2002) 1-17. 43. See on important factors which were beneficial or detrimental to the preservation of ancient Greek works of literature Cavallo (1986) 83-172. 44. Marincola (1997) 178. 45. See Mortley (1996) and Peter van Nuffelen and Andrew Fear in this volume. 46. See on universal history, world history and global history with reference to ancient history as an academic discipline Hatscher (2003) 13-38; Schulin (1979) 163-202 and 269-82, a German historian of contemporary history, distinguished two forms of contemporary universal history, ‘die strukturell-vergleichende und

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Johannes Engels räumlich-beschreibende Universalgeschichtsschreibung’ (structural and comparative versus spatial and descriptive universal history). This discussion resembles thoughts which were familiar to Strabo; see also Osterhammel (1994) 51-72 who stressed an increasing ‘Entgrenzung’ (or widening of spatial limits) of universal history; for surveys of the state of ‘global history’ and its relation to ‘universal history’, see Kossok (1992) 105-17 and recently Crossley (2008). 47. See a discussion of the ‘ Wiederkehr des Raumes’ in Osterhammel (1998) 374-97; on the relation between the history of civilisation and geopolitics, see Schlögel’s book (2007) entitled ‘Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit’, and for a modern ‘sociology of space’, see Schroer (2006). At least in Germany these discussions have been strongly influenced by the unification of Germany and the recent history of eastern European states.

Bibliography: Alonso-Núñez, J.M. (1990), ‘The emergence of universal historiography from the 4th to the 2nd centuries BC’, in H. Verdin, G. Schepens and E. de Keyser (eds), Purposes of History (Leuven): 173-92 and discussion 193-202. Alonso-Núñez, J.M. (1999), ‘Die Entwicklung der Universalgeschichtsschreibung nach Polybios bis in die Epoche des Augustus’, Storia della Storiografia 35: 5-14. Alonso-Núñez, J.M. (2002), The Idea of Universal History in Greece: From Herodotus to the Age of Augustus (Amsterdam). Ambaglio, D. (1990), ‘Gli Historika Hypomnemata di Strabone. Introduzione, traduzione italiana e commento dei frammenti’, Memorie dell’Istituto 39: 377-425. Biffi, N. (2002), ‘Il rapporto fra gli Historika Hypomnemata di Strabone e Pap. Vogl. 46 (40)’, Invigilata Lucernis 24: 37-51. Biraschi, A.M. (2005), ‘Strabo and Homer: a chapter in cultural history’, in D. Dueck, H. Lindsay and S. Pothecary (eds), Strabo’s Cultural Geography: The Making of a kolossourgia (Cambridge): 73-85. Cavallo, G. (1986), ‘Conservazione e perdita dei testi classici greci: fattori materiali, sociali, culturali’, in A. Giardina (ed.), Società romana e impero tardoantico IV. Tradizione dei classici, trasformazioni della cultura (Rome and Bari): 83-172. Clarke, K. (1999a), ‘Universal perspectives in historiography’, in C.S. Kraus (ed.), The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts (Leiden): 249-79. Clarke, K. (1999b), Between Geography and History: Hellenistic Constructions of the Roman World (Oxford). Clarke, K. (2008), Making Time for the Past: Local History and the Polis (Oxford). Crossley, P. (2008), What is Global History? (Cambridge). De Luca, C.D. (2001), ‘I papiri di Strabone e gli “unplaced fragments” di POxy 3447’, in G. Traina (ed.), Studi sull’XI libro dei Geographika di Strabone (Lecce): 155-60. Diller, A. (1975), The Textual Tradition of Strabo’s Geography (Amsterdam). Dueck, D. (1999), ‘The date and method of composition of Strabo’s “Geography” ’, Hermes 127: 467-78. Dueck, D. (2000), Strabo of Amasia: A Greek Man of Letters in Augustan Rome (London and New York). Dueck, D. (2004), ‘Bird’s milk in Samos: Strabo’s use of geographical proverbs and proverbial expressions’, Scripta Classica Israelica 23: 41-56.

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5. Strabo and Ancient Greek Universal Historiography Dueck, D, Lindsay, H. and Pothecary, S. (eds) (2005a): Strabo’s Cultural Geography: The Making of a kolossourgia (Cambridge). Dueck, D. (2005b), ‘Strabo’s use of poetry’, in D. Dueck, H. Lindsay and S. Pothecary (eds), Strabo’s Cultural Geography: The Making of a kolossourgia (Cambridge): 86-107. Edelstein, L. and Kidd, I.G. (1988-99), Posidonius: vol. I: The Fragments, 19892; vol. II,1: The Commentary, Testimonia and Fragments 1-149, 1988; vol. II,2: Fragments 150-293, 1988; vol. III: The Translation of the Fragments, 1999 (Cambridge). Engels, J. (1998), ‘Die Geschichte des Alexanderzuges und das Bild Alexanders des Großen in Strabons Geographika – Zur Interpretation der augusteischen Kulturgeographie Strabons als Quelle seiner historischen Auffassungen’, in W. Will (ed.), Alexander der Große. Eine Welteroberung und ihr Hintergrund (Bonn): 131-72. Engels, J. (1999), Augusteische Oikumenegeographie und Universalhistorie im Werk Strabons von Amaseia (Stuttgart). Engels, J. (2005), ‘Andres endoxoi or “men of high reputation” in Strabo’s Geography’, in D. Dueck, H. Lindsay and S. Pothecary (eds): Strabo’s Cultural Geography: The Making of a kolossourgia (Cambridge): 129-43. Engels, J. (2007), ‘Geography and history’, in J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, vol. 2 (Oxford 2007): 541-52. Engels, J. (2008), ‘Athenodoros, Boethos und Nestor: “Vorsteher der Regierung” in Tarsos und Freunde führender Römer’, in A. Coskun (ed.), Freundschaft und Gefolgschaft in den auswärtigen Beziehungen der Römer (2. Jahrhundert v.Chr. – 1. Jahrhundert n.Chr.) (Frankfurt a.M.): 109-32. Fornara, Ch.W. (1983), The Nature of History in Ancient Greece and Rome (Berkeley). Genette, G. (1997), Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation (Cambridge) (orig. Seuils, Paris 1987). Hatscher, Ch.R. (2003), Alte Geschichte und Universalhistorie. Weltgeschichtliche Perspektiven aus althistorischer Sicht (Stuttgart). Hose, M. (2002), ‘Die Kehrseite der Memoria oder über die Notwendigkeit des Vergessens von Literatur in der Antike’, in Antike und Abendland 48: 1-17. Jacoby, F. (1913), ‘Herodotus’, in RE Suppl. II (Stuttgart), col. 205-520. Jacoby, F. (1963), Die Fragmente der Griechischen Historiker (Berlin 1923-30 and Leiden 1940-58; repr. Leiden 1963). Kossok, M. (1992), ‘Von der Universal- zur Globalgeschichte’, in Comparativ 1: 105-17. Malitz, J. (1983), Die Historien des Poseidonios (München). Marincola, J. (2007), ‘Universal history from Ephorus to Diodorus’, in J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography (Oxford), vol. 1: 171-9. Miller, A. (1882), Die Alexandergeschichte nach Strabo (Würzburg). Momigliano, A. (1984), ‘The origins of universal history’, in A. Momigliano, Settimo Contributo alla storia degli studi classici e del mondo antico (Rome): 77-103 (orig. Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa III 12, 1982: 533-60). Mortley, R. (1996), The Idea of Universal History from Hellenistic Philosophy to Early Christian Historiography (Lewiston, NY). Osterhammel, J. (1994), ‘Raumerfassung und Universalgeschichte im 20. Jh.’, in J. Osterhammel, G. Hübinger and E. Pelzer (eds), Universalgeschichte und Nationalgeschichten. Ernst Schulin zum 65. Geburtstag (Freiburg): 51-72. Osterhammel, J. (1998), ‘Die Wiederkehr des Raumes. Geopolitik, Geohistorie und historische Geographie’, in Neue politische Literatur 43: 374-97.

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Johannes Engels Otto, P. (1889), Strabonis ISTORIKA UPOMNHMATA fragmenta collegit et enarravit adiectis quaestionibus Strabonianis (Leipzig). Philipp, H. (1912-13), Die historisch-geographischen Quellen in den Etymologiae des Isidorus von Sevilla (Berlin). Pothecary, S. (2002), ‘Strabo, the Tiberian author: past, present and silence in Strabo’s Geography’, in Mnemosyne 55: 387-438. Préaux, C. (1975-76), ‘Sur le naufrage de la littérature historique de l’âge hellénistique’, in Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica 6-7: 455-62. Primo, A. (2001), ‘Valutazioni critiche di Strabone e Posidonio sul dominio di Roma’, in Studi Ellenistici a cura di Biaggio Virgilio XIII: 199-232. Radt, S. (2002-08), Strabons Geographika, Bände 1-7 (Göttingen). Roller, D.W. (2008), BNJ 91 Strabo of Amasia, www.brillsnewjacoby.com. Sacks, K. (1981), Polybius on the Writing of History (Berkeley). Sacks, K. (1990), Diodorus Siculus and the First Century (Princeton). Schlögel, K. (20072), Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit. Über Zivilisationsgeschichte und Geopolitik (Frankfurt a.M.). Schroer, M. (2006), Räume, Orte, Grenzen. Auf dem Weg zu einer Soziologie des Raumes (Frankfurt a.M.). Schulin, E. (1979), ‘Universalgeschichtsschreibung im 20. Jahrhundert’, in E. Schulin, Traditionskritik und Rekonstruktionsversuch. Studien zur Entwicklung von Geschichtswissenschaft und historischem Denken (Göttingen): 163-202 text and 269-82 notes. Syme, R. (1995), Anatolica: Studies in Strabo (Oxford). Theiler, W. (1982), Poseidonios. Die Fragmente, Bd. I Texte and Bd. II Erläuterungen (Berlin and New York). Yarrow, L.M. (2005), Historiography at the End of the Republic (Oxford).

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6

The Glory of Italy and Rome’s Universal Destiny in Strabo’s Geographika Marta García Morcillo Introduction: Strabo and the glory of Italy After reporting the former influence of the Samnites in Campania and in Latium, Strabo describes in book 5 their insurrection against the Romans and the severe defeat inflicted by Sulla, who judged that ‘no Roman could even live in peace so long as the Samnites held together as a separate people’.1 The destruction and decadence of the Samnites is illustrated in geographic and urban terms, noting how most of their cities (poleis) had been reduced to simple villages (komai) and even vanished. Among the cities mentioned are Bovianum, Aesernia, Panna and Teselia (close to Venafrum).2 ‘None of them’, continues Strabo, ‘deserves to be regarded as a city, but I, for my part, am going into detail, within due bounds, because of the glory and power of Italy’ (di> t]n tÁj ,Ital8aj dÒxan ka< dÚnamin). Strabo’s reference to Italy’s doxa and dynamis connects the text with the main theme of books 5 and 6, summarised in the famous long epilogue at the end of book 6:3 Italy’s central position in the oikoumene and its excellent natural conditions, together with the incomparable virtues and greatness of its people, explained, according to Strabo, its universal hegemony (sÚmpasa =gemon8a). Together with the relevance of this geographical factor, Strabo offers a short account of the history of Rome from its founding to its supremacy of the world under Augustus. Rome’s expansion in Italy, he argues, was due not to a conscious imperialistic programme, but rather to reactions against frequent hostilities. So, Rome was able progressively to overcome the Latini, Tyrrheni, Celti, Samnites, those Tarantini led by Pyrrhus, and the Carthaginians, who had invaded Sicily and Italy. Next, Strabo reports on the Roman conquests outside Italy until the Parthians’ submission to the Emperor Augustus. Strabo returns then to Italy and points out that in the face of the frequent discord (,Ital8an diast©san poll£kij), Roman rule had saved it from error and corruption by the excellence of its government (tÁj polite8aj ¢retˇ) and its rulers. The section ends with an elogium to Augustus’ absolute authority (1xous8an aÙtotelÁ), continued by Tiberius and his sons.4

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Marta García Morcillo In this chapter I explore Strabo’s construction of Rome’s universal hegemony not only as a simple consequence of Roman imperialism, but also as the culmination of a long and complex historical process and as the outcome of Italy’s natural excellence, cultural and ethnic diversity. Three aspects in particular will be analysed: Strabo’s use of economic information to construct an image of Rome as the central geographic and political power;5 his focus on pictures of splendour and decadence amongst the Italic and Greek peoples linked with the legitimacy of Roman rule; and his interest in the persistence of ethnic traits and cultural traditions beyond or despite mythic constructions and structures of the Roman domination. Was Strabo’s discourse of political unity really compatible with the picture of Italy’s natural and cultural diversity? How does this image fit with Strabo’s view of Roman universal hegemony? And, returning to the passage quoted at the beginning: in what way did the list of vanished cities which once belonged to the defeated Samnites contribute to Italy’s claimed glory and power? Italy and the Augustan ideology In line with the Hellenistic tradition of cultural geography, the Geographika provides a vision of the oikoumene also in accordance with Augustan propaganda.6 A typical Augustan theme is also the patriotic idea of Italy’s unity that recalled the so-called laudes Italiae. This literary topos was particularly explored by authors such as Varro, Virgil and Dionysius of Halicarnassus, which projected a harmonious and ideal depiction of the different regions as fertile and prosperous landscapes.7 The creation of stereotyped ethnic and regional communities according to this pattern promoted the construction of a globally dominant national Roman identity.8 Despite the resort to mythical and cultural stereotypes, Strabo’s Geographika also attempted to transmit an image of Italy and its diversity nearer to geographic and historical reality. In this regard, Italy’s unity appears here not as a category already existing in the original conception of territory and its peoples, but firstly emerging as a direct consequence of the Roman conquest. Homogeneity is therefore simply assumed by Strabo as a political fact. Strabo’s positive view of Roman rule tends thus to harmonise with the depictions of cultural diversity and the influence of Hellenism. Accounts of military and political submission to Roman power are conveniently balanced with descriptions of cultural tolerance.9 In accordance with the Augustan image of world hegemony, Strabo presents his Geographika as a complete work, a unity of time and space, in which there is no place for futures other than the perpetuation of the present. The excellence of Roman government, first deployed successfully in Italy, hence emerges as a mirror and model to be followed all over the oikoumene.

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6. Rome’s Universal Destiny in Strabo’s Geographika Italy’s economic prosperity and Roman imperialism Scholars generally agree in qualifying Strabo’s interest in the economy as predominantly superficial and anecdotal.10 Natural and mineral resources, the fertility of the soil, the excellent productivity of the land, the capacity of transport and export – all these elements present in the Geographika, are recognised as typical features of the Hellenistic periegetic tradition. In many cases, it is also possible to recognise the traces of Strabo’s main sources, namely Artemidorus, Posidonius, Polybius and Timaeus. The outstanding productivity of Campania (5.4.3), the legendary fortune of Sybaris (6.1.13), the famous wine of the Thouroi (6.1.14), or the extraordinary fertility of the land surrounding the Vesuvius (5.4.8), are some of the commonplaces borrowed by Strabo from such authors.11 Indeed, his use of outdated information, stereotypes and inaccuracies is evident across the whole work. A characteristic feature of the Geographika is the attribution of the idea of prosperity (eudaimonia) to the cities, as opposed to the archaism of the rural world. Opulence and wealth, demographic growth, consumption and the development of infrastructures and monumental building are all central to the description of cities. As regards Italy, Strabo makes use of these elements to construct an image of Italy’s excellent natural conditions and related economic progress as decisive factors in Rome’s inexorable rise: references to harbours, roads, mines, wine, oil and cereal production and the excellence of certain manufactures are some of the topoi issued by Strabo in order to (a) depict Rome and the Urbs as a magnetic centre and main recipient of material wealth coming from the rest of Italy; and (b) explain processes of economic and urban change, decadence or growth in certain regions and among ethnical groups, including Magna Graecia. Generally speaking, Strabo appears to make an ideological use of economics. But does such information merely support the idea of Italy’s political unity under Rome or does it also somehow contribute to the confection of cultural diversities? Are both realities compatible in Strabo’s discourse? To what extent did Strabo take into account up-to-date information on the natural and economic resources of the regions considered? Several passages of the Geographika connect descriptions of high quality resources with the economic dependence of the Italic regions on Roman rule as well as their contribution to the prosperity of Rome. In his account of Cisalpina and the Padus, Strabo emphasises the fertility of the region and the wealth of its cities. Among their abundant natural resources are mentioned fruits and forests, in which there are herds of swine destined to feed Rome. Also exceptional is the yield of millet, wine and wood (5.1.12).12 Patavium (Padova) is admired for the quantity and quality of its manufactured goods, clothing in particular, which is also sent to Rome (5.1.7);13 whereas the large harbour of Luna is well known for its exports

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Marta García Morcillo of excellent marbles, used in many cities but especially in Rome for prestigious works of art (5.2.5).14 Tyrrhenia (Etruria) meanwhile supplies wood for building, being transported from the mountains via the rivers (5.2.5).15 The prosperity (eudamonia) of Tyrrhenia is seen to be directly linked to its large and numerous lakes, providing fish, marsh-birds, cattail, papyrus and reed. These were transported to Rome thanks to the navigability of the lakes, connected to several rivers flowing into the Tiber (5.2.9). Tyrrhenia’s natural facilities for fluvial communication with Rome illustrate the region’s economic prosperity. In similar terms, Strabo reports Pisa’s former and present reputation, describing its fertility, its stone-quarries, and timber resources, employed for ship-building as well as luxury villas and other buildings at Rome (5.2.5).16 Strabo’s accounts of economic prosperity make visible supply dependencies between peripheral producers and a centre of consumption. Accordingly, even if Greek foundations such as Luna or Pisa had enjoyed an ancient flourish, Strabo prefers to accentuate their reputation as goods-suppliers of Rome. In fact, the economic improvement of certain cities is, in places, directly linked to the settlement of Roman colonies, as is the case of Novum Comum, formerly just a modest settlement (aÛth d, Ãn m5n katoik8a metr8a) and the metropolis of Mediolanum, in the past just a village (p£lai m5n kèmhn) (5.1.6). The emporium of Aquileia, founded by Romans (180 BC), at the end of the Amber route, formed a focus for trade with the Illyrians to the north of the Alps, who imported slaves, cattle and hides in exchange for fish, wine or olive-oil exported by the Romans (5.1.8).17 This scheme is also found in the description of the once flourishing cities of Magna Graecia. So, for example, the excellent harbours of Brentesion (Brundisium) are expressly referred to by Strabo as the main doorway into the Italian peninsula for those sailing from Greece and Asia towards Rome. These routes were, according to Strabo, extended through two main roads: one which crossed the territory of the Dauni and the Samnites; the other, going past Tarantum, was the famous Via Appia (6.3.7). The most evocative example of this view of economy in terms of territorial and political dependencies is of course Sicily. Its inclusion in book 6 responds to Strabo’s view of the first Roman province as a mirror and complementary case of the evolution of Magna Graecia under Roman rule. The ‘storehouse’ of Rome (tame√on tÁj +Rèmhj), considered even superior to Italy as regards its fertility, beautiful Sicily exported almost all its produce, including not only grain, but also livestock, pelts, wool, etc. (6.2.7) Strabo’s description of Latium and in particular the city of Rome, as might be expected, unveils his first-hand knowledge of the region and its most frequented areas.18 The places and episodes included in his account are part of an intentional selection linked to the idea of the Urbs as a political and economic central place. Together with certain references to archaic Rome and its settlement, Strabo shows here an almost exclusive interest in the contemporary city and in the aedilician activity undertaken

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6. Rome’s Universal Destiny in Strabo’s Geographika by Augustus and Agrippa.19 This part is preceded by an interesting remark on the differences between Greeks and Romans in the way they set priorities in building (5.3.2).20 By emphasising Rome’s foresight (pronoia) in her construction of roads, aqueducts and canals, Strabo focuses on the importance of engineering and its functionality for the communication between rural places, urban centres and Rome. The interest in transport, supply and import of goods underlines Augustus’ food policy (5.3.7-8).21 Particular stress is put on the importance of the city walls and the essential role of the Tiber for the import of commodities coming from the sea and along the coasts, despite the difficulties caused by the lack of a proper harbour at Ostia (5.3.5). Rather than accentuating Rome’s aesthetic values, Strabo displays the superiority of the Urbs on account of its infrastructural development and degree of urbanism. Where well-known locations and characteristic monuments of the city are missing, Strabo provides accurate descriptions of contemporary mirabilia, such as the buildings of the Campus Martius and Augustus’ Mausoleum.22 The former are admired not only because of their beauty and size but also for their multifunctional public uses, while the last embodies Rome’s religious character according to the patterns of the emerging Augustean ideology. Strabo’s image of Augustan Rome indeed anticipates Pliny’s Naturalis Historia in highlighting the Urbs as a microcosm of Rome’s universal power.23 The prominence given to its infrastructure and engineering marvels also locates Rome at the very centre of a communication and economic system, exemplified by the Via Appia.24 Economic splendour is thus expressed by Strabo as a unidirectional phenomenon and a sign of Rome’s power over Italy and the world.25 Consequently, no news on financial activities, monetary circulation, and redistribution of goods, exports or manufacture should be expected in this account. Processes of decadence and renaissance If the Geographika’s view of the economy mostly considers relationships of political and territorial dependence, Strabo’s interest in Italy’s past primarily formulates a schematic construction of historical cycles culminating in the present.26 His accounts of the splendour and decadence of regions and ethnic groups depict a culturally heterogeneous Italy that was destined to be politically unified by Rome. According to this historical progression, allusions to Italic and Greek communities are recurrently modelled in the Geographika by moral and propagandistic projections. Vanished cities, ruined temples and depopulated territories, caused by internal or external factors, are typically confronted by Strabo with former images of memorable pasts and prosperity. Such involutions affected Latium, Etruria, Samnium, Campania and above all Magna Graecia and Sicily.27 This degradation is further associated with a progressive phe-

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Marta García Morcillo nomenon of barbarisation.28 As observed in the commentary on the defeated and once powerful Samnites, in line with a classical Greek concept, the image of decadence in the Geographika appears geographically and precisely displayed – notably – through the striking idea of poleis degraded into simple komai, thus projecting a view of civilisation and prosperity directly linked with urban space and life.29 Strabo’s resorting to this discourse can be explained through his priority for reconstructing Italy’s ethnographic and historical diversity, even if this means evoking negative aspects or almost forgotten episodes.30 Causes of such processes may be external – e.g. the Samnite, Punic or Social Wars – and the consequence of internal crisis and negative aspects, such as self-indulgence and progressive loss of identity. In a contrast to the period of renaissance experienced in many regions – particularly in Magna Graecia – during the Augustan age, Strabo only rarely refers to the struggles of Rome’s own civil wars and the end of the republic. Such depictions involve also the funding of Rome itself and the processes leading to the progressive disappearance of several Latial cities condemned by their proximity to the future metropolis to become mere villages or private properties, like Collatia, Antemnae, Fideae and Labicum (5.3.2).31 In the case of Sicily, Strabo reports the decay of many cities and settlements, such as the Greek colonies Naxos and Megara (6.2.2). He further admits not knowing of any settled population still living in former poleis, such as Himera, Gela, Calipolis, Selinus or Euboea, and other ‘barbarian’ cities.32 The fading of so many urban centres was due, according to Strabo, to the effect of successive wars provoked by Tyrrhenian pirates, barbarians, Carthaginians and also Romans (6.2.5). Roman conquest and domination are thus not directly omitted as being responsible for Sicily’s decline, although no negative assessment in this regard is expressed.33 Having formerly grown on account of its fertility and the excellence of its harbours, Syracuse suffered oppression by the Carthaginians and by Roman siege. Yet Strabo prefers here to evoke the recent past by emphasising Augustus’ creation of a colony and his efforts to restore the city and its infrastructures after the abuses committed by Sextus Pompeius (6.2.4). Augustus’ measures in Syracuse represent one of the few signs of urban progress detected in Sicily.34 The image of increasing ‘ruralism’ and ‘barbarism’ of the island also affected the survival of cultural and religious activities. Symptomatic is the demise of the old and celebrated temple of Aphrodite at the Eryx hill, and its surrounding settlement (6.2.6).35 Strabo’s discourse of the decadence of Magna Graecia is set within a well-known cultural tradition.36 The leitmotiv of the account is the negative consequences of the war between Romans and Carthaginians, and the progressive barbarisation affecting the region.37 He also describes the loss of Leucani, Brettii and Samnites of south Italy (6.1.2), reduced in such a way that it is difficult even to distinguish their several settlements,

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6. Rome’s Universal Destiny in Strabo’s Geographika attending that no common organisation (systema koinon) has survived in their ethnê. Their other cultural features, such as language, armour, dresses and similar elements, have completely vanished, while their settlements are no longer of any importance.38 This follows a reference to the barbarisation process of these regions and to the fact that the Roman domination resulted in all these people becoming Romans (ka< g>r aÙto< +Rwma√oi gegÒnasin). The lack of a systema koinon, a structural unity, and the extinction of cultural signs of an ethnos (language, dresses and recognising military symbols), contrasts again with the political and cultural unity supplied by Romans.39 The passage ends with the celebrated statement on the need of exploring not only the facts of the present, but also those of the past – as far as they are relevant (endoxa) – in order to attempt a description of the earth (ges periodos). Implicit in the assertion is the history of those peoples and places only existing as memories or ruins. A prototypical image of urban decline is the case of the region of Iapygia (Daunia, Apulia), described in book 6.3. Although this region seems to have been fertile and productive, Strabo prefers to emphasise the former existence of thirteen cities in this territory, all of them, with the exception of Tarentum and Brentesion, now just small centres (polismatia) (6.3.5). The once wealthy temple (hieron plousion) of Athena in the territory of the Salentium, the great cities of the Italiots surrounded by fortifications (Canusium and Argyrippa) and the polis archaia of the Dauni (Luceria), now in ruins (tetapeinotai) (6.3.9),40 are some examples of Strabo’s picture of decay. The Geographika intentionally identifies the demographic decline of the region as an immediate consequence of the war against Hannibal and not as a result of a longer-term process of urban decline.41 In other cases, Strabo resorts to internal crisis as an explanation. Campania’s proverbial fertility is introduced as both a positive and negative feature, since it has been the cause of the extravagant character of its inhabitants but also of its present splendour.42 Strabo hence reports that the Roman rule not only brought severe punishments to the Campani, who had submitted to Hannibal, but subsequently a new prosperity to their cities by settling new colonists, enhancing their old reputation (5.4.13).43 In a similar way, Sybaris, in Lucania, enjoyed a considerable influence in the region not because of its fortune, but by reason of its luxurious way of living: it was defeated first by the Crotonians and later by Athenians and other Greeks, who moved the city to another place renaming it Thurii (6.1.13). Strabo’s depiction of Tarentum follows a similar schema. The marvellous harbour and buildings, the market place, a colossal bronze statue of Zeus and the admired acropolis, adorned with ancient and precious votive objects, all contributed to the grandeur of the polis and suffered the destructions and abuses at the hands of Carthaginians and Romans.44 A further passage offers an explanation of the fall of the city by exploring the character of the Tarentini: on account of their prosperity, they had a weak morality (tryphe), so that the public festivals were more

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Marta García Morcillo numerous than the days of the calendar. As a result, they were also badly governed and often required the support of foreign generals. The account of the successive conflicts and wars held by the Tarentini is followed by a short reference to their loss of eleutheria during the Second Punic Wars and by the establishment of a Roman colony in 122 BC. Strabo finally states that the Tarentini now live at peace and better than before.45 Portraits of Italic identities: the survival of traditions and institutions Particular interest is paid by Strabo to the survival of regional traditions and rituals in spite of the Roman political and cultural domination. This tendency is on occasions due – as seen above – to the author’s selective and coherent discourse concerned with the marginalisation of others. Symptomatic of this is the case of lucus Feroniae, in former Tyrrhenia, in whose sanctuary was honoured a native goddess in Strabo’s time.46 On the endurance of religious festivals in Latium, the author also cites the sacred rites still practised in the temples of Aphrodite in the former cities of Lavinium and Ardea, devastated by the Samnites.47 Similarly, at the kome of Fregellae, destroyed in 125 BC, Strabo attests to the regular meeting in this former settlement of inhabitants from surrounding cities ‘both to hold markets (agorai) and to perform certain sacred rites’.48 Beside the wellknown sanctuaries of Heracles at Tibur and Fortuna at Praeneste, Strabo refers to the so-called Artemisium or Nemus Dianae of Aricia, where an ancestral ritual with barbaric and Scythian elements continued to be performed in his times.49 In addition to religious activities, Strabo highlights certain ethnic differences among the inhabitants of Latium. He recognises for instance the existence of autochthonous communities not belonging to recognised ethnic groups. In his account of the relationship between Romans and Albans (5.3.4), Strabo seems surprised by the fact that both actually spoke the same language, had the right to intermarriage with one another, hold the same sacrifices at Alba, and shared other dikaia politika. However, they were separately governed and later war arose between them. Beyond the legendary familiar bonds between Albans and Romans, Strabo thus suggests the existence of a Latin ethnos based on a common ius civilis, shared in this case by two communities otherwise institutionally differentiated.50 As regards certain cultural distinctions of Sabina, Strabo defines its peoples as an ancient and autochthonous race (genos) characterised by their bravery and other excellent qualities, which have enabled them to survive to the present time (5.3.1).51 Particularly striking appears Strabo’s testimony on the endurance of the Oscan dialect, perceived within the context of a literary contest held by the Romans in which poems were recited on stage. The events in question were the so-called Atellana fabulae, a literary genre from the

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6. Rome’s Universal Destiny in Strabo’s Geographika former Oscan city of Atella (5.3.6).52 In Magna Graecia, the presence of Greek cultural features is also described, regarded as a consequence of both their enduring influence and the tolerant character of the Roman government in that part of Italy. Strabo admires for instance the continued existence of Greek order (kosmos) in Cumae, both in the rites and usages of law: Ómwj d, oân 4ti sózetai poll> ∏cnh toà +Ellhnikoà kÒsmou ka< tîn ;erîn ka< tîn nom8mon, although its inhabitants suffered numerous outrages and contaminations at the hands of the Campani (5.4.4). However, both the information on the use of Oscan in a public context and on Greek rites and laws in Cumae seem to be outdated. Particularly on Cumae, the author omits the fact that in his own days Romans had largely rebuilt the city and that Oscan and Latin had been actually regularly employed in the territory during the last two centuries BC.53 It was less difficult for Strabo to trace Greek culture in Neapolis, for the polis, as numerous inscriptions attest, preserved many Greek offices and institutional elements even during the principate. Strabo’s account includes gymnasia, ephebeia, phratria, and Greek names of things, although its inhabitants are Romans. The author describes then the sacred festivals (synteleia) celebrated in Neapolis every five years, including music and gymnastic events lasting several days, comparing them with the most famous of those celebrated in Greece (5.4.7).54 The fact that the games were indeed dedicated to Augustus and introduced in 2 BC demonstrates the special status enjoyed by Neapolis under Roman rule, evoking the former greatness of the City (5.4.13).55 The case of Neapolis epitomises Strabo’s view of the Roman world as the legitimate heir of the Greek culture. Conclusions Strabo’s complex description of Italy and Sicily provides readers with some valuable keys to understand Rome’s rise towards world hegemony. In accentuating the arete of its politeia, Strabo searches for a way to legitimate Rome’s imperialism, based on military conquests. The earlier political fragmentation of Italy and its peoples, including Greeks, is thus opposed to the excellence of Roman governance, particularly improved under Augustus. On the other hand, Strabo draws attention to Italy’s natural and geographical conditions as essential factors in Roman expansion. In this regard, Rome’s central position in Italy (and in the oikoumene) is expressed through the quantity and quality of imports arriving in the Urbs from the Italic regions. Rome’s depiction as global consumer emphasises further its imperial position. His portrayal of the economic prosperity of cities and entire regions is also often examined in relation to earlier processes of both decadence and splendour, and the subsequent benefits brought by Roman rule. Strabo’s conscious search for traces of vanished cities, temples, autochthonous rites, local traditions and other uses, also transmits an image of a rich and heterogeneous cultural and ethnical

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Marta García Morcillo landscape. These features, sometimes surviving the collapse of political structures, served to link Rome and its history with Italy’s character and past. Italy’s doxa and dynamis, guided by Rome and its political and military qualities, are thus presented by Strabo as the consequence of a long and complex process, shared by different peoples and communities in different moments and contexts. In this way, Strabo presents a coherent image of Italy also congruent with his idea of universalism and the permeable links between history and geography. Accordingly, diversity and plurality should to be regarded as complementary to collectivity and unity. If Rome provided Greeks and Italics with a necessary political unity, so Italy – including the defeated cities of the Samnites – supplied Rome with an ideal starting point towards universal hegemony. Notes 1. Str. 5.4.11, tr. H.L. Jones, Loeb Classical Library. 2. On the defeat of the Samnites and the decline of their cities after the Social War and Sulla’s offensive in 82 BC see Salmon (1967) 340-99 and Tagliamonte (1997) 21-3, 154ff. On Strabo’s complex depiction of the Samnites, see Musti (1988) 197-216. 3. Str. 6.4.1-2. Following a didactical purpose, the epilogue provides the reader with the main keys to fix the different topics and regions in an umbrella theme that dominates Strabo’s geography: the central position of Rome and Italy, both geographical and political. Accordingly, Strabo himself admits in another passage that he will follow a methodological strategy in which certain omissions are the necessary consequence of a intentional selection, and in which singular aspects are subordinated to a global concept, 6.3.10: tîn m5n g>r meg£lwn oÙd5n .n paral8poimen, t> d5 mikr> ka< gnwrisq2nta micrÕn ênhse ka< parapemfq2nta 4laqe ka< oÙd5n À [oÙ] pol) toà panteloàj 4rgou par2luse. On the idea of the construction of the work as a colossal statue or kolossourgia, see Duek (2000) 145-87; Duek et al. (2005). 4. The epilogue of book 6 is connected with the didactical aim of the work, expressed in the prolegomena; cf. Biraschi (1988) 127-43. 5. See Clarke (1999) 307-28, on how Strabo’s universalism is embodied in Augustan Rome, as a spatial and temporal culmination of Italy’s doxa kai dynamis. The ethnic and topologic data provided by Strabo present a complex structure, in which singular synchronic and diachronic accounts are intentionally integrated in the work as part of a programmatic model; cf. Pocetti (1988) 223-63. 6. See for instance Galinski (1996) 80-140, 225-87. On Strabo and the Augustan conception of the oikoumene, see Nicolet (1988) 69ff., 103ff., Engels (1999) and Duek (1999), 85-106. On the influence of contemporary politics in Strabo see further Engels, in this volume. 7. Varro, RR 1.2.6-7: Contra quid in Italia utensile non modo non nascitur, sed etiam non egregium fit? Quod far conferam Campano? Quod triticum Apulo? Quod vinum Falerno? Quod oleum Venafro? Non arboribus consita Italia, ut tota pomarium videatur? The same topic is found in Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 1.36-7. Virgil’s Georgica draws on the myth of a pre-urban and rural Italy, Verg. Georg. 2.167ff.; cf. Grimal (1985) 128-43. 8. Beyond the laudes Italiae, Augustan patriotism developed the idea of the laudes Romae, the glorification of Rome’s universal hegemony, as expressed by Vitruvius, who underlines the connection between Rome’s excellent and temperate

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6. Rome’s Universal Destiny in Strabo’s Geographika clime with the domination of the world 6.1.10-11: Cum ergo haec ita sint ab natura rerum in mundo conlocata et omnes nationes inmoderatis mixtionibus disparatae, vero inter spatium totius orbis terrarum regionisque medio mundi populus Romanus possidet fines. Namque temperatissimae ad utramque partem et corporum membris animorumque vigoribus pro fortitudine sunt in Italia gentes … Ita divina mens civitatem populi Romani egregiam temperatamque regionem conlocavit, uti orbis terrarum imperii potiretur; see Nicolet (1988) 208-9. On the debate of the unity of Italy, see further Gabba (1978) 11-27; Giardina (1997); David (1994) 218ff. 9. According to Vanotti (1992) 183, Strabo provides a midpoint between an Italocentric and a Hellenocentric view of the peninsula. 10. See particularly Foraboschi (1988) 177-88; Pocetti (1988) 224. 11. Principally from Posidonius, see Desy (1993), 145-7; Clarke (1999) 129-92. 12. Only the mines, Strabo argues, seem to have lived better times. Strabo might have followed here Polybius 2.15.1-3; cf. Biffi (1988) 246. 13. The tunicae Patavinae made of thick wool are evoked also by Martial 14.143. 14. On the importance of the harbour of Luna for the transport of marble, see Dolci (2003) 77-100. 15. On the traditional intensive commercial relationships between Etruria and Latium, see Smith (1998) 31-49. 16. The use of the Tiber as communication network between Latium, Sabina and Etruria has been analysed for instance by Patterson (2004) 61-73. 17. The importance of the Amber route is described by Pliny, Nat. 37.31-2. 18. Strabo’s familiarity with Latium and Rome has been analysed by Coarelli (1988) 75-91. 19. On the beauty of the Augustan Rome as a contrast to the practical interest in architecture by ancient Romans, Str. 5.3.8: o; d,Ûsteron ka< m£lista o; nàn ka< kaq, =m©j oÙd5 toÚtou kaqust2rhsan, ¢ll, ¢naqhm£twn pollîn ka< kalîn 1plˇrwsan t]n pÒlin. 20. On the contrast between the aesthetic qualities of the Greek architectonic techniques and the old Roman building, see Vanotti (1992) 189. 21. See Foraboschi (1988) 186-7. 22. On the Augustan building programme on the Campus Martius, cf. Macdonald (1985) 137-48; Favro (1996) 116ff., 143ff. 23. See for instance Plin. Nat. 3.67: Fateaturque nullius urbis magnitudinem in toto orbe potuisse ei comparari; 36.101. This idea is also expressed in Pliny’s description of Agrippa’s map, displaying the oikoumene, 3.17: Cum orbem terrarium urbi spectandum propositurus esset. Rome’s grandeur is defined by its magnetism, 36.101: non alia magnitude exurget quam si mundus alius quidam in uno loco narretur. Accordingly, Italy is defined as rectrix parensque mundi, 37.56, and terra omnium terrarum alumna eadem et parens, 3.39. On Pliny’s conception of Rome’s centrality, see Carey (2003) 41-74. While Strabo emphasises Rome’s and Italy’s centrality as a consequence of a long historical process, Pliny draws on the moral qualities of its peoples, 3.40: tanta nobilitas omnium locorum, quos quis attigerit, tanta rerum singularum populorumque claritas tenet; cf. Poccetti (1988) 226. 24. Strabo shows his first hand knowledge of areas in Latium connected to the Via Appia. See also the description of the Via Appia in Sabina, 5.3.6. Cf. Coarelli (1988) 82-4. 25. See in this regard, Foraboschi (1988) 186ff. Recent contributions have demonstrated on the contrary the relevant role played by the city of Rome in the interregional production, marketing and redistribution of goods; see for instance Morley (1996) 13ff.; Parkins (ed.) (1997).

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Marta García Morcillo 26. The new monumental Rome designed by Augustus represents in this regard both the spatial centrality and the culmination of this diachronic process, as noted by Clarke (1999) 245-51. As Coarelli points out, (1988) 89, Strabo shows almost no interest in republican Rome. 27. Caere: Str. 5.2.4; Caulonia (in Croton): 6.1.0; Poplonium: 5.2.6; Pyrgi: 5.2.8. Cf. Musti (1988) 11ff., 61ff.; Prontera (1988) 96-109; Tosí (1988) 25-43. 28. On the concept of barbarisation in Strabo see Van der Vlied (1984), esp. 35-8; Thollard (1987) 27ff. 29. On Strabo’s precise use of terms such as metropolis, polis, polisma, kome, komion or chorion to emphasise gradual decline, see Foraboschi (1988) 179. On the treatment of urban spaces in the Geographika, see Pédech (1972) 234-53. 30. In line with this tendency, it is not surprising that Strabo at 5.3.10 mentioned the destruction of Aesernia during the wars against the Marsi, while overlooking the fact that the city had been reconstructed under Augustus, as Coarelli (1988) 79 points out. In contrast to the mainly positive depictions of fertility and economic prosperity of the Italic territories under Roman rule, Strabo’s explanation at 5.1.12 of the decline of the mines in the Padana region is a surprise: it was caused by the fact that ‘those in the country of the Transalpine Celti and in Iberia are more profitable’. A further passage confirms the ruin of the famous copper mines of Temesa, in Lucania, at 6.1.5. 31. See Coarelli (1988) 80. 32. By taking possession of mountains and plains, Romans realised the country was deserted and enabled herdsmen to occupy these territories. Strabo also comments that the process of barbarisation (barbarikon) equally affected indigenous cities, Str. 6.2.6. 33. As has been observed by Biffi (1988) 258. 34. Increasing of population in Sicily is merely attested in cities provided with new Roman settlers; see 6.2.3. 35. The sanctuary had been known for being the wealthiest in Sicily, cf. Polyb. 1.55.8; Paus. 8.24.6, yet during the early principate it is described as a ruin: Suet. Claud. 25: … templumque in Sicilia Veneris Erycinae vetustate conlapsum. A renowned icon of former grandeur and affluence was also the temple of Hera Lacinia in Croton, ‘which at one time was rich and full of dedicated offerings’, 6.1.11. See further Biffi (1988) 318. 36. Cf. Brunt (1971) 353-65; Musti (1988) 11ff. 37. Exceptions to this tendency are Taras, Rhegium and Neapolis: see 6.1.2. On the destructions caused by Hannibal in Apulia, see 6.3.11. 38. Laurence (1998) 101, mentions the importance of these elements as signs of ethnicity in Strabo. 39. According to Van der Vliet (1984), 38-39, with the idea of systema koinon, Strabo emphasises the essential role played by the political organisation in the successful working of communities. On the ethnic identity of these peoples see also Musti (1988) 259-87. The loss of political independency of the Greek cities is thus linked to the disintegration of cultural and institutional elements, cf. Poccetti (1988) 235 40. Luceia’s prosperous past is suggested by Strabo’s reference to an existing temple of Athena, containing, in his day, ancient votive objects (palaia anathemata). 41. Strabo seems to follow Polybius and not Artemidorus or Poseidonius in this case, as has been pointed out by Desy (1993) 164-6. 42. Strabo also mentions that the luxurious living of the Tyrrheni, who occupied the region before the Samnites provoked their fall, see 5.3.4.

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6. Rome’s Universal Destiny in Strabo’s Geographika 43. On the Roman colonialism and its consequences in Campania, see Brunt (1971) 307; Frederiksen (1984) 297; Toynbee (1964). 44. Str. 6.3.1. Among the booty token by Fabius Maximus after capturing the rebelled city, there was a bronze statue by Lysippus, now in the Capitol of Rome. 45. Str. 6.3.4. In the case of Rhegium, Strabo evokes the destructions provoked by Dionysius (II) of Syracuse, the Campani and several earthquakes. Once again, Strabo points out here Augustus’ successful repopulation of the city, 6.1.6. Add to the abuses of Dionysus in the zone, the case of Locro: Str. 6.1.8. 46. Str. 5.2.9. On the famous panegyris of the lucus Feroniae, attended by Sabini and Latini and its survival in Augustan times, see Dion Hal. 3.32; 4.49; Liv. 1.30.5. Cf. Gabba (1975) 155; Coarelli (1988b) 127ff. 47. Str. 5.3.5. See further Biffi (1988) 271. Generally speaking, Strabo shows a major interest in Italic and Greek cult places, both extant and extinct, and sees them as physical signs of Italy’s qualities and magnetism; cf. Rouveret (2000) 49. 48. Str. 5.3.10. Strabo also mentions the existence of a sacred precinct (hieron timenon) in Fregellae, which was venerated by the people of Minturnae, 5.3.6. The continuous religious activity on the sanctuary, close to the Via Latina, is also attested in Iul. Obs. 52, see further Coarelli (1987) 23-33; (1991) 177-85. 49. Str. 5.3.12. On the popularity of the Nemus Dianae and the rituals undertaken in the sacred place at the end of the republic and under Augustus, see Coarelli (1987) 174ff.; Green (2007) 26ff. 50. On Strabo’s interpretation of ethnic identity in this passage see Ammirante (1988) 376-80. 51. On Sabini and the antiquity of their traditions see Musti (1988) 235-57; Biffi (1988) 263. 52. According to Biffi (1988) 272, the Atellana, originally in Oscan language were celebrated already in the fourth century, cf. Cic. Fam. 7.1.3. 53. Livy reports that in 180 BC the inhabitants of Cumae addressed to Rome a petition of permission to use Latin officially in their territory, 40.43.1. Further Velleius Paterculus 1.4.2, claiming that sed illis diligentior ritus patrii mansit custodia, Cumanos Osca mutavit vicinia. Cf. Frederiksen (1984) 100; Biffi (1988) 288. 54. The gymnastic contest in Augustan Neapolis are mentioned by Suetonius, Aug. 98.9: tamen et quinquennale certamen gymnicum honori suo institutum perspectavit et cum Tiberio ad destinatum locum contendit. The survival of Greek institutions in Roman Neapolis and the special status of the city is attested in several sources, cf. Cic. Balb. 21: In quo magna contentio Heracliensium et Neapolitanorum fuit, cum magna pars in iis civitatibus foederis sui libertatem civitati anteferret; Vell. Pat. 1.4.2: Pars horum civium magno post intervallo Neapolim condidit. Utriusque urbis eximia semper in Romanos fides facit eas nobilitate atque amoenitate sua dignissimas. Varro reports the existence of Greek phratria in Neapolis: LL 5.15: Sunt qui a fratria dixerunt: fratria est Graecum vocabulum partis hominum, ut Neapoli etiam nunc phratria. See further De Martino (1952) 333-43; Biffi (1988) 293. An up-to-date archaeological study of the city and its territory is provided by Zucca (ed.) (2005). 55. As Prontera underlines, (1988) 100, Strabo’s interest in the Greek institutions in Neapolis contrasts with the absence of information on these aspects provided by the author for other Italic cultures.

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Marta García Morcillo Bibliography Ammirante, L. (1980), ‘Per una interpretazione di Strabone V 4, 4’, Parola del Passato 35: 376-80. Biffi, N. (1988), L’Italia di Strabone. Testo, traduzione e commento dei libri V e VI della Geografia (Genova). Biraschi, A.M. (1988), ‘Dai “prolegomena” all’Italia: premesse teoriche e tradizione’, in G. Maddoli (ed.), Strabone e l’Italia antica. Dalla genesi della Geografia alla problematica dei libri V e VI (Perugia): 127-43. Brunt, P.A. (1971), Italian Manpower, 225 BC-AD 14 (Oxford). Carey, S. (2003), Pliny’s Catalogue of Culture: Art and Empire in the Natural History (Oxford). Clarke, K. (1999), Between Geography and History: Hellenistic Constructions of the Roman World (Oxford). Coarelli, F. (1987), I Santuari del Lazio in età repubblicana (Rome). Coarelli, F. (1988), ‘Strabone: Roma e il Lazio’, in G. Maddoli (ed.), Strabone e l’Italia antica. Dalla genesi della Geografia alla problematica dei libri V e VI (Perugia): 75-91. Coarelli, F. (1988b), ‘I santuari, il fiume, gli empori’, in Storia di Roma I, Roma in Italia (Torino): 127-51. Coarelli, F. (1991), ‘I Sanniti a Fregellae’, in La Romanisation du Samnium aux IIe et Ier siècles av. J.-C. (Naples): 177-85. David, J.-M. (1994), La romanisation de l’Italie (Paris). De Martino, F. (1952), ‘Le istituzioni di Napoli Greco-romana’, Parola del Passato 7: 333-43 Desy, P. (1993), Recherches sur l’économie apulienne au IIe et au Ier siècle avant notre ère (Brussels). Dolci, E. (2003), ‘Luna un emporio del marmo in epoca romana’, in A.M. De Giusti (ed.), Eternità e nobilità di materia. Itinerario artistico fra le pietre policrome (Rome): 77-100. Duek, D. (2000), Strabo of Amasia: A Greek Man of Letters in Augustan Rome (London and New York). Duek, D., Lindsay, H. and Pothekary, S. (eds) (2005), Strabo’s Cultural Geography. The Making of a kolossourgia (Cambridge). Engels, J. (1999), Augusteische Oikumenegeographie und Universalhistorie im Werk Strabons von Amaseia (Stuttgart). Favro, D. (1996), The Urban Image of Augustan Rome (Cambridge). Foraboschi, D. (1988) ‘Strabone e la geografia economica dell’Italia’, in G. Maddoli (ed.), Strabone e l’Italia antica. Dalla genesi della Geografia alla problematica dei libri V e VI (Perugia): 177-88. Frederiksen, M. (1984), Campania (Rome). Giardina, A. (1997), L’Italia romana. Storie di un’identità incompiuta (Rome and Bari). Laurence, R. (1998), ‘Territory, ethnonyms and geography: the construction of identity in Roman Italy’, in R. Laurence and J. Berry (eds), Cultural Identity in the Roman Empire (London and New York): 95-110. Gabba, E. (1975), ‘Mercati e fiere nell’Italia romana’, Studi Classici e Orientali 24: 141-63. Gabba, E (1978), ‘Il problema dell’ “unità” dell’Italia romana’, in La cultura italica. Atti del Convegno della Società Italiana di Glottologia (Pisa, 19 e 20 dicembre 1977) (Pisa): 11-27.

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6. Rome’s Universal Destiny in Strabo’s Geographika Green, C.M.C. (2007), Roman Religion and the Cult of Diana at Aricia (Cambridge). Macdonald, W. (1985), ‘Empire imagery in Augustan architecture’, in R. Winkes (ed.), The Age of Augustus (Louvain): 137-48. Morley, N. (1996), Metropolis and Hinterland: The City of Rome and the Italian Economy, 200 BC-AD 200 (Cambridge). Musti, D. (1988), Strabone e la Magna Grecia. Città e popoli dell’Italia antica (Padova). Nicolet, C. (1988), L’inventaire du monde. Géographie et politique aux origines de l’Empire romain (Paris). Parkins, H.M. (ed.) (1997), Roman Urbanism beyond the Consumer City (London and New York). Patterson, J.R. (2004), ‘City, territory and metropolis: the case of the Tiber valley’, in H. Patterson (ed.), Bridging the Tiber: Approaches to Regional Archaeology in the Middle Tiber Valley (London): 61-73. Pédech, P. (1972), ‘La géographie urbaine chez Strabon’, in Ancient Society 2: 234-53. Pocetti, P. (1988), ‘Prolegomeni ad una lettura dei dati etno-toponomastici dell’Italia Straboniana’, in G. Maddoli (ed.), Strabone e l’Italia antica. Dalla genesi della Geografia alla problematica dei libri V e VI (Perugia): 223-63. Prontera, F. (1988), ‘L’Italia meridionale di Strabone. Appunti tra Geografia e Storia’, in G. Maddoli (ed.), Strabone e l’Italia antica. Dalla genesi della Geografia alla problematica dei libri V e VI (Perugia): 96-109. Rouveret, A. (2000), ‘Strabon et les lieux sacrés de l’oikoumène’, in A. Vauchez (éd.), Lieux sacrés, lieux de culte, sanctuaires. Approches terminologiques, méthodologiques, historiques et monographiques (Rome) : 43-57. Salmon, E.T. (1967), Samnium and the Samnites (Cambridge). Smith, C. (1998), ‘Traders and artisans in archaic central Italy’, in H. Parkins and C. Smith (eds), Trade, Traders and the Ancient City (London and New York), 31-51. Tagliamonte, G. (1997), I Sanniti: Caudini, Irpini, Pentri, Carricini, Frentani (Milan). Thollard, P. (1987), Barbarie et civilisation chez Strabon. Étude critique des livres III et IV de la Géographie (Paris). Tosí, P. (1988), ‘L’Italia settentrionale di Strabone’, in G. Maddoli (ed.), Strabone e l’Italia antica. Dalla genesi della Geografia alla problematica dei libri V e VI (Perugia): 25-43. Toynbee, A.J. (1965), Hannibal’s Legacy: The Hannibalic War’s Effects on Roman Life (Oxford). Van der Vliet, E.C. (1984), ‘L’ethnographie de Strabon: ideologie ou tradition?’, in F. Prontera (ed.), Strabone: contributi allo studio della personalità e dell’opera, I (Perugia): 29-86. Vanotti, G. (1992), ‘Roma e il suo impero in Strabone’, in M. Sordi (ed.), Autocoscienza e rappresentazione dei popoli nell’antichità (Milan): 173-94. Zucca, R. (ed.) (2005), Splendidissima civitas Neapolitanorum (Sassari).

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Universal History and the Early Roman Historians Tim Cornell At first sight it might seem that nothing could be further from the idea of universal history than the works of the Roman annalists, which are normally thought to have been exclusive in focus, parochial in scope, and comparable to local chronicles in form and content. This was the view of Felix Jacoby, who asserted that ‘the Annales of the city may therefore be taken as an eidos of Greek local history’.1 Livy serves as the main surviving example of this type of Roman historiography, and instances of the attitude of mind that lies behind it are those occasional passages where he mentions non-Roman events, and finds it necessary to apologise for so doing. For example: ‘During this year an incident is said to have taken place which, though not connected with Roman history, is nevertheless worth recording. The Etruscan town of Volturnum, now known as Capua, was seized by the Samnites …’ etc.2 The view outlined in the foregoing paragraph is based on two misconceptions. The first is that Livy is representative of Roman annalistic historians in general, whereas in fact the evidence suggests that his predecessors, and particularly the early Roman historians who wrote in the third and second centuries BC, were rather different. This point will be discussed presently. The second misconception is that local history is the antithesis of universal history; but in fact the two categories are closer to one another than they might appear at first sight. In universal history there is a frequent interplay between the universal and the local, given that the universal historian cannot avoid viewing the history of the world from a particular standpoint, which must be fixed in space and time. In the nature of things that standpoint must be local, and may even be parochial, as in the case of Ephorus, the fourth-century BC universal historian – the only universal historian according to Polybius who deserved the name (Polyb. 5.33.2). Ephorus was ridiculed for inserting references to his own relatively unimportant city, Cyme, into his universal history: ‘At this same time,’ he is said to have written, ‘the Cymaeans were at peace’.3 This parochialism can also be personal. A partially preserved example is the work of Velleius Paterculus, whose universal history started before the Trojan War and ended with an account of his own part in Tiberius’ campaigns in Germany, his praetorship in AD 15, and the consulship of his patron, M.

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7. Universal History and the Early Roman Historians Vinicius, in AD 30.4 At the furthest extreme I remember hearing a story on the radio some years ago about a man in (I think) Leicestershire, who had written a history of the world which started with Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden and ended with the day that the author and his wife took over as landlords of the Rose and Crown – their ‘local’. Conversely local histories can be linked to universal history in various ways. The history of a single city, people or nation may be little more than an account of its development over time in the form of a chronicle or catalogue of its rulers and officials, political events and constitutional changes, wars, religious events (such as the construction of temples or the institution of new cults), epidemics, famines, and so on. Readers of Livy will recognise the format. But it is also possible to set a local history against a wider background, to show how its memorable events were linked to happenings in the world at large, and, in short, to set it in the wider framework of universal history. I propose to argue that this was precisely what the earliest Roman historians were attempting to do. The first Roman historian, Fabius Pictor, not only wrote in Greek (Cic. Div. 1.43; Dion. Hal. 1.6.2), but adopted Greek methods and presented to his readers what was essentially a Greek picture of the Roman past. This emerges partly from the fact that he evidently wrote with Greek readers in mind: he used Olympic dating, expressed sums of money in talents, and possibly measured distances in stades.5 The long description of the procession at the annual Roman games (Dion. Hal. 7.71-3 = Fabius Pictor fr.16 P) must also have been included for the benefit of readers who were not familiar with such spectacles. But the Greek character of Fabius’ account went much deeper than this. He has been compared to historians such as Berossus and Manetho, who wrote histories of their native countries in Greek a couple of generations before Fabius.6 But whereas Berossus and Manetho reacted against what Greek historians had written about their native countries (respectively, Babylonia and Egypt), and aimed to correct their ‘false’ opinions, Fabius’ stance was much more accommodating.7 He and his Roman successors unhesitatingly embraced a Greek perspective and accepted what Greek authors had said about the past of Rome. Dionysius of Halicarnassus actually says that the histories of Fabius Pictor and his younger contemporary Cincius Alimentus were just like those of their Greek predecessors, ‘and in no way different’.8 One important sign of this is that their works, and those of their successors who wrote in Latin, gave disproportionate attention to the period of the origins of the city and to the most recent events, and dealt only briefly, if at all, with the period in between. Their accounts thus came to resemble an egg-timer or ‘hour-glass’.9 At least part of the explanation for this characteristic pattern may lie in the fact that the earliest accounts of the history of Rome, even before the pioneering efforts of Fabius Pictor, were produced by Greek historians. As Emilio Gabba argued many years ago, Greek historians and their readers were naturally interested only in

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Tim Cornell the periods when Rome was involved in Greek affairs – that is, in the legendary period of the origins, when the story involved the adventures of mythical Greek heroes such as Heracles, Evander, Odysseus and Aeneas, and then again in the historical events from the end of the fourth century, when the Roman state’s expansion in southern Italy brought it into contact with the Greek cities of Magna Graecia, Sicily and eventually the wider Hellenistic world.10 Of the intervening period the Greeks knew little and cared less. Apart from major ‘world events’, such as the capture of Rome by the Gauls in 390 BC which was reported by Theopompus,11 few episodes of archaic Roman history are likely to have been recorded by Greek historians. The most likely are those rare moments of alleged contact between Rome and the Greek world: the story that king Numa was a pupil of Pythagoras (Cic. Rep. 1.28; Diod. Sic. 8.14; Liv. 1.18.2; Plut. Num. 8.5ff., etc.); the arrival in Italy of the Corinthian Demaratus, who supposedly became the father of king Tarquinius Priscus (Polyb. 6.11a.7; Liv. 1.34.2; Dion. Hal. 3.46.3-5); the intervention of Aristodemus the tyrant of Cumae in the affairs of the Latins after the downfall of the Roman monarchy (Dion. Hal. 7.3-11); and the Roman embassy to Athens before the codification of the XII Tables (Liv. 3.31.8; Dion. Hal. 10.52.4). The first Roman historians, who wrote in Greek and were at least partly addressing a Greek readership, naturally adopted the pattern that their Greek predecessors had imposed on events. That was Gabba’s conclusion, which in my opinion remains essentially valid. But the Greek historians transmitted far more to their Roman successors than information about the remote origins of Rome and a narrative format in which to shape their accounts. What the first Roman historians inherited above all was a coherent picture of world prehistory into which the origins of Rome could be fitted. This ‘hellenocentric’ picture consisted of a rationalised and historicised version of the legends of the Greek heroic age. As Elias Bickerman showed in a classic article nearly sixty years ago, the whole saga of Rome’s legendary origins took root only because the Romans themselves accepted without question the Greek view of the earliest history of mankind and the origins of civilisation.12 We are so used to reading about the Italian adventures of Hercules, Evander and Aeneas in the literature of the Augustan age that we are liable to forget what a very remarkable phenomenon this is. It was the legacy of the first Roman historians, Fabius Pictor and his successors, who, unlike Manetho, Berossus and their like, wholeheartedly adopted the hellenocentric world view. At the time this was probably not in any way a controversial step, and may have seemed completely natural, because hellenocentric thinking was already common currency among educated members of the Roman upper class long before the first Roman histories were written. The indigenous traditions – of Romulus and Remus, the kings of Alba Longa, and early figures of Italian myth such as Saturnus, Janus, Faunus and Latinus – had already been grafted on to the Greek

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7. Universal History and the Early Roman Historians sagas. The process happened very early, and by means of a collaborative effort on both sides. So easy was this collaboration that it is usually impossible to say whether it was Greek scholars who admitted local Italic legends into their universal histories, or the Italian natives themselves who used Greek historical (or rather pseudohistorical) reconstructions as a setting for their indigenous traditions. When Hellanicus of Lesbos wrote at the end of the fifth century that Rome was founded by Aeneas, we cannot know whether this was speculation on his part (or that of his source), or whether it reflects his knowledge of what was already a local Roman legend;13 similarly, when Timaeus in the early third century described the Penates at Lavinium as iron and bronze objects in a Trojan ceramic vessel, a description he received from the inhabitants of the place,14 it is impossible to know if his characterisation of the objects as ‘Trojan’ was his own (hellenocentric) inference, or whether it was based on what the people of Lavinium had told him. It was relatively easy for the early historians to incorporate all this into the first organised accounts. Fabius undoubtedly inherited a rich tradition of hellenised stories, which he was able to combine with material from official and priestly records (above all the annales maximi) and the traditions of the great aristocratic families.15 He evidently believed that he could improve on this by applying to it the principles and methods of Greek historiography, thereby ordering the disparate material into a coherent narrative, and using his independent judgement in assessing and interpreting it. This was a truly revolutionary step, as Momigliano recognised.16 One thing that needs to be emphasised is that the early Roman historians devoted much more space to the period of the origins than their first-century successors, and certainly far more than Livy, who dealt with the period before the foundation in a mere three chapters of his first book, which then went on to cover the whole of the rest of the regal period (this in a work, let us remember, comprising 144 books in all!). Cicero also began his account (in De Republica 2) of early Roman history with Romulus, without any discussion of the earlier background, and it is likely that Licinius Macer had done something similar.17 These accounts contrast sharply with that of Dionysius of Halicarnassus, who devotes the whole of his first book to the pre-foundation period, and a further three to the kings from Romulus to Tarquinius Superbus. The evidence we have suggests strongly that the early Roman historians were more like Dionysius than Livy. At least two of Rome’s earliest historians, Cassius Hemina and Cn. Gellius, seem each to have devoted a whole book to the period before Romulus. Cassius Hemina dealt with Romulus and Remus in book 2 (fr. 8 P: his work comprised no more than five books altogether), while the voluminous Gellius told the story of the rape of the Sabine women at the end of his second book and continued it into book 3 (fr. 13, 15 P).18 The radically different approach of Livy and at least some of his first-century predecessors may be the result of a tendency by historians in the period

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Tim Cornell after the Gracchi to give more attention to the internal political history of the republic; and in so far as this caused them to turn away from the history of the wider world, it represented a parochial trend.19 The early accounts of the pre-Romulean period were wide ranging and extended well beyond Aeneas and the kings of Alba. The historicised account of the deeds of Hercules in Italy that we read in Dionysius of Halicarnassus (1.41-3) was certainly based on earlier sources;20 these may have included Hemina and Gellius, who both gave rationalising versions (Hemina ap. Origo gentis Romanae 6.1-7; Gellius fr.7 P), and perhaps also Fabius Pictor, who in the well known dipinto from Taormina is said to have written about Hercules’ arrival in Italy (SEG 26.1123); this was not known before the discovery of the dipinto in the late 1960s, but is hardly a surprise, given that the Fabian clan claimed descent from Hercules (Plut. Fab. 1.1; Sil. Ital. Pun. 6.627-36); Fabius was thus able to combine family and national history.21 In later accounts Hercules was linked to Evander, who welcomed him to his settlement on the Palatine and established the worship of Hercules at the Ara Maxima (Virg. Aen. 8.185-305; Dion. Hal. 1.40). According to Polybius, Evander’s daughter, Lavinia, became Hercules’ mistress (Dion. Hal. 1.32.1). An important aspect of this developed tradition is the idea that Hercules and Evander were culture heroes who brought peace, security and civilisation to the grateful natives of Italy. There is a distinct possibility that this idea was present already in Fabius Pictor. That at least is the implication of the following passage, from the grammarian Marius Victorinus (Gramm. Lat. 6.23), concerning the invention of the alphabet: As inventors of letters, Cadmus brought across from Phoenicia to Greece, and Evander brought across to us, the letters A B C D E I K M N O P R S T , sixteen in all. Later certain letters added by Palamedes, and others by Simonides, made the number up to twenty-four, as the grammarians have related, and also Demetrius of Phalerum, Hermocrates, and furthermore, amongst our own authorities, Cincius, Fabius and Gellius.22

Among the many complex problems raised by this passage are the identities of the three Roman authors and the question of how much of the information it contains is to be attributed to each. Much the same information is reported in a passage of the Elder Pliny (NH 7.192), who attributes it to ‘Gellius’ (as well as to anonymous others). But since he refers frequently to the historian Cn. Gellius in his catalogue of inventions in book 7, we can be sure that he is the author mentioned here.23 This makes it likely that the two other writers referred to by Marius Victorinus were also historians, to be identified as Cincius Alimentus and Fabius Pictor.24 As for the second question, we know from Pliny that all of the information in the passage was in Gellius, but we must reckon with the possibility that Cincius and Fabius did no more than say something about

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7. Universal History and the Early Roman Historians writing in relation to the early history of Rome. The one element that is likely to have featured in some form in all three Roman historians is the coming of writing to Italy, and in each of them it was probably linked to the legend of Evander – who is not otherwise known to have appeared in Fabius, but who is referred to in a possible fragment of Cincius (see below). However that may be, there is clear evidence that Cn. Gellius at least was concerned to write universal history by setting the history of Rome in the framework of the whole history of civilisation and its technological development. Apart from the origins of writing, Gellius also recounted the invention of clay for building (fr. 4 P), of metalwork and the extraction of medicines from metals (fr. 5 P), and of weights and measures (fr. 6 P), all from Pliny’s catalogue.25 Some of the inventors in these fragments are gods,26 a clear sign of ‘euhemerism’: this was the doctrine, propounded in the early third century by Euhemerus of Messene and introduced to Rome by Ennius, that the gods were originally human rulers whose benefactions had caused their grateful subjects to worship them after their deaths.27 The doctrine was openly espoused by Cassius Hemina, for whom Saturnus and Faunus were deified kings; of the latter, Servius (auctus) writes (Georg. 1.10 = Cassius Hemina fr. 4 P): Cincius and Cassius say that Faunus was called a god by Evander, and for that reason sacred buildings were called ‘fauns’, and later ‘fana’, which is why those who predict the future are called ‘fanatics’.28

If the Cincius mentioned here alongside Cassius is the historian Cincius Alimentus, then it would follow that the same doctrine was already present in the works of Rome’s very earliest historians. This fragment takes us back to an early stage in the development of the legend of Faunus, who in the developed tradition was the king of the Aborigines and the father of Latinus (Virg. Aen. 7.47-8). Euhemerism and the record of human progress through technological advance were characteristic elements of Greek schemes of universal history; and there is enough evidence to show that the second-century Roman historians Cassius Hemina and Cn. Gellius set their accounts of the history of Rome within this universal framework. In doing so they were probably going back to a model that had been established at the end of the third century in the pioneering accounts of Fabius Pictor and Cincius Alimentus. The evidence available is not sufficient to prove this beyond doubt, but there are sufficient hints to make it reasonably likely.29 One of the major differences between the second-century annalists and the type of Rome-centred history practised by Livy is that the earlier historians seem to have paid much more attention to ethnography and the history of other peoples and cultures. Both Cassius Hemina and Cn. Gellius show some interest in non-Roman Italy;30 but the key figure in this connection was the Elder Cato, whose historical work, the Origins, was

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Tim Cornell written a few years earlier and undoubtedly had a strong influence on his successors. This is not the place for a full discussion of Cato’s Origines, which is easily the best preserved of all the lost works of republican historiography.31 For the present purpose we need only note its most striking feature, which is revealed already by its title, namely that it combined a narrative account of Roman history with a study of the origins of the cities and peoples of Italy. According to Cornelius Nepos (Cato 3.3, a summary of the work’s contents), the origins of the Italian cities occupied books 2 and 3 of the work, which ran to seven books in all. It is clear from the surviving fragments that ‘origins’ included not only foundation legends and the origins of tribes and peoples, but also geography, flora and fauna, institutions, cults and social customs. What is not at all certain is how the material was arranged. Most scholars believe that the two books on Italian origins were arranged geographically, with northern Italy in book 2 and the south in book 3, and that the two books together interrupted what was otherwise a chronological narrative of Roman history.32 Nepos implies that book 1 contained the history of the kings, books 4 to 7 a narrative of later history from the First Punic War down to Cato’s own day. Such a reconstruction creates problems, however, the most obvious being that it leaves no room for the history of the early republic, from the expulsion of the kings to the outbreak of the Punic Wars.33 Another striking feature is that Cato’s interest in origins, geography and ethnography clearly extended beyond the confines of Italy to other parts of the western Mediterranean. It is also worth noting that in books 2 and 3 he included Cisalpine Gaul and Liguria, which were not part of allied Italy.34 There are also fragments dealing with the geography and ethnography of North Africa, Spain and Illyria; and two fragments are concerned with Sicily.35 These fragments imply that Cato’s interest in ‘origins’ continued throughout the work. If so, a possible solution to the problem of its structure suggests itself, namely that the whole work was a mixture of historical narrative and ethnographic digressions on origins. There are essentially two versions of this ‘unitarian’ approach. The first is that the entire work was organised chronologically. On this view the first three books contained a chronological account of Rome’s wars in Italy, interspersed with digressions on the origins of its peoples as and when they appeared in the story.36 Book 1 covered the regal period, and the origins of the cities and peoples who fought against the kings, while books 2 and 3 carried the story on through the republic down to the final conquest of Italy in 264 BC. The later books on this theory would have contained a chronological narrative of the Punic Wars and the wars of imperial expansion, but would also have continued the pattern of the earlier books by including digressions on peoples and places. We might conclude that Cato’s Origines contained a chronological account of the growth of the Roman empire, including ethno-geographical accounts of the origins of all the peoples of the western Mediterranean who were now

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7. Universal History and the Early Roman Historians under Rome’s protection or control. Whether it also included something similar on Greece, Asia Minor, and the eastern Mediterranean cannot be known, but it seems unlikely, on general grounds; if Cato had written anything in the Origines about the geography, ethnography or institutions of the Greeks we should almost certainly know about it. The explanation would be that Rome’s adventures in the East had resulted in no permanent commitments, in contrast to the West, where Roman rule was firmly established by annexations or networks of alliances. An alternative version of the unitary approach would be that Cato’s work was devoted to the study of Rome’s wars (this indeed is implicit in Nepos’ description of the later books, where he refers exclusively to bella), and that the material was grouped so that the successive wars against each enemy (Latins, Etruscans, Gauls, Samnites, Greeks, Carthaginians, Macedonians, Spaniards, etc.) were narrated together. The narrative within each war or series of wars would have been chronological, and the series themselves set out in roughly chronological order. Thus, after the wars of the kings in book 1, book 2 would have dealt with the wars of the early republic (e.g. Latin Wars, Aequian and Volscian Wars, Gallic invasions), and book 3 with the later stages of the Roman conquest of Italy (e.g. Samnite Wars, Pyrrhic War). Books 4 to 6 would have contained the Punic and Macedonian Wars, and book 7 the wars in Spain. As Niebuhr recognised long ago, Cato’s Origines could have provided a model for Appian, whose history was also organised by wars, and whose first three books dealt respectively with the wars of the kings, the Italian Wars and the Samnite Wars.37 The combination of military narrative with descriptions of the geography, ethnography, mythical origins and early history of the peoples and places taking part was commonplace in ancient historiography, from Herodotus onwards. Even Thucydides was moved to introduce his narrative of the Sicilian expedition with an account of the earliest history of the island and the origins of its colonial settlements (Thuc. 6.1-5). But it was above all the universal historians, beginning with Ephorus and Timaeus, who systematically incorporated discussions of the origins of the peoples and places that played a part in the wider story. In the case of Ephorus at least, these passages took the form of digressions inserted as and when each people appeared in the narrative for the first time. Polybius clearly had this kind of writing in mind when distancing himself from historical accounts of genealogies, colonies, foundations of cities and kinship relations (9.1.4). He specifically mentions Ephorus, but implies that the practice is widespread among historians of his time. It is not farfetched to suggest that he might have been tacitly criticising Cato’s Origines, a work he had certainly read. Ephorus’ mode of presentation was subsequently continued by historians such as Posidonius, Diodorus, Timagenes and Nicolaus of Damascus. It was also taken up by some Latin writers, of whom the best known is

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Tim Cornell Pompeius Trogus, a Gallic provincial who wrote a universal history in 44 books centred on Macedonia and the Hellenistic monarchies.38 The importance of Trogus in the present context is that his work included numerous digressions (excessus) on the origins (origines) of peoples and cities and on their geographical locations (situs). The title of the work, according to the heading of the prologues, was Liber Historiarum Philippicarum et totius mundi origines et terrae situs. The digressions, which occurred in 24 of the 44 books, traced the origins of peoples and places that took part in the narrative: thus, the origins of the Scythians were described in connection with the expedition of Darius (in book 2), the origins of Cyprus when the narrative reached the war of Artaxerxes against Evagoras (in book 9), the origin of Rhodes at the time of its siege by Demetrius Poliorcetes (in book 15), and the origins of the Jews at the time of Antiochus Epiphanes (in book 36). It might seem that the models for Trogus should be sought principally in the Hellenistic tradition, given his mainly Greek and Macedonian focus. But among Latin forerunners we should not forget Cato, whose Origines covered all Italy and the wider empire as it existed in his time. The numerous digressions on origines in Trogus, and especially the use of the word origo in this connection, inevitably recall Cato and suggest that he was to some extent at least a potential model. There is also a good chance that Cato’s Origines was one of Trogus’ principal sources, at least for Italy, where (according to the Prologues) he had digressions on the Etruscans (in book 1), on the Apulians, Lucanians, Samnites and Sabines (in book 12), on the Veneti, Gauls and Italiot Greeks (in book 20), on the Bruttii (in book 23),39 and on the Latins (including Rome), Ligurians and Massiliots (in book 43).40 There can be no certainty that Trogus used Cato’s Origines either as a model or as a source of information, but general considerations make both propositions likely.41 In any case the bare outline of the contents of Trogus’ work, as set out in the prologues, is enough to illustrate the kind of layout we have postulated for Cato’s Origines – that is, a narrative of military events on a broad canvas, interspersed with digressions on origins at appropriate points. The suggestion being advanced here is that Cato’s work was a species of universal history, but with its centre of gravity in Italy and the West. In this, as also no doubt in its ideology, it was very different from Trogus and from earlier Hellenistic universal histories that focused on the Greek world. But it may have had something in common with the works of his Roman predecessors, especially Fabius Pictor. As we have seen, Fabius concentrated his attention on a hellenocentric account of the remote origins of Rome in the first part of his work, and in the later part wrote about Rome as a player in the international history of the Mediterranean during his own lifetime. Cincius Alimentus did the same. By Cato’s time it was possible to argue that Roman history and the contemporary history of the Mediterranean world had become synonymous, as a result of the growth of Roman power and the establishment of

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7. Universal History and the Early Roman Historians the Roman empire. This after all was the view of Polybius, with whom Cato was well acquainted; their histories covered virtually the same period, and had many things in common. As is well known, Polybius believed that the events of his time had made possible a new type of universal history; in earlier times events in different parts of the world had constituted separate histories with little or no connection between them, but in the 140th Olympiad (220-216 BC) history had come to resemble a living organism, in which events in one part of the world affected what was going on elsewhere, and all were tending towards a single end.42 We may conclude this discussion with the observation that the slippery topic of ‘universal history’ inevitably leads to paradox, given that no historian could write the history of everything and would be mad to try. All histories are partial (in every sense), but the universal historian aims to place events in a universal setting and to explain them in universal terms. The distinctive thing about the early Roman historians who are examined in this paper is their awareness that from the very beginning Rome had formed part of a wider world, and that its history and development could only be understood against that background. Fabius Pictor and Cincius Alimentus were writing for a world-wide readership, and inevitably found themselves having to explain, and perhaps to justify, Rome’s place in the world, from its remote origins down to their own time, when the city was engaged in a life-and-death struggle that involved every major power in the Mediterranean basin. Two generations later we find historians writing histories of Rome in Latin, but beginning with what can only be understood as general accounts of the earliest history of mankind and the origin of civilisation. How they continued their narratives, and whether they tried to place later Roman events into a wider setting, we do not know. It is worth noting, however, that Cassius Hemina discussed the date of Homer and Hesiod (fr. 8 P), which suggests the possibility that his history included matters of wider cultural significance together with political and military events. If so, he would have provided a model for later universal historians such as Cornelius Nepos and Velleius Paterculus. Cato’s historical work, like its author, was exceptional in all kinds of ways. He was the only Roman historian, so far as we know, to combine a history of Rome with a historical and ethnographic account of the other peoples and communities that formed the wider Roman world in his time. In this sense he alone of the republican historians can be said to have written universal history. But the paradox here is obvious: Cato confined his attention to the western Mediterranean, and was therefore writing the universal history of a restricted universe.43 All our historians must have been at least dimly aware of the fact that was stated clearly and explicitly by Polybius, that with the growth of the Roman empire major political and military events were now happening on a single stage, and this had made contemporary universal history both

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Tim Cornell possible and necessary. Later historians came more and more to identify the history of the world with the history of the universal Roman empire; but the final paradox is that this realisation led to a more restricted vision, and to the production of histories that were increasingly parochial and exclusively concerned with Roman events. The results can be seen in the work of Livy. Notes 1. Jacoby (1949) 397. 2. Livy 4.37.1: peregrina res, sed memoria digna traditur eo anno facta, Volturnum, Etruscorum urbem, quae nunc Capua est, ab Samnitibus captam … etc. (translation adapted from A. de Sélincourt, Penguin Classics (1960)). 3. Strabo 13.3.6, p. 623C = Ephorus FGrH 70 F236. 4. On Velleius as a universal historian see Clemence Schultze’s paper in this volume, and the bibliography cited at p. 127 n. 2. 5. Olympic dating: Dion. Hal. 1.74.1 (= Fabius Pictor fr.6 P), with Feeney (2007) 95-6. Talents: Livy 1.55.8 (= Fabius Pictor fr.13 P). Stades: Dion. Hal. 1.79.4 (= Fabius Pictor fr. 5 P), but here there is no guarantee that Dionysius reflects Fabius’ usage. 6. On Berossus (FGrH 680), who dedicated his work to Antiochus I (281-260 BC), see Burstein (1978); Kuhrt (1987); on Manetho (FGrH 609), who wrote in the 280s BC, see Helck (1956); Fraser (1972) 1, 505-10; Dillery (1999). 7. This contrast is the main theme of the important paper of Dillery (2002). 8. Dion. Hal. 1.6.2: homoias de toutois kai ouden diaphorous. 9. Thus (among many others) Badian (1966) 3; Gabba (1967) 135-8; Timpe (1972) 932-40; Petzold (1993), 161-2; Kierdorf (2002) 402-3. 10. Gabba (1967). 11. Plin. NH. 3.57 = Theopompus FGrH 115 F317. The event also caught the attention of the philosophers Aristotle and Heraclides Ponticus (Plut. Camill. 22.2-3). 12. Bickerman (1952). 13. Dion. Hal. 1.72.2 = Hellanicus FGrH 4 F84. On this question see my comments in Cornell (1975); cf. Momigliano (1984), 444-6. The authenticity of the Hellanicus fragment is called in question by Horsfall (1979); Gruen (1992) 17-18. Erskine (2001) 25-6, 149, is mildly sceptical. 14. Dion. Hal. 1.67.4 = Timaeus FGrH 566 F59. 15. On the nature of the historical tradition before Fabius see Cornell (1995) 7-16; Oakley (1997) 22-38, (2005) 475-84; Beck and Walter (2001) 27-37. 16. Momigliano (1966) 60-1. 17. On this see Cornell (2001) 48-50. 18. On Hemina and Gellius, historians of the mid-second and later second century (respectively), see Rawson (1991). 19. Thus Gabba (1996) 9-10. 20. Martin (1972) 258-9, and see further below. 21. Jones (1999) 82; Dillery (2002) 14. 22. repertores litterarum Cadmus ex Phoenice in Graeciam et Euander ad nos transtulerunt A B C D E I K M N O P R S T litteras numero XVI. postea quasdam a Palamede et alias a Simonide adiectas implesse numerum XXIIII grammatici, praeterea Demetrius Phalerus, Hermocrates, ex nostris autem Cincius, Fabius, Gellius, tradiderunt. Marius Victorinus GL 6.23 (= Fabius Pictor fr. 1 P).

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7. Universal History and the Early Roman Historians 23. The historian Cn. Gellius is also listed by Pliny in book 1 among his sources for book 7. 24. This is likely enough anyway in the case of Fabius; but with Cincius there is always the problem of confusion with the later antiquarian of the same name – on whom see Rawson (1985) 247-8; Oakley (1998) 81. For surviving fragments see Funaioli (1907) 371-82. The historian Cincius Alimentus is frequently bracketed together with his older contemporary Fabius Pictor, and it seems that this has happened in the Marius Victorinus passage. 25. Plin. NH 7.191-215, on which see Beagon (2005) 416-72. On Gellius and the history of technological inventions see Chassignet (1999). 26. Mercury (fr. 2 P), Toxius the son of Caelus (= Uranus) (fr. 4 P), Sol the son of Oceanus (fr. 5 P). 27. On Euhemerus see Fraser (1972) 1, 289-98. 28. Cincius et Cassius aiunt ab Euandro Faunum deum appellatum ideoque aedes sacras faunas primo appellatas, postea fana dicta, et ex eo, qui futura praecinerent fanaticos dici. 29. Thus Mazzarino (1966) 2, 87-8. 30. Rawson (1991) 269-70. 31. For fragments of Cato’s Origines see Peter (1914); Chassignet (1986); Beck and Walter (2001); Cugusi and Sblendorio-Cugusi (2001). Major discussions include Badian (1966) 7-11; Timpe (1970-71); Astin (1978) 211-39; Kierdorf (1980); Gruen (1992) 52-83, esp. 59-61, 82-3; Suerbaum (2002) 380-94. 32. This is the view of all the editors of the Origines (see previous note), who order their collections of the fragments accordingly. 33. Various solutions have been proposed, one of which is that Cato composed the work in two stages – three books of origins (of Rome and Italy) and four books of contemporary history – and that the two parts were not properly put together: thus Badian (1966) 7-8. On the other hand Astin suggested that book 4 began with a rapid summary of republican history before getting to the main narrative of the Punic Wars: Astin (1978) 215. 34. Fr. 31-44 P = Origines II.1-14 Chassignet/Beck-Walter = 34-48 Cugusi. 35. North Africa: fr. 78, 80 P = Orig. IV.2-3 Ch./B-W = 82, 84 Cu.; Spain: fr. 93, 110 P = Orig. V.2, VII.5 Ch./B-W = 98, 124 Cu.; Illyria: fr. 97 P = Orig. V.5 Ch./B-W = 110 Cu.; Sicily: fr. 72, 89 P = Orig. III.5, IV.8 Ch./B-W = 77, 94 Cu. 36. E.g. Beloch (1926), 102; Kierdorf (1980) 213-20. 37. Appian, Praef. 14; Niebuhr (1837) 1, 8 n.2. 38. On Trogus see Seel (1982); Alonso-Núñez (1987). 39. Justin’s epitome preserves a version of this account, at 23.1.3-14. 40. The account in Justin’s epitome is consistent in every detail with the information in the relevant fragments of Cato’s Origines. 41. Apart from the previous note, there is the fact that in his preface Justin alludes to the opening of Cato’s work (Praef. 5); this may well have been already in Trogus. It is also worth speculating on the source of Justin 33.2.1-5, which recounts the exploits of Cato’s son at Pydna. The story is not in Livy or the surviving parts of Polybius, but it recurs in Valerius Maximus (3.2.16), Plutarch (Cat. Mai. 20.10-11; Aem. 21.1-5), and Frontinus (Strat. 4.5.17), who must have taken it either from Trogus or from the same source as Trogus; this common source may have been Cato’s Origines. 42. Polyb. 1.3.4, with Walbank (1957) ad loc. 43. In this sense he was following the lead of the man who was almost certainly his chief inspiration and model, namely Timaeus of Tauromenium, a universal historian who wrote only about the western Mediterranean.

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Tim Cornell Bibliography Alonso-Núñez, J.M. (1987), ‘An Augustan world history: the “Historiae Philippicae” of Pompeius Trogus’, Greece & Rome 34: 56-72. Astin, A.E. (1978), Cato the Censor (Oxford). Badian, E. (1966), ‘The early historians’, in T.A. Dorey (ed.), Latin Historians (London): 1-38. Beagon, M. (2005), The Elder Pliny on the Human Animal: Natural History Book 7 (Oxford). Beck, H. and Walter, U. (eds) (2001), Die Frühen Römischen Historiker 1: von Fabius Pictor bis Cn. Gellius (Darmstadt). Beloch, J. (1926), Römische Geschichte bis zum Beginn der punischen Kriege (Berlin). Bickerman, E.J. (1952), ‘Origines gentium’, Classical Philology 47: 65-81. Burstein, S.M. (1978), The Babyloniaca of Berossus (Malibu). Chassignet, M. (1999), ‘L’annaliste Cn. Gellius ou l’heurématologie au service de l’histoire’, Ktèma 24: 85-91. Chassignet, M. (ed.) (1986), Caton: les origines (Paris). Cornell, T.J. (1975), ‘Aeneas and the Twins: the development of the Roman foundation legend’, Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 21: 1-32. Cornell, T.J. (1995), The Beginnings of Rome: Italy and Rome from the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars, c. 1000-264 BC (London). Cornell, T.J. (2001), ‘Cicero on the origins of Rome’, in J.G.F. Powell and J.A. North (eds), Cicero’s Republic (London): 41-56. Cugusi, P. and Sblendorio-Cugusi, M.T. (eds) (2001), Opere di Marco Porcio Catone Censore, 2 vols (Turin). Dillery, J. (1999), ‘The first Egyptian narrative history: Manetho and Greek historiography’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 127: 93-116. Dillery, J. (2002), ‘Quintus Fabius Pictor and Greco-Roman historiography at Rome’, in J.F. Miller, C. Damon and K.S. Myers (eds), Vertis in usum: Studies in Honour of E. Courtney (Munich): 1-23. Erskine, A. (2001), Troy between Greece and Rome: Local Tradition and Imperial Power (Oxford). Feeney, D. (2007), Caesar’s Calendar: Ancient Time and the Beginnings of History (Berkeley). Fraser, P.M. (1972), Ptolemaic Alexandria, 3 vols (Oxford). Funaioli, G. (ed.) (1907), Grammaticae Romanae Fragmenta (Leipzig) Gabba, E. (1967), ‘Considerazioni sulla tradizione letteraria sulle origini della repubblica’, in Les origines de la république romaine, Entretiens Fondation Hardt 13 (Geneva): 133-74. Gabba, E. (1996), ‘Origine e carattere della più antica storiografia romana’, Eutopia 5: 3-11. Gruen, E.S. (1992), Culture and National Identity in Republican Rome (Ithaca, NY). Helck, W. (1956), Untersuchungen zu Manetho und die ägyptischen Königslisten (Berlin). Horsfall, N.M. (1979), ‘Some problems in the Aeneas legend’, Classical Quarterly 29: 372-90. Jacoby, F. (1949), Atthis: The Local Chronicles of Ancient Athens (Oxford). Jones, C.P. (1999), Kinship Diplomacy in the Ancient World (Cambridge, MA). Kierdorf, W. (1980), ‘Catos Origines und die Anfänge der römischen Geschichtsschreibung’, Chiron 10: 205-24.

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7. Universal History and the Early Roman Historians Kierdorf, W. (2002), ‘Anfänge und Grundlagen der römischen Geschichtsschreibung’, Klio 84: 400-13. Kuhrt, A. (1987), ‘Berossus’ Babyloniaca and Seleucid rule in Babylonia’, in A. Kuhrt and S.M. Sherwin-White (eds), Hellenism in the East (London): 32-56. Martin, P.M. (1972), ‘Herakles en Italie d’après Denys d’Halicarnasse (AR 1.3444)’, Athenaeum 50: 252-75. Mazzarino, S. (1966), Il pensiero storico classico, 3 vols (Bari). Momigliano, A.D. (1966), ‘Linee per una valutazione di Fabio Pittore’ (first published 1960), in Terzo contributo alla storia degli studi classici e del mondo antico (Rome): 55-68. Momigliano, A.D. (1984), ‘How to reconcile Greeks and Trojans’ (first published 1982), in Settimo contributo alla storia degli studi classici e del mondo antico (Rome): 437-62. Niebuhr, B.G. (1837), History of Rome, 3 vols, tr. J.C. Hare and C. Thirlwall, 2nd edn (London). Oakley, S.P. (1997), A Commentary on Livy, Books VI-X, vol. 1 (Oxford). Oakley, S.P. (1998), A Commentary on Livy, Books VI-X, vol. 2 (Oxford). Oakley, S.P. (2005), A Commentary on Livy, Books VI-X, vol. 4 (Oxford). Peter, H. (ed.) (1914), Historicorum Romanorum Reliquiae I, 2nd edn (Leipzig). Petzold, K.-E. (1993), ‘Zur Geschichte der römischen Annalistik’, in W. Schuller (ed.), Livius (Konstanz): 151-88. Rawson, E. (1985), Intellectual Life in the Late Roman Republic (London). Rawson, E. (1991), ‘The first Latin annalists’ (first published 1976), in Roman Culture and Society (Oxford): 245-71. Seel, O. (1982), ‘Über Pompeius Trogus und das Problem der Universalgeschichte’, Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt 2.30: 1363-1423 Suerbaum, W. (2002), Handbuch der lateinischen Literatur der Antike. 1. Die archaische Literatur, von den Anfänge bis Sullas Tod, ed. R. Herzog and P.L. Schmidt (Munich). Timpe, D. (1970-1), ‘Le “origini” di Catone e la storiografia romana’, Atti Accad. Patavina Sc. Lett. 83: 5-33. Timpe, D. (1972), ‘Fabius Pictor und die Anfänge der römischen Historiographie’, Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt 1.2: 928-69. Walbank, F.W. (1957), A Historical Commentary on Polybius, vol. 1 (Oxford).

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8

Universal and Particular in Velleius Paterculus: Carthage versus Rome Clemence Schultze Introduction ‘Universal history’ need not imply a massive work: universality may also subsist where spatial and temporal breadth meets succinct selectivity in coverage.1 So it is with the historical composition of Velleius Paterculus, generally assigned to the category of universal history.2 Miniature in form, it is wide in scope – both geographical and chronological – and it also comprises within itself excursuses which address topics of cultural, biographical and antiquarian concern. These are often treated at an extent befitting a longer work. Accordingly the term ‘sampling’ rather than ‘summarising’ seems to suit Velleius’ procedure. He travels through history,3 picking and choosing as he goes, taking in something of everything. His breuitas is a calculated rhetorical technique; his asseverations of the need for haste (festinatio) are disingenuous.4 Keeping up with him requires close attention to what is elided or omitted. To suggest that Velleius offers ‘history in a nutshell’ – the basic information, presented in a handbook and intended to spare the young or less well-educated the effort of extensive historical reading5 – is to underrate the pointed refinement of his writing. Velleius’ history does not so much inform as allow inferences to be drawn. Its deliberate allusiveness implies shared knowledge; its unevenness of coverage draws attention to its own omissions; while the leaps in time and space create significant juxtapositions. To all of these the reader must be alert. I aim to illustrate this by examining Velleius’ treatment of Carthage in relation to Rome. First I shall look at the concluding uotum, then proceed to the initial chapters on foundations, where issues of time and space left suspended in the uotum manifest themselves. Then, after addressing the ‘hinge’ portion of the work, the destruction of Carthage (and Corinth), I shall consider the continued presence of a Carthage that refuses to lie down and die.

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8. Universal and Particular in Velleius Paterculus The end: uotum, time and space The difficulties of the extant text of Velleius are notorious: the archetype found in the monastery of Murbach, to be copied and lost again, the somewhat unsatisfactory editio princeps, the various renaissance copies and annotations.6 But beyond all these is the irremediable loss of the first chapters, already missing from the codex. These surely included a preface that would have answered questions as to genre, scope and starting point.7 There must have been explicit mention of M. Vinicius’ consulship of 30 AD as occasion of writing,8 perhaps also allusion to the emperor Tiberius.9 Lacking the beginning, then, it is well to look to the end: issues evoked at the work’s conclusion can throw light upon its scope and intention. This history ends with a uotum – a prayer which shares many features with panegyric and poetry.10 Voto finiendum uolumen est. Iuppiter Capitoline, et auctor ac stator Romani nominis Gradiue Mars perpetuorumque custos Vesta ignium et quidquid numinum hanc Romani imperii molem in amplissimum terrarum orbis fastigium extulit, uos publica uoce obtestor atque precor custodite, seruate, protegite hunc statum, hanc pacem, ,11 [2] eique functo longissima statione mortali destinate successores quam serissimos, sed eos, quorum ceruice tam fortiter sustinendo terrarum orbis imperio sufficiant quam huius suffecisse sensimus, consiliaque omnium ciuium aut pia .12 With a prayer let the volume be finished. Jupiter Capitolinus, and author and stayer of the Roman name Mars Gradivus, and Vesta, guard of the perpetual fires, and such other divinities as have exalted this massive Roman empire to the highest pinnacle of the lands of the world, on you and to you in the public’s name I call and pray: guard, preserve, protect this condition, this peace, this princeps; and when he has served his post of duty [2] as long as may be for mortals, assign him successors (deferred as long as possible), but successors whose necks may prove sufficient for sustaining as bravely the empire of the lands of the world as we have found his to suffice; the righteous designs of all citizens . (2.131.1-2)

The mode is almost that of a demand, and the prayer strikingly lacks the element of reciprocity:13 rather, the gods are here respectfully but firmly bidden, by the use of imperatives. The three core divinities addressed evoke age-old Roman piety: Jupiter, Mars and Vesta are gods of the founding period of the city. The neatly-turned distribution of epithets shifts stator (‘one who maintains or stays’) from Jupiter to Mars,14 who is also invoked as author/ancestor15 and as Gradiuus. This archaic appellation appropriately suggests the warlike as well as the ancestral role of Mars.16 In terms of place, the prayer moves from the precise Roman context of the Jupiter’s Capitol and the fires on Vesta’s hearth, to an

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Clemence Schultze invocation of unspecified numina and the most extreme possible world extent: in amplissimum terrarum orbis fastigium. Use of the word status conveniently removes any need to use terms as specific as – for example – res publica in alluding to the current order and its stability.17 pax suggests empire-wide peace, with the princeps at his post of responsibility. A Ciceronian reminiscence (ceruices)18 alludes (as does molem) to the Herculean burden of world rule,19 with the repetition of terrarum orbis. The question of some conceivable but long-distant succession is then treated as impersonally as possible: no individual(s) can be identified as successor(s). Imperium, accordingly, is regarded as extending almost without limit as regards both space and time. Clearly, whatever the exact supplement provided for concluding sentence, the sense required is that good things prosper and bad fail. So the final word needs to be a term enjoining breakdown or destruction: perhaps a genuine expression of anxiety, given the disappointments of the reign20 and its current uncertainties; perhaps a pious avoidance of over-smug congratulation; perhaps a deliberate evocation of other down-beat conclusions in the historical genre.21 The concerns of the uotum thus embrace Roman world rule and ruler(s), and call to mind the past whilst anticipating a distant future.22 The foundation period is evoked through the mention of the three deities; the gaining of empire links time with space; and both have become Roman. Roman rule is presented as the culmination of a long process: not the end of history, but the achievement of a world-wide stability and harmony that stands in sharp contrast to the situation of flux and change which characterises the initial surviving part of the work. Throughout that early portion, as will be seen, there are constant markers both of space and time.23 The narrative rapidly traverses the orbis terrarum that is to become Roman space, while the ‘now’ of writing and dedication time is insistently linked with the various ‘thens’ of starting points and foundations, so much so that Rome even extends a claim over time that does not belong to her. The beginning: foundations and connections Fortunate indeed for Velleius’ claim to be a universal historian is the survival of some early pages of that monastic codex, now chapters 1 to 8 of book 1. After 1.8 lies a huge lacuna (extending from Romulus to Perseus’ defeat in the Third Macedonian War). Without those first eight chapters, and in view both of the concluding prayer, and of a text that deals with Rome’s second-century foreign wars, then with Gracchi, Marius, Sulla, Pompey, Caesar, and constant civil wars until the Augustan peace left only foreign wars to be fought, the work would surely have been identified as a history of Rome and her conflicts, punctuated by digressions upon wider cultural matters.24 The avoidance of the annalistic mode and the rate of coverage increasing as Velleius nears his own time would have been noted;

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8. Universal and Particular in Velleius Paterculus nevertheless, the work would have seemed to be history ab urbe condita, even if in idiosyncratic mode. So these vital eight chapters reveal that Velleius addresses the entire Mediterranean world from an early period. In so doing he marks no dividing line between mythical and historical.25 The foundations of the Greek heroes of the nostoi period and those of later colonisers, Greek and Roman, are of equal historicity. The 437 years (1.8.4)26 from the fall of Troy to Romulus are treated as fully historical, and notably lack allusion to divine intervention. Storms and natural accidents impede the return of the Greek heroes, not angry gods or jealous goddesses.27 Later population movements are motivated by invasions, food scarcities or physical disasters. The overall theme is of change: in a flux of nations and rulers, communities split up and migrate from one end of the Mediterranean to the other. The rapid series of events gives the modern reader the impression of a speeded-up film. Velleius scatters specific names to establish his accuracy (e.g. 1.4.3). He also pauses from time to time for longer discussion of issues of origin or nomenclature.28 Such discussions demonstrate that this is no mere outline of history for the uncultured: Velleius employs polemic to prove his own scholarly credentials29 while he simultaneously ranges widely over time and space, as lengthy generations ebb and flow throughout the orbis terrarum. Various attempts have been made to estimate how much has been lost at the beginning of the work, and to identify Velleius’ starting point. Book 1 may well have been somewhat shorter than book 2, but presumably not absurdly so.30 The extant opening (1.1.1) brings a horde of Greek chieftains, returning by sea from Troy: as they touch down hither and yon in the Mediterranean, they found cities. Some of them merit a sentence each, others are named almost without ancillary expressions. The first 37 words (three sentences) suffice to bring four of them to new homes, and even to allow Teucer an explanatory story. Agamemnon, rex regum, receives a longer sentence to himself; and founds three cities. uariatio in the terminology of founding (condidit, constituit, occupauit, statuit) and parallels in sentence construction perhaps indicate this passage’s proximity to the beginning of the text.31 Other wanderers must have fallen out in the lost portion: doubtless Menelaus, Nestor, and Odysseus merited a mention. So far, this would seem to suggest that Velleius’ work began with the fall of Troy, in this resembling Livy’s, where Troia capta occurs in the first sentence. Both at 1.2.1 and at 1.8.4 Velleius does indeed employ post Troiam captam as one formula of relative dating. There is no such thing as a neutral starting-point or synchronism.32 So if Velleius did indeed choose Troy, he might be thought to be endorsing Livy’s authority while simultaneously undercutting it (‘Look! only two books, not 142’). Schmitzer however argues that Hercules’ apotheosis, likewise invoked at 1.2.1, has a better claim to be regarded as Velleius’ starting-point. He builds a persuasive case for a chronography ab excessu diui Herculis,

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Clemence Schultze linked by cross-referencing to Troy and to Olympiads.33 He further argues that this is a deliberate counter to the Troy-centric system favoured in the later republic and in Augustus’ time, so well known from Livy and Virgil that it tends to be taken for granted as natural. Here, then, is a chronographical alternative aimed at pleasing the emperor Tiberius. As a Claudius, he traced his descent from Telegonus, son of Odysseus and Circe; and thus not from Aeneas and from his son Ascanius/Iulus via the Iulii.34 The emperor, in fact, aligned himself with the Greeks who razed Priam’s Troy; and a dating system based on Hercules – who had earlier destroyed Laomedon’s Troy – was calculated to appeal. The notion of choosing among a range of variant chronographical systems is a most attractive one. But while the arguments for an epoch based upon Hercules are convincing,35 the idea that Aeneas and other Trojan refugees were excluded from the Velleian account is less so. In the first place, it depends considerably on an argument from silence, the lacuna before 1.1. No one can affirm or deny with certainty that Aeneas was omitted in this portion – even if, like Pyrrhus or Phidippus, he only rated a half sentence. But I suggest that in the two fully surviving places where he is (almost ostentatiously) not mentioned, those non-mentions bring him unavoidably to mind, and, further, that this was precisely what Velleius intended. The first of these is 1.6.4: … ab Elissa Tyria, quam quidam Dido autumant, Carthago conditur. … by Tyrian Elissa, whom some term Dido, is Carthage founded.

Indeed Aeneas is not mentioned by name, but the archaic term autumant draws attention to the very act of naming and to the possibility of alternative names. The reader is mildly teased and complimented by the suggestion that s/he make the link with Virgil’s Aeneid. And similarly with the first couple of lines, from a tour de force description of Caesar. This single sentence (2.41.1-2) runs to some 125 words, covering Caesar’s family descent, character, resemblance to Alexander the Great, marital and political connections, and opposition to Sulla. It begins thus: hic nobilissima Iuliorum genitus familia et (quod inter omnis antiquissimos constabat) ab Anchise ac Venere deducens genus … Born from the most noble family of the Julii and (something which is agreed among all the earliest writers) tracing his descent from Anchises and Venus … (2.41.1)

Again Aeneas’ name is omitted, but, again, there is an allusion to other writers, antiquissimos. Here Velleius might be indicating his knowledge of the antiquarians (for example, Varro and Hyginus) who traced Trojan descent;36 and discussed Venus’ and Anchises’ son Aeneas, and other

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8. Universal and Particular in Velleius Paterculus learned issues, such as whether Ilus or Iulus was identical with the child Ascanius whom Aeneas brought from Troy.37 So Aeneas does not need to be named: with this sort of allusiveness Velleius flatters his readers, offering a small puzzle which credits them with the culture required to solve it. Such oblique references support the notion that the work was not intended to provide schoolboys or the semi-educated with straightforward information. Other allusions define space (sometime proleptically) and hint at wars to come. At 1.2.2, the site of Megara is described as sited between Athens (just mentioned apropos Codrus’ death) and Corinth – but the latter is not founded until 1.3.3. There Corinth is described in terms of founder Aletes son of Hippos and his descent from Hercules, of location, and with a mini-digression upon Homer’s use of the name. The Tyrians at the same time (ea tempestate) as king Codrus of Athens, are marked out as a major naval power (1.2.3). From their end of the Mediterranean they lay claim to furthest Spain, to the remote island that becomes Gades. Surrounded by Ocean, Gades is almost dropping off the edge of the world, in extremo nostri orbis termino. Here with nostri is surely a deliberate ambiguity: ‘our human world’ or ‘our Roman world’?38 Given the stress in the final uotum on imperium … terrarum orbis, it seems probable that the claim is to (future) Roman possession of the place, for it would be wrested by the elder Scipio from the Tyrian Carthaginians.39 Chronographical allusions similarly work in both directions so as to remind the reader of the sheer extent of time and to invite the making of connections. There are no pedestrian explanations of epochs and synchronisms, for Velleius takes for granted a certain level of acquaintance on the part of his readers with various possible dating systems. The passage mentioned above on Carthage’s foundation must now be addressed in full: Hoc tractu temporum ante annos quinque et sexaginta quam urbs Romana conderetur, ab Elissa Tyria, quam quidam Dido autumant, Carthago conditur. Circa quod tempus Caranus, uir generis regii, undecimus ab Hercule, profectus Argis regnum Macedoniae occupauit; a quo Magnus Alexander, cum fuerit septimus decimus, iure materni generis Achille auctore, paterni Hercule gloriatus est. (1.6.4-5) In this range of time, sixty-five years before the city of Rome was to be founded, by Tyrian Elissa, whom some term Dido, is Carthage founded. Around this time Caranus, a man of kingly descent, eleventh from Hercules, set out from Argos and seized the kingdom of Macedonia. From him the Great Alexander, since he was in the seventeenth generation, could glory in Achilles as ancestor by right of his maternal family and in Hercules, of his paternal one.

The relationship of Rome and Carthage, their foundations and future rivalry, are evoked in the first sentence. Rome, as yet, strictly speaking,

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Clemence Schultze un-founded for 65 years to come, is nevertheless in some sense there in potentiality, with conderetur. And with the same verb decisively in indicative mood, Carthage is founded. The order of items awards Rome a priority which she does not (in chronological terms) deserve. Then the subsequent sentence looks both forward and back in relation to its subject Caranus, who established the Macedonian royal dynasty. Eleventh from Hercules (and thus with an allusion to Velleius’ probable epochal date) Caranus will produce, in seventeen generations, Magnus Alexander.40 A mere two hops take us from Alexander to Hercules, with the insignificant yet crucial Caranus as the essential mid point. In these two sentences a close association between Rome, Carthage, and Macedon is being constructed. These two powers, the greatest whom Rome will face in her rise, come into being around the same time (circa quod tempus). Founded earlier they may be, but Rome will eliminate them, and that by the end of Velleius’ first book. Rome’s own foundation (1.8.4) receives – as befits its importance – a plethora of chronological markers: Sexta olympiade post duo et uiginti annos quam prima constituta fuerat, Romulus, Martis filius, ultus iniurias aui, Romam urbem Parilibus in Palatio condidit. A quo tempore ad uos consules anni sunt septingenti octoginta unus; id actum post Troiam captam annis quadringentis triginta septem. Id gessit Romulus adiutus legionibus Latini aui sui … (1.8.4-5) In the sixth Olympiad, twenty-two years after their first establishment, Romulus son of Mars, having avenged the wrongs of his grandfather, founded the city of Rome at the Parilia festival on the Palatine. From which time to you pair of consuls there are 781 years; this was done 437 years after Troy was captured. Romulus achieved this aided by the legions of Latinus his grandfather …

An Olympiad date with back-reference to the establishment of the games is combined with mention of the current consuls (uos consules): this thus alludes to M. Vinicius without naming him. The two interval dates impress both by specificity and by sheer numbers (1218 years in total), while the very day, too, is marked by a festival still (it is implied) celebrated in that place.41 Romulus’ treatment draws on received tradition for the paternity of Mars while ignoring finding story, she-wolf, and (most conspicuously) twin Remus. This is not be understood as a deliberate return to those very early versions which attributed Rome’s foundation to a sole eponym42 but rather as an extreme instance of breuitas. The martial character, the city and location, the birthday festival itself, are all aspects of Rome which will endure, while the story is shorn of other contingent details. No twin means no contest of rivals, no death, and no blame. Instead, a sole founder of divine descent acts to avenge wrongs done to his grandfather, and the basis of his city’s power is military strength, initially based upon his

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8. Universal and Particular in Velleius Paterculus grandfather’s legions: legionibus Latini aui sui. By replacing Numitor, familiar from the versions of Livy and Dionysius,43 with the eponymous Latinus44 these troops are established as Latins, Rome’s rightful and well-deserving allies throughout future years of warfare. Thus they foreshadow the Italian allies whom Velleius later praises for their loyal and under-rewarded service in Roman armies (2.15.2)45 Furthermore, Velleius rejects the notion that the first Romans were imbellis or pastoralis: with Latin aid Romulus forthwith asserts the new city against its neighbours (1.8.5). The military prowess of Rome thus takes priority over all other core political and civic institutions: the establishment of government (senate) and social orders (patres, patricii) and – through the seizure of the Sabinae – the continuance of the community (1.8.6). At this precise point comes a substantial lacuna. Apart from a glimpse of Cimon – valuable in confirming that Velleius continued to treat external affairs even after Rome’s foundation – nothing survives until the treatment of the third Macedonian war. The middle: destructions Now to the ‘hinge’ point of the work: near the end of book 1, where Carthage and Corinth fall in the same year of 146, and the start of book 2, where Velleius reflects upon their destruction. Uniuersa deinde instincta in bellum Achaia, cuius pars magna, ut praediximus,46 eiusdem Metelli Macedonici uirtute armisque fracta erat, maxime Corinthiis in arma cum grauibus etiam in Romanos contumeliis instigantibus, destinatus ei bello gerendo consul Mummius. [2] Et sub idem tempus, magis quia uolebant Romani, quidquid de Carthaginiensibus diceretur, credere, quam quia credenda adferebantur, statuit senatus Carthaginem excidere. [3] Ita eodem tempore, P. Scipio Aemilianus … consul creatus est. [4] Bellum Carthagini iam ante biennium a prioribus consulibus illatum maiore ui intulit … [5] eamque urbem magis inuidia imperii quam ullius eius temporis noxiae inuisam Romano nomini funditus sustulit fecitque suae uirtutis monimentum quod fuerat aui eius clementiae. Carthago diruta est, cum stetisset annis DCLXVI, abhinc annos CLXXVII Cn. Cornelio Lentulo L. Mummio consulibus. [6] Hunc finem habuit Romani imperii Carthago aemula, cum qua bellare maiores nostri coepere, Claudio et Fuluio consulibus ante annos CCXCVI, quam tu, M. Vinici, consulatum inires. Ita per annos CXV aut bellum inter eos populos aut belli praeparatio aut infida pax fuit. [7] Neque se Roma, iam terrarum orbi superato, securam sperauit fore, si nomen usquam stantis maneret Carthaginis: adeo odium certaminibus ortum ultra metum durat et ne in uictis quidem deponitur neque ante inuisum esse desinit quam esse desiit. [1] Ante triennium quam Carthago deleretur, M. Cato, perpetuus diruendae eius auctor, L. Censorino M’. Manilio consulibus, mortem obiit. Eodem anno quo Carthago concidit, L. Mummius Corinthum post annos DCCCCLII quam ab Alete, Hippotis filio, erat condita, funditus eruit.

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Clemence Schultze [1] Then the whole of Achaea was roused to war, of which a great part, as I said before, had been crushed by the manhood and arms of that same Metellus Macedonicus. With regard to the Corinthians, who were particularly the instigators to arms by weighty insults towards the Romans, the one appointed for the waging of this war was the consul Mummius. [2] And about the same time, more because the Romans were willing to believe whatever might be said about the Carthaginians than because believable things were being put forward, the senate decide to devastate Carthage. [3] And so at this same time, P. Scipio Aemilianus … was elected consul. [4] War upon Carthage, already begun two years before by the previous consuls he waged with greater force … [5] This city, become the object of rancour to the Roman name more because of rancour at its empire than because of any offence at that time he utterly did away with, and made a monument of his own manhood of what had been a monument of his grandfather’s clemency. Carthage was demolished when it had stood 666 years, when Cn. Cornelius Lentulus and L. Mummius were consuls, 177 years ago. [6] To this end came the rival of the Roman empire, Carthage, with whom our ancestors began to war 296 years before you, M. Vinivius, entered upon the consulship. Thus for 115 years either war between these peoples, or preparation for war, or a faithless peace existed. [7] Nor did Rome, with the lands of the world already conquered, hope to be free of care, if the name should remain of a yet standing Carthage: so does hatred originating from conflicts last beyond fear, and is not set aside even towards the defeated, nor does rancour cease to be held until the object of it has ceased to be. (1.12.1-7) [1] Three years before Carthage was destroyed, M. Cato, the perpetual author of its demolition, died when L. Censorinus and M’. Manilius were consuls. In the same year as Carthage fell, and 952 years after it had been founded by Aletes son of Hippos, L. Mummius utterly razed Corinth. (1.13.1)

Two sentences (1.12.1 and 1.13.1) interweave the fates of the two cities. The gravity of the Achaean war is stressed by uniuersa and instincta, but after the enthusiastic endorsement of Metellus Macedonicus, the allusion to L. Mummius appears cool: merely as destinatus ei belli gerendo. The narrative then leaps (1.12.2) to the inception of the war with Carthage. Familiarity with Velleius’ sometimes astonishing breuitas might well lead one to assume that the single sentence of 1.12.1 constitutes the entire treatment of the Corinth campaign. destinatus, however, is perhaps giving notice that this will not be so. The shift to Carthage, and to Carthage’s future conqueror, is emphasised by temporal phrases: sub idem tempus … ita eodem tempore which start the next two sentences (1.12.2 and 3).47 Scipio’s descent and adoption have been described earlier (1.10.3): the adoptive son of an unachieving scion of a great gens, by birth he is son of the conqueror of Perseus.48 Now comes an account of his earlier achievements in siege and combat (1.12.4) and a brisk description of consular election, signalised by his fellow-citizens’ recognition of his abilities: aedilitatem petens consul creatus est. Regarding the war to be waged, Velleius attributes the major responsibility to Roman willingness to believe the worst about Carthage (1.12.2).

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8. Universal and Particular in Velleius Paterculus This is reinforced at 1.12.5, with the repetition of inuidia and inuisam, bringing out the resentful rancour of Rome towards Carthage. In contrast with his auus, whose clementia was celebrated by Carthage’s survival, Scipio Aemilianus creates for himself a monumentum of uirtus by destroying the city. Carthage receives a brief obituary in terms of its longevity, with a relative reckoning to that all-important date of Vinicius’ consulship. There follows what must surely be an echo of all the lost characterisations of Carthaginian individuals and behaviour: for 120 years, hostilities, or preparations for war, or an infida pax subsisted between Rome and Carthage.49 A treacherous yet bellicose people: accordingly peace with the Carthaginians is no dependable pax, and, in order to be secure, Rome had to destroy the city. Her former fear had turned to hatred (odium) and rancour (inuidia) so that the only solution was for the urbs inuisa to cease to be. The first chapters of the work described foundations; now this passage signalises duration of existence. Corinth, older than Carthage by almost three centuries, was destroyed as comprehensively in that same year: funditus is used of both acts of destruction (1.12.5; 1.13.1). This term is only employed once more by Velleius, in regard to some Dalmatian tribes in 9 AD (2.115.4). Different though the adversaries are, the expression links the annihilation of Rome’s greatest former enemies with Tiberius’ prowess against these barbarians: ‘Not only under his leadership, but at the very hands and by the arms of Caesar were they finally pacified (pacati sunt), then only when they were almost utterly exterminated (paene funditus euersi forent).’ Tiberius Caesar is thus associated with the former warriors who have achieved peace through destruction. Both those imperatores received honorific cognomina as a result (1.13.2), and Velleius heightens his praise of Scipio’s culture with an anecdote illustrating nouus homo Mummius’ lack of it (1.13.3-4). But the comparison also neatly suggests that fundamentally the latter’s values were better aligned with those of old Rome, and that the fall of the two cities marked the onset of headlong decline.50 Carthago non deleta The first words of book 2 again contrast the elder and the younger Scipio, and proceed to pick up the theme that fear removed leads to decline:51 [1] Potentiae Romanorum prior Scipio uiam aperuerat, luxuriae posterior aperuit: quippe remoto Carthaginis metu sublataque imperii aemula non gradu, sed praecipiti cursu a uirtute descitum, ad uitia transcursum; uetus disciplina deserta, noua inducta; in somnum a uigiliis, ab armis ad uoluptates, a negotiis in otium conuersa ciuitas. [1] The earlier Scipio had opened up the road to the power of the Romans, the later one opened that to luxury. With the fear of Carthage removed, and

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Clemence Schultze the rival for empire done away with, there was – not at a gradual pace but with a headlong rush – a desertion of manhood and a transition to vices. Old discipline was deserted, new brought in; to sleep from watchfulness, from arms to indulgences, from activity to leisure did the civic body turn. (2.1.1)

Carthage as rival (aemula recalling 1.12.6)52 and object of metus (cf. 1.12.7) has supposedly gone, but though dead, she will not lie down. She is recalled again with Scipio’s next appearance (2.4.2), which celebrates his uirtus and fortuna,53 and the reputation he has gained by destroying cities (clariore urbium excidio nomen suum perpetuae commendauit memoriae). That earlier war (Carthage) in which he had freed the Romans (nos) from fear is contrasted with the later (Numantia) where he freed her from contumelia (2.4.3).54 With two consulships and two triumphs, twice the destroyer of the terrores of the res publica (2.4.5),55 Scipio finally dies, outshone in glory only by his grandfather (2.4.6).56 Memory of achievement is thus intimately linked with destruction, yet one consequence of celebrating achievement is to revive the destroyed object. The next revival is Gaius Gracchus’ plan to establish a colony on the site of Carthage. Referred to among his other innovations as ‘filling the provinces with new colonies’ (2.6.3), this is concretised in 2.7.7-8:57 [7] In legibus Gracchi inter perniciosissima numerarim, quod extra Italiam colonias posuit. Id maiores, cum uiderent tanto potentiorem Tyro Carthaginem, Massiliam Phocaea, Syracusas Corintho, Cyzicum ac Byzantium Mileto, genitali solo, diligenter uitauerant et ciuis Romanos ad censendum ex prouinciis in Italiam reuocauerant. [8] Prima autem extra Italiam colonia Carthago condita est. [7] Among the laws of Gracchus what I would count as the most pernicious is that he placed colonies outside Italy. The ancestors, when they saw by how much Tyre was more powerful than Carthage, Massilia than Phocaea, Syracuse than Corinth, Cyzicus and Byzantium than Miletus, each than its parent land, carefully avoided this, and had called back Roman citizens from the provinces to Italy for the purpose of taking the census. [8] The first outside Italy was when the colony of Carthage was founded. (2.7.7-8)

The temporal range of these comparisons both looks back to the foundations in the first chapters and also signifies Greece’s most flourishing age (perhaps indicating that Velleius had addressed it in the lost portion). The practice of the Roman maiores was the right one, its abandonment by Gracchus ill-judged. It is perhaps with sinister import that Carthage is founded (again), for she might overshadow Rome as she once had Tyre. Carthage’s final significant appearance ignores Gracchus’ refoundation, for it is crucial that the city should be in ruins when Marius flees Rome in 88 BC:

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8. Universal and Particular in Velleius Paterculus At ille … in Africam direxit inopemque uitam in tugurio ruinarum Carthaginiensium tolerauit, cum Marius aspiciens Carthaginem, illa intuens Marium, alter alteri possent esse solacio. But he … directed his course to Africa, and endured a deprived life in a hut in the ruins of Carthage. Then Marius regarding Carthage, and she contemplating Marius, might well, each for the other, have been a solace. (2.19.4)

As ruined Carthage (personified) regards the seemingly ruined Marius, solace rather than grief is evoked by the contemplation of the brevity of the lives of cities and of men.58 But just as readers know that the colony Carthage will live again, so will Marius return to Rome (2.20.5-23.1). Velleius’ practice with regard to this particular city thus greatly resembles his treatment of Roman individuals. In the case of the latter, he employs what might be termed ‘meta-memorialisation’, repeatedly evoking the great departed in connection with their own descendants or in comparison with other notables, so that they live again.59 Carthage is similarly deployed both as paradigm of the city sacked, and as the phoenix-city: like another Troy, it lived and lives in reality; and, memorialised in Velleius’ universal history, it lives again. The message for his Roman readers might be as reassuring or unsettling as the work’s concluding uotum. Notes 1. Throughout this chapter, all references where no ancient author is cited are to Velleius Paterculus. I use Woodman’s text (1977, 1983) for 2.41-131 and that of Hellegouarc’h (1982) for the remainder, noting any occasions where I adopt a different reading. 2. Sumner (1970) 282; Woodman (1975) 303; Elefante (1997) 23-8; Schmitzer (2000) 40-5. 3. On transcursus, see 2.86.1, with Woodman (1977) 230; also 2.55.1; 2.99.4; cf. 2.1.1. Though a technical term for cursory treatment, transcursus need not be a dead metaphor. 4. On festinatio and breuitas as technical terms, see Woodman (1975) 277-87. 5. Starr (1981) 172-3. 6. Woodman (1977) 3-27. 7. Sumner (1970) 281, pointing to 2.55.1 and 2.89.6 (allusions to earlier promises of brevity); Woodman (1983) 106; Schmitzer (2000) 37-42. 8. The first extant mention of Vinicius (1.8.1), by interval dating from the Olympic games, is plainly resumptive. 9. Schmitzer (2000) 40. 10. Woodman (1977) 275-82; Noè (1983); Schmitzer (2000) 304-6. 11. eique assures the supplement principem. 12. Substituting nefaria for Halm’s impia: see Woodman (1977) 282. 13. Woodman (1977) 276-7. 14. Livy 1.12.3-7, with Ogilvie (1965) 77-8. 15. Woodman (1977) 277-9. 16. Livy 1.20.4, with Ogilvie (1965) 98-9; Elefante (1997) 544. 17. See Woodman (1977) 280-1; cf. Elefante (1997) 209 on 2.2.1-3 omnibus

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Clemence Schultze statum concupiscentibus for statum as political stability (cf. 2.35.4; 2.86.1; 2.91.2; 2.125.1; 2.131.1). 18. Elefante (1997) 545. 19. Schmitzer (2000) 306. 20. Surveyed at 2.130.3-5 (with Woodman [1977] 272-5). 21. Woodman (1977) 54. 22. Gowing (2005) 41-43 for Velleius’ time-consciousness. 23. Feeney (2007) 66. 24. On digressions, see Kuntze (1985) 244-53; Schmitzer (2000) 72-100. 25. Feeney (2007) 77-82. 26. Elefante (1997) 173. 27. Schmitzer (2001) 44. 28. 1.3.2 and 1.3.3 on Thessalians and on Corinth. 29. Marincola (1997) 236. 30. Sumner (1970) 281; Hellegouarc’h (1982) vol. 1, p. xxiii compares the work to an inverted pyramid. 31. Schmitzer (2000) 43. 32. Feeney (2007). 33. Schmitzer (2000) 43-56; Rich (forthcoming). 34. Schmitzer (2000) 52. 35. Preferable to Kramer’s (2005) 146-50 suggestion of universal history structured by succession of empires, starting with the Assyrian. 36. Wiseman (1974) 157; Erskine (2001) 15-43. 37. Erskine (2001) 22-3. 38. At Gades (a place denoting the furthest limit: Aug. RG 26) Caesar compared himself unfavourably to Alexander the Great (Suet. DJ 7). 39. Livy 28.37. 40. Sumner (1970) 282 holds that Velleius must have covered Alexander. 41. Varro, RR 2.1.9; Ovid, Fasti 4.721-862. 42. Variously R(h)omos or R(h)omulus: see Wiseman (1995) index, s.nn. 43. Wiseman (1995) 1-4. Numitor was possibly so named already in Fabius Pictor. 44. In many early accounts, Latinus appears in close association with Rome’s variously named founder (Dion. Hal. 1.72.5-73.3). But once the chronological gap between Troy’s fall and Rome’s foundation was accepted (necessitating the list of Alban king names to fill it), Latinus was generally regarded as coeval with the Trojan generation and dissociated from the founder(s) of the city. Velleius’ account thus represents a return to the early version but one which includes awareness of the Troy-Rome gap. See also Elefante (1997) 173-4; Schmitzer (2000) 70; Erskine (2001) 134, 145. 45. On Velleius’ Italian background and possible Latin connections, see Sumner (1970) 257-65, esp. 263. 46. With Elefante 1997 I place ‘ut praediximus’ here, following Madvig. 47. Starr (1980) 289. 48. Gowing (2007) 415. 49. Punica fides. 50. Pitcher (forthcoming). 51. Elefante (1997) 205 compares Sall. Cat. 10.1; Jug. 41.1; Hist. 1.11; 1.16; 2.18; 3.17. 52. Elefante (1997) 200-1 on 1.17.6-7 notes the importance of aemulatio. 53. Qualities later attributed to Augustus (2.74.4) and to Tiberius (2.97.4 and 2.121.1, with Woodman [1977] 113); Gowing (2007) 414-15.

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8. Universal and Particular in Velleius Paterculus 54. Elefante (1997) 214 compares 2.30.1 and 2.98.2. 55. Cf. Cic. Mur. 58. 56. Schultze (forthcoming). 57. The textual problems with the placing of this passage (found at 2.15.1 before mors Drusi in A and P, moved here by Cludius) are discussed by Hellegouarc’h (1982) 150 and Elefante (1997) 223; they do not affect its interpretation. Carthage was also mentioned in the consolidated list of colonies at 1.15.4. 58. Plut. Mar. 40.3, with Werner (1995) 336; Luc. Phars. 2.90-93; Manil. Astron. 4.46-9; Carney 1961. 59. Schultze (forthcoming).

Bibliography Carney, T.F. (1961), ‘The flight and exile of Marius’, Greece and Rome 8: 98-121. Elefante, M. (1992), Concordantia in Velleium Paterculum (Hildesheim). Elefante, M. (1997), Ad M. Vinicium consulem libri duo. Velleius Paterculus. Curavit adnotavitque Maria Elefante (Hildesheim). Feeney, D. (2007), Caesar’s Calendar: Ancient Time and the Beginnings of History (Berkeley). Gowing, A.M. (2005), Empire and Memory: The Representation of the Roman Republic in Imperial Culture (Cambridge). Gowing, A.M. (2007) ‘The imperial republic of Velleius Paterculus’, in J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography (Oxford), vol. 2: 411-18. Hellegouarc’h, J. (1982), Velleius Paterculus. Histoire romaine. Texte établi et traduit par Joseph Hellegouarc’h. (2 vols) (Paris). Hellegouarc’h, J. (1984), ‘État présent des travaux sur l’ “Histoire romaine” de Velleius Paterculus’, Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt 2.32.1: 40436. Kramer, E.A. (2005), ‘Book one of Velleius’ History: scope, levels of treatment, and non-Roman elements’, Historia 54: 144-61. Kuntze, C. (1985), Zur Darstellung des Kaisers Tiberius und seiner Zeit bei Velleius Paterculus (Frankfurt). Marincola, J. (1997), Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography (Cambridge). Marincola, J. (2007) ‘Universal history from Ephorus to Diodorus’, in J. Marincola (ed.) A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, 1:171-9 (Oxford). Noè, E. (1983), ‘Il uotum in Velleio Patercolo’, Athenaeum 61: 272-5. Ogilvie, R.M. (1965), A Commentary on Livy, books 1-5 (Oxford). Pitcher, L.V. (forthcoming 2010), in E. Cowan (ed.) (volume of proceedings from conference, ‘Velleius Paterculus. Making History’, Nottingham 2008) (Swansea). Ramage, E.S. (1982), ‘Velleius Paterculus 2.126.2-3 and the panegyric tradition’, Classical Antiquity 1: 266-71. Rich, J. (forthcoming 2010), in E. Cowan (ed.) (volume of proceedings from conference, ‘Velleius Paterculus. Making History’, Nottingham 2008) (Swansea). Schmitzer, U. (2000), Velleius Paterculus und das Interesse an der Geschichte im Zeitalter des Tiberius (Heidelberg). Schultze, C.E. (forthcoming 2010), ‘Mortality and memory in Velleius’ depiction of republican notables’, in E. Cowan (ed.) (volume of proceedings from conference, ‘Velleius Paterculus. Making History’, Nottingham 2008) (Swansea).

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Clemence Schultze Starr, R.J. (1980), ‘Velleius’ literary techniques in the organization of his history’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 110: 287-301. Starr, R.J. (1981), ‘The scope and genre of Velleius’ history’, CQ 31: 162-74. Sumner, G.V. (1970), ‘The truth about Velleius Paterculus. Prolegomena’, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 74: 257-97. Werner, V. (1995), ‘Quantum bello optimus, tantum pace pessimus’, Studien zum Mariusbild in der antiken Geschichtsschreibung (Bonn). Wiseman, T.P. (1974), ‘Legendary genealogies in late-republican Rome’, Greece and Rome 21: 153-64 (repr. in Roman Studies Literary and Historical [Liverpool]: 207-18). Wiseman, T.P. (1995), Remus: A Roman Myth (Cambridge). Woodman, A.J. (1975), ‘Questions of date, genre, and style in Velleius: some literary answers’, Classical Quarterly 25: 272-306. Woodman, A.J. (1977), Velleius Paterculus. The Tiberian Narrative (2.94-131). Edited with an Introduction and Commentary (Cambridge). Woodman, A.J. (1983), Velleius Paterculus. The Caesarian and Augustan Narrative (2.41-93). Edited with a Commentary (Cambridge).

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9

Focalised Universality: Contextualising the Genre* Liv Mariah Yarrow Historiography straddles the line between literary studies and historical enquiry. At its best, historiography struggles to bridge a gap: to apply literary theory and textual analysis in such away as to illuminate narratives which are foundational in the historical reconstruction of past societies and events (White 1989). For the historian, the value of historiography is two-fold; it can sensitise the (re)reading of standard texts, and it may pinpoint themes which are relevant to other source materials. More specifically, the utility of the study of universal history, and hence this volume, rests not just on its capacity to perpetuate and inform the continuing investigation of universal histories, but also in how these findings may be applied to diverse materials and modes of enquiry. In order to ensure that such cross-pollination between literary theory and historical analysis is both feasible and beneficial, the onus is on historiographers to articulate where connections can most fruitfully be drawn. To this end, periodically the historiographical discourse must be broadened so as to reveal where the literary conceptualisation of the historical texts intersects with broader cultural expressions from the same historical context. Such analysis can be open-ended, inviting further historical investigation, or can serve as a means of testing the conceptual framework itself. Such analysis challenges us to ask how widely applicable are the theoretical models and what that suggests about their validity. Thus, my objective in this chapter is to begin a conversation about such applied historiography, specifically applied universal history. I offer as a starting point for this discussion a chapter which looks at some of our conceptual models for universal history in the late republic and holds one of these models against the wider evidence for ‘universality’ in source materials other than historical texts. I want to ask two questions: how do we think about universal history in the late republic? And do these conceptual models apply to other cultural products? These questions are clearly larger than the scope of a single chapter or even a single book. Thus my answers here shall be more exemplary of the types of answers which are possible, rather than definitive or exclusive of other possibilities. I will limit both the conceptual

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Liv Mariah Yarrow models and the cultural products which I will consider. For the latter, I have selected numismatic iconography as a medium that is plentiful, relatively securely dated, and part of a very public political discourse (Morstein-Marx 2004: 82). Some balance will be achieved by also looking at contemporary rhetoric, particularly Ciceronian oratory. The restriction of applicable conceptual models is a more knotty problem. What models are available? Scholars have always acknowledged variations, even subgenres, within the category of universal history. Think of Kenneth Sacks’ work on Polybius in which he divides universal histories between those that are qualitative in character and those which are quantitative in approach (1980: 96-121). For Sacks qualitative universal historians are those who construct a narrative which does not necessarily claim to cover all time and all space, but find an intellectual framework by which they demonstrate the interconnectedness of the whole world at a particular moment or period. This he differentiates from quantitative universal history in which there need be no unifying theme, but for which the historian aims at a complete treatment of both time and space. Or, consider Katherine Clarke’s work differentiating between spatial and temporal universality and how she demonstrates that both may be effective vehicles for communicating the particular ideologies of individual historians (1999: 249-79). Any of these concepts of universality – its qualitative or quantitative nature, its temporal and spatial completeness – would be appropriate conceptual models to test against other cultural products. Moreover, I should emphasise that few of these models are mutually exclusive (Yarrow 2006: 124-33). Yet there are still other models available, ones which have not perhaps been so clearly articulated in modern scholarship on universal history. One which shows particular promise, we might call a ‘focalised’, or even ‘synecdochic’, model of universality. While the label may seem opaque at first, this model and variations pervade modern scholarship on Ancient Rome, both of the literary and historical variety. So what do I mean by ‘focalised’ universality? And how might it manifest itself historiographically or otherwise? My usage of the language of focalisation is distinct from, but not wholly unrelated to its usage in narratological approaches (Genette 1979; e.g. de Jong 2001: xiv, passim). I use the term to refer to representations of ‘everything’ where the whole is given a specific centre, a focal point, or omphalos, as it were. In the most gentle of focalisations this may be nothing more than tying all events of a defined periphery back to a centre, a suggestion not just of interconnection but that all points on the periphery are connected to one another through the focal point. Radical focalisation may be a type of synecdoche: then the centre comes to represent or encompass the whole. Collingwood’s posthumously-published work, The Idea of History, begins with a narration of the development of the historical genre in antiquity as a foundation for his own philosophical interpretation of the

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9. Focalised Universality: Contextualising the Genre genre (1993: 37). He explains how ‘the Hellenistic tradition of historical thought passes into the hands of Rome’ and how thus ‘the centre of gravity is changed’. As part of his theorisation, he writes: The Romans, serenely confident in their own superiority to all other peoples and their monopoly of the only virtues deserving the name, thought their own history the only one worth narrating and hence the history of Rome as narrated by Livy was to the Roman mind not one out of a number of possible particular histories but universal history, the history of the only genuinely historical reality: oecumenical history, because Rome had now like Alexander’s empire, become the world.

Collingwood is here labelling Livy’s history as a universal history, not because it claims to record all time and space, but because Rome, ab urbe condita, had become principis terrarum populi, to use the language of Livy’s own preface. If Rome’s imperium extended to limits of the known world, then it followed that the known world was Rome. Thus, Livy’s use of Rome can be considered synecdochical. This interpretation of Livy, or other Latin authors for that matter, is by no means outmoded. To give a single example, I might point to the scholarship of Catherine Edwards (1996: esp. 82-5). She draws particular attention to the passages in first book of Livy in which prophecies foretell the city’s status as head of the world. First, there are the words of the apotheosised Romulus to Proculus Julius (1.16.6) and then the omen of the head found during the ground breaking for the temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline (1.55.5; Bourgeaud 1987: 86-100). These passages serve not only to foreshadow Rome’s greatness, but also to justify the narration of Rome’s origins: even before Rome controlled the world, the city was still marked out as the caput, or capitol, of the world. This is a conical world view; Rome becomes the lens through which we perceive the rest of the world. Only as places become significant to Rome do they enter the narrative. The conflation of urbs and orbis is a model for history-writing endorsed by Diodorus Siculus who claims the utmost value is to be gained from a narrative in which the accomplishments of the whole world (tas … tou sumpantos kosmou praxeis) are treated as the affairs of a single city (1.3.5-6). He tells his readers shortly after this passage that it is because the city of Rome holds supremacy over the oikoumene that is possible to find the resources necessary for the writing of universal history in that city (1.4.3). The continuing modern historical interest in this conflation of urbs and orbis is well represented by the scholarship in the volume of essays, Rome, the Cosmopolis (Edwards and Woolf 2003). Yet this is only the most radical type of focalised universality; more common in both history and historiography, is an implicit or explicit use of a single focal point to join together disparate parts. A single example will suffice to illustrate the idea. In the following passage from The

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Liv Mariah Yarrow Philosophy of History, Hegel is describing in admiring terms the political success of Julius Caesar (2004 reprint: 312). For Hegel, Caesar’s success is not a personal success, but the resolution of the problems of the republic: Caesar effected two objects: he calmed the internal strife, and at the same time originated a new one outside the limits of the empire. For the conquest of the world had reached hitherto only to the circle of the Alps, but Caesar opened a new scene of achievement: he founded the theatre which was on the point of becoming the centre of History. He then achieved universal sovereignty by a struggle which was decided not in Rome itself, but by his conquest of the whole Roman world.

An initial reading of this passage might suggest Hegel is advocating a defocalised reading of Roman history. It is not Rome the city with its internal strife which determines the cause of events, but events on the periphery. Moreover, even the concept of ‘the world’ seems destabilised as Caesar opens up a new scene of achievement, testing at one and the same time the limits of empire and limits of the world.1 Yet Hegel is drawing attention to a type of focalised universality as well. Most obviously in phrase ‘on the point of becoming the centre of History’ we see his foreshadowing and prioritisation of European history. Yet the very conflating of the expansion of the limits of empire with the conquest of the world also demonstrates a focalising tendency. There can be no periphery without a defined centre. Only in a focalised universality can one set up a dichotomy between internal strife and external achievements. I have chosen to use Hegel to illustrate this more gentle form of focalised universality in part because of how well this particular passage illustrates that within historical narratives, particularly universalising narratives, there can be shifts in foci, from city to emperor, from Rome to Central Europe. Such a gentle focalising tendency is evident in multiple universal histories from antiquity. One thinks immediately of Polybius and his claim to be the first to be able to write universal history on account of the rise of Rome having caused world affairs to become interconnected (1.3.3-6, 3.59). And, the theme of successive world empires, so well discussed in Momigliano’s ‘The origins of universal history’, often manifests itself as a universal history with shifting foci, such as one finds in Trogus (1982: 533-60 and Yarrow 2006: 145-52; cf. Swain 1940: 1-21). Given that there is a well-documented focalising tendency in the universalising historiography of the Roman republic and early imperial period, can a parallel tendency toward focalised universality be found in other cultural products? Unsurprisingly, these same types of representations are found regularly in Ciceronian oratory, both the idea of Rome as the capitol of the world and the word-play possible with urbs and orbis when discussing Roman dominion. In his first speech as consul to the Senate he describes the Capitoline as ‘arcem omnium gentium’ (De Leg. Agr. 1.18; 63

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9. Focalised Universality: Contextualising the Genre BC). In the pro Milone he extols the senate-house as, among other things, ‘caput urbis …portum omnium gentium’(90; 52 BC) and similarly when writing to Appius Pulcher during the handing over of the province of Cilicia, he assures him that delegations being sent to Rome to praise Appius are said to be coming before ‘orbis terrae consilio’, that is to say the Senate (Ad Fam. 3.8.4; 8 Oct 51 BC). Note how Appius is promised world-renown by the journey of delegations from a single region to a central point. Cicero has used the same description of the Senate in his First Catilinarian (1.9; 63 BC):

Hic, hic sunt in nostro numero, patres conscripti, in hoc orbis terrae sanctissimo gravissimoque consilio, qui de nostro omnium interitu, qui de huius urbis atque adeo de orbis terrarum exitio cogitent Here, here, they are amongst our numbers, Conscript Fathers, in this most sanctified and most critical council of the whole world, these men who seek our total destruction, these men who plot the obliteration of this city and even of the whole world.

Here the threat against the city is interpreted as a threat against the world as a whole. The magnification allows Cicero to later claim that his resolution of a domestic problem in fact was an act of salvation for the world (Pro Sulla 33; 62 BC): ego vitam omnium civium, statum orbis terrae, urbem hanc denique, sedem omnium nostrum, arcem regum ac nationum exterarum, lumen gentium, domicilium imperi, quinque hominum amentium ac perditorum poena redemi. At the cost of punishing five insane and degenerate men, I have ransomed the life of all citizens, the state of the world – in short this city, the seat of us all, the citadel of kings and foreign lands, the light of all peoples, home of imperium.

Not only do we have the emphatic juxtaposition of urbs and orbis, but also observe how the rhetorical argument itself hinges on the role of the city as a universal focal point. Cicero’s logic falls apart if his audience is unwilling to concede the equivalence of Rome and the world. Would they have made such a concession? Cicero is perhaps a rather biased source to consult on the matter, but his letters to Atticus are known for their candid quality. In 60 he wrote to his friend that Pompey while addressing the Senate ‘had ascribed to him the salvation of the empire and the world, not once, but often and with many such words’ (‘… salutem imperii atque orbis terrarium …’; Ad Att. 1.19.7). Elsewhere I have extensively argued that historiography of the late republic emphasised the impact of internal conflict on the provinces (Yarrow 2006: 209-30); this is

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Liv Mariah Yarrow perhaps more convincing evidence that Cicero’s rhetoric was unlikely to fall on deaf ears. The connection between history and rhetoric is not far-fetched; however, I suggest that the focalised universality evident in these genres is not limited to literary products, but equally nuanced and evident in visual representations.

Sometime in 76 or 75 BC a remarkable coin type was struck (Fig. 1 = RRC 393/1). This particular type displays on its obverse the bust of the Genius of the Roman People and on its reverse a globe flanked a wreathed sceptre to the left and a rudder to the right. While all the iconographic symbolism on this coin is familiar enough from later Roman art, this coin type represents our first known instance of a number of key symbols. This is the earliest representation of a globe on a Roman coin and arguably the first time the globe has been used to symbolise dominion in a political context. Moreover, although there may be one earlier unlabelled representation of the Genius of the Roman People on a coin of 100 BC (RRC 329/1), this is the first extant representation labelled as such, and thus the first such figure undisputed in its identification.2 The globe is a uniquely Roman political symbol. From the JulioClaudians to the height of empire the globe was a regular symbolic augmentation of the imperial portrait, almost as ubiquitous and potent as the laurel wreath (Strong 1916). Call to mind the famous Capitoline bust of Commodus in the guise of Hercules holding the apple of the Hesperides; the whole bust rests on a shield flanked by two cornucopias atop a globe with kneeling Amazons on either side. On imperial bronze coinage a small globe is often placed below the imperial head on the obverse. The globe as an imperial attribute develops into the globus cruciger, that omnipresent symbol of autocratic authority from the Byzantine emperors through to modern European monarchies. This

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9. Focalised Universality: Contextualising the Genre later prevalence marks out how important this iconographic development of the 70s BC truly is, a development unprecedented in the political art of the Hellenistic world. Of course, globes did appear in Hellenistic art; there are multiple images of the muse Urania with a globe as an attribute and there is at least one Hellenistic painting, known from Roman mosaic copies, which depicted philosophers gathered around the globe (Brendel 1977; Arnaud 1984). Yet these earlier images associate the globe with the sphere of heavens and intellectual achievement, not political power. I know of only two certain instances when globes appear on Greek coins. A rare bronze coin of Clazomenae from early second or late first century BC displays an unidentified diademed head on the obverse and on the reverse, Anaxagoras the fifth-century philosopher sitting on a globe, an appropriate attribute given his writing on the nature of the cosmos (SNG VI, 891 Fitzwilliam). Only slightly less rare is the coinage of a very short-lived city, Uranopolis (Mørkholm 1991: 60). The city’s drachms from the last quarter of the fourth century have an eight-pointed star on the obverse and on the reverse a female divinity seated on a globe, usually identified as Aphrodite Urania (SNG I, 130 Newnham Davis Coins). Uranopolis was the ‘heavenly city’ of Cassander’s younger brother Alexandrus who called himself ‘Helios’ and who went so far as to create a new language for this utopian enterprise of his (Cohen 1995: 105-6). The city only lasted a handful of years and although the globe imagery of its coinage arguably reflects the pretensions of the city’s founder, it does not provide a likely precedent or inspiration for the Roman use of the globe. In neither instance is Clazomenae or Uranopolis using the globe as a symbol of political dominion, but instead, much like the precedence of Hellenistic art, the globe is either an attribute of a philosopher or a sky deity. This lack of precedence for the globe as a political symbol explains why the designer of the Roman denarius of 76/75 BC invested such effort in contextualising the symbolism of the globe. The existing Hellenistic imagery ensured the Roman audience would perceive this image of a sphere with markings as the orb of the heavens or the globe of earth.3 Contemporary vocabulary would most certainly have further influenced the viewers’ interpretation of the imagery. Perhaps as early as Ennius’ reformulation of Euhemerus’ Sacred Chronicle in Latin, the phrase orbis terrarum had been used to evoke the shape of the earth (fr. 10 Vahlen). In the extant Latin corpus the phrase also appears in a fragment of P. Rutilius Rufus (cos. 105); DeWitt thought this to be the first usage and hypothesised that Cicero borrowed his extensive use of the phrase from Rutilius (1942: 362). Lintott, however, rightly observes that earliest surviving use of the phrase to describe Roman dominion is found in the Rhetorica ad Herennium (4.13; 1981: 53):

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Liv Mariah Yarrow … imperium orbis terrae cui imperio omnes gentes, reges, nationes, partim vi, partim voluntate consenserunt … … imperium over the whole world to which all peoples, kings, and states have consented, some being forced, some voluntarily …

The quotation comes from a fragment of a speech whose internal references suggest that its ostensible original context was the Social War, c. 90 BC. The author uses the speech fragment to illustrate the middle rhetorical style and it is of course possible that it is his own exemplary construction, but this still dates the usage no later than the mid to late 80s BC.4 Although, as we have already seen, the phrase is common in Cicero, his preferred usage seems to develop over time. It appears in Pro Sex. Roscio Amerino of 81 BC when he wishes to emphasise the accomplishments of Scipio Africanus in conquering a third of the world (103), but there is no suggestion that Rome controls the rest of that world. The phrase appears repeatedly in the Verrines (70 BC) and in Pro M. Fonteio (69 BC) but in both texts the usage only provides hyperbolic emphasis and does not specifically evoke the extent of Roman rule. His first undisputable use of the phrase to refer to the extent of Roman dominion doesn’t come until 66 BC in the Pro Lege Manilia (53): si plus apud populum Romanum auctoritas tua quam ipsius populi Romani salus et vera causa valuisset, hodie hanc gloriam atque hoc orbis terrae imperium teneremus? If among the Roman people your authority had been valued more than the well-being and genuine interest of the Roman people themselves, would then today we possess this glory and this imperium over the whole world?

Through this type of rhetoric, the Roman audience of 75/6 BC was prepared to see a sphere as representing the orb of the world. However, given that at that date verbal claims of world conquest still appear to be relatively uncommon, they would not necessarily have imbued it with any particular political meaning, especially given the lack of Hellenistic visual precedence. In the iconography of the coin type in question (Fig. 1 = RRC 393/1), such meaning is communicated by the bracketing images. The rudder represents naval prowess; the sceptre indicates rulership, dominance, even imperium and being wreathed with laurels it evokes the idea of victorious imperium, that is to say, military accomplishment. Taken together the meaning is clear enough: this coin type is a visual claim to global dominion. Emphasising the juxtaposition of the globe and rudder, Crawford connects the imagery with an even more common rhetorical phrase, ‘terra marique’, ‘by land and sea’ (RRC 393). As Momigliano has so thoroughly demonstrated, this phrase, borrowed from the Greek panegyric, comes

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9. Focalised Universality: Contextualising the Genre overtime to be equivalent to oikoumene (1942; cf. Oliver 1969). As we will see below, Cicero on occasion links the phrases ‘terra marique’ and ‘orbis terrarum’ in oratory celebrating the accomplishments of singular commanders. For now it is sufficient to make two observations: that the connection of political rhetoric and numismatic imagery is not only possible, but plausible, and that both rhetorical connections make it most likely that the sphere represents the sphere of earth. Before setting aside this first coin, one ought also to consider the obverse. Of course, not in all cases are we supposed to read the obverse and reverse of a coin type together; in fact a direct connect between obverse and reverse is the exception not the rule. Thus it is even more noteworthy that the designer of this type so explicitly invites us to make such a connection through the repeated design element of the sceptre. Whose sceptre is shown on the reverse? Who holds dominion over the globe? We are provided with an unambiguous answer: the Genius of the Roman People, who appears clearly labelled for the first time on a Roman coin type.

This iconographic linking of Rome and the globe quickly caught on. Just two years later a different moneyer again decided to illustrate the Genius of the Roman People on the denarius and this time the globe has been incorporated directly into the genius’ attributes (Fig. 2 = RRC 397/1). Instead of a large prominent element in the design, the globe is now a diminutive attribute under the Genius’ left foot. The wreath motif has been elaborated to include a flying personification of victory crowning the genius, and the sceptre is augmented by the inclusion of a curule chair, a traditional symbol of magisterial authority. The only new addition to the symbolic scheme is the cornucopia. As the Roman iconographic tradition develops the globe and the cornucopia become closely linked. Three examples suffice to demonstrate the

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Liv Mariah Yarrow pervasive connection. A denarius from under the dictatorship of Caesar (46 BC, RRC 464/3a) bears nearly an identical reverse to that shown in Figure 1 (RRC 393/1); the only change to the design is the inclusion of a cornucopia resting on the central globe. The direct echo affirms the lasting impression the earlier image had on the Roman audience; the modification reveals how the semantic range of the iconography has widened in the three intervening decades. The potency of the juxtaposition is further shown by the large altar built by the freedman P. Perelius Hedulus at Carthage for the gens Augusta. Zanker describes the relief sculpture on this monument as ‘virtually a textbook summary of Roman official iconography’ (1988: 315-16, fig. 247). The relevant panel shows Roma sitting on a pile of arms holding Victory facing a square base supporting a globe, cornucopia and cadeucus. In scale, the globe-cornucopia composition is almost as large as Roma; the curvature of the cornucopia mirrors the seated position of Roma, creating a sense of visual analogy. Finally, we can briefly note the two cornucopias resting atop the globe and supporting the imperial bust in the famous Capitoline Commodus discussed above. The message in these latter images seems to be that from world dominion comes plenty. Rome is nourished through her conquests. Ciceronian rhetoric does not fail to acknowledge such consumptive tendencies (De Leg. Agr. 1.9; 63 BC): quid putatis impendere hac lege omnibus gentibus terroris et mali, cum immittantur in orbem terrarum xviri summo cum imperio, summa cum avaritia infinitaque omnium rerum cupiditate? What terror and evils do you think are impending for all nations on account of this law, when decemvirs set upon the world with supreme imperium, with supreme avarice and with boundless desire for all things?

The language suggests that the totality of the imperium, both in the degree of power and in its geographical extent, is naturally correlated with limitless nature of the consumption. McClintock’s theoretical work on modern empires offers some thoughtprovoking parallels. She emphasises how the concept of consumption is intimately linked with those of imperialism and globalisation, a link well-illustrated by the fashion for World Fairs and Columbian Expositions. Such spectacles are a means of expressing imperial dominion – of bringing home the world, of packaging it, of controlling it, of reformulating it and of displaying it. While the most immediate parallel might seem to be with the Roman triumph (see below; Beard 2007), the claim of a World Fair to have the totality of the world on display is not unlike the hyperbolic claim of a universal historian. When discussing a toy globe displayed at the Crystal Palace, World Exhibition, 1851, McClintock borrows the lan-

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guage of Foucault, to speak of the ‘panoptical desire to consume the whole world’ as embodied in such objects and in the fairs themselves (1995: 59). Once we shrink the world, albeit metaphorically, we step outside of it. From the outsider perspective we presume to observe the totality and via observation to assert control. The cornucopia appears again on the third coin type from the 70s BC which displays the globe (Fig. 3 = RRC 403/1). This particular type is much more sophisticated in its iconographic message and relies on legends in ligature to remove some of the possible confusion. On the obverse are the heads of Honos and Virtus. On the reverse are two more figures who bear an intentional resemblance to Honos and Virtus, but these are labelled as Italia and Roma. Italia holds a cornucopia and grasps Roma’s hand in a gesture of concordia. The caduceus in the left field is the attribute of Mercury, the bringer of wealth; it re-enforces the felicitous nature of this union, perhaps even a divine sanction of the consumptive relationship. Roma, in military dress, wreathed in laurels, and holding both sceptre and sword, rests her foot on the globe. Note that like the coin of 74 BC (Fig. 2) the globe is once again a diminutive attribute of a personification of Rome. Rome had recently reasserted her dominion over Italy and now Italy through her bountiful resources supports the military endeavours of Rome as she asserts her dominion over the world. The message would have resonated with a Roman audience in the year of the first census to incorporate the new Italian citizens after the Social War, and shortly after the calming of hostilities in Spain, the suppression of Spartacus’ rebellion, and Lucullus’ seemingly decisive routing of Mithridates in the East. Nevertheless the representation of Roma with her foot on a globe is wholly new and innovative. This is only the third representation of the globe, and previous representations of Roma, even those which stressed military successes, had had no such assertion of global dominion. Compare

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a coin of five years earlier with a very similar composition of two standing figures, Roma and Venus (Fig. 4 = RRC 391/3). Roma, on the left, rests her foot on an attribute, but in this case the attribute is not a globe, but a wolf’s head. Roma is still a military figure and the type emphasises naval prowess – the two figures are flanks by rudders and prows – but there is no claim to universal dominion. Roma is just Roma; she is not here on this early coin equated with the world. The three coin types of the mid to late 70s displaying the globe one very distinctive feature in common. Each time the globe appears it is directly and explicitly equated with a personification of Rome. In the latter two cases, Rome is given prominence and the globe is reduced to a footnote. So what does this have to do with focalised universality? Or for that matter universal history? I would argue that these coins demonstrate a shift in Roman perceptions of universality in the 70s BC. Previously, the sphere of the cosmos was an appropriate attribute for a muse or a point of contemplation for the intellectual. These types of image decorated a few private homes and evoked Hellenistic learning. The Roman elite had been interested in conceptualising the universality of the cosmos, much in the same way they were interested in other aspects of Greek philosophy. Here we see that the concept of universality brought into the wider public political discourse. We can read these coins as simply statements on the nature of Rome’s military accomplishments, but they also tell us something of how the Romans were conceptualising the universal. Through these coins, we see a growing interest in the 70s BC in the ability not only to control the world, but to represent that world as a unified totality. The universal can be conceptualised through the focal point of Rome. The world in its entirety has one single definable relationship with Rome. We can gain a better understanding of how this growing interest in universality is particularly focalised, by observing when the focal point shifts (Nicolet 1990: 29-56). Less than fifteen years after representations

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of the globe emerged in Roman iconography, the exclusive pairing with personifications of Rome was broken. Faustus, Sulla’s son, engaged in an ambitious minting programme in 56 BC. In a series of four coin types he commemorated his father and Pompey; one of that series particularly commemorates Pompey’s most unusual commands (Fig. 5 = 426/4). The large wreath may be the corona aurea awarded to Pompey in 63 before his return from the East (Vell. 2.40.4; Crawford 1974: 488 n. 1). The three small wreaths recall his three triumphs; the first for victories in Africa over the Marians, the second for suppressing Sertorius in Spain, and the third for his conquests in Asia after defeating Mithridates. Thus he could claim to have triumphed over all three continents of the oikoumene. The aplustre is a type of naval decoration associated with the stern of ships and may refer to the command against the pirates. The ear of corn can be associated with the command over the grain supply. The prominent large and centrally placed globe links together the rest of Pompey’s accomplishments. In this universal representation, it is not Rome which serves as a unifying theme, but Pompey himself who provides the focal point. Six years earlier in his third triumph Pompey had even had a trophy representing the conquering of the oikoumene carried in his triumph (Diod. Sic. 40.4, Dio 37.21.2). The triumph is by far the most individualistic celebration of military achievement in the republic; an institution so powerful that it had to be restricted to the emperors under the empire (Beard 2007). By parading the world through the streets of Rome, Pompey was offering his deeds and actions as a means of contemplating the universal. Cicero’s use of universalising phrases – omnes gentium, orbis terrarum, among others – undergoes a similar shift in focus. As early as 66 BC in the De Lege Manilia, Cicero credits ‘one law, one man, one year’ as marking the moment when Rome’s universal dominion was finally established (‘omnibus gentibus ac nationibus terra marique imperare’: 56). However in this unusually early rhetoric the emphasis is still on Roman dominion, it is not until 50s BC that such claims become common place in the Ciceronian

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Liv Mariah Yarrow corpus. The Pro Sestio has Pompey setting the boundaries of empire at the limits of the world (67; 56 BC). A year later the In Pisonem claims that Pompey ‘had bound together all parts of all people in his three triumphs’ (‘omnis omnium gentium partis tribus triumphis devinxerat’; 29; cf. Balb. 16). That long after his third triumph Pompey continued to offer himself as such a focal point is clearly seen from a famous statue of him, now in the Palazzo Spada, but believed originally to have been located in Pompey’s theatre complex.5 If this is indeed the original context for the statue then it would have been designed at about the same time as the coin issued by Faustus, given that the theatre complex was opened in the following year. On the coins of the 70s BC, as in Livy, we saw a synecdochical conflation of Rome and the world, urbs and orbis. Here with Pompey we see a consciously constructed attempt to shift the focalisation. The orb becomes an attribute of Pompey, not of Roma. He becomes the link between distant places and peoples, not the city itself. It is Pompey’s precedent that led to the more famous representations of the globe and oikoumene under Julius Caesar and Augustus: the Capitoline statue of Caesar atop the oikoumene (Dio 43.14.6), the globe with a winged victory which topped the pediment of the new Curia, and the representations of Augustus in heroic nudity resting his foot on the globe (Zanker 1988: fig. 62 and 42, cf. 64). When Octavius, our future Augustus, was only six years old, Pompey was already being called the ‘princeps orbis terrae’ (Cic. De Domo 110; 57 BC). The representational shift of focus from Rome to a single individual is a good lesson for the historiographer. The focalisation we find in the histories are not the ‘natural’ or ‘inevitable’ result of the cultural political environments in which the historian were writing, but instead conscious constructed statements about the worlds they occupied – statements that in turn helped to shape those worlds. What other possibilities does this little foray into oratory and numismatics hold for the student of universal history? First, it offers us a fairly tight and consistent chronology. Cicero’s speeches are accurately dated and well contextualised. We know from the coins when certain images were first widely disseminated; coins, with the possible exception of bricks, are the only truly mass produced objects in the ancient world. Why does the chronology matter? When we approach the development of ancient historiography too often we jump from Polybius, writing in the 140s and 130s BC to historians like Diodorus, Livy and Trogus, who wrote in the age of Caesar and Augustus. If we want a better understanding of how universal history developed in the early and mid first century BC, we need the comparative material to hold up against the fragmentary authors. Second, the strong shift in focalisation from personifications of the city to an individual commander, particularly Pompey, invites us to revisit the extant universal histories and see if we can trace a similar shift in focalisation. Pompey’s own influence on the historiographical tradition

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9. Focalised Universality: Contextualising the Genre deserves further inquiry. And it is also, worth enquiring, as to why after the strong iconographic shift away from the connection between Rome and world to a focalisation involving individual commanders, does the synecdoche return in such strength in the writings of Livy and other early imperial writers? I suspect the answer to this last question lies in Augustus’ talent for blending together his personal identity and the identity of Rome (cf. Suet. Aug. 52). Finally, the equation of universal dominion and consumption has emerged as a dominant theme and is equally worthy of further investigation in the extant universal histories. The rapacity of tax collectors is certainly a prevalent topic in a text such as Diodorus, but is there causal connection made between the totality of control and extent of the avarice? Is the very production of universal history a means of possessing the world the through the power of observation? Perhaps these precise questions will remain unanswered, but I hope I have provided in this chapter a methodological example of how historiography can borrow from a variety of disciplines to expand the range of its enquiry. Notes *During the preparation of this paper, I benefited deeply from stimulating conversations with R. Witchonke and access to his collection of Roman republican coinage; he generously supplied all the images for publication. I am also indebted to the AHRC whose generous funding allowed me to participate in the original conference and thus to further develop this work in light of the comments and suggestions of the organisers and my fellow participants. The suggestions and critique of my Brooklyn College colleagues were, as always, insightful and indispensible, particularly C. Williams, D. Schur and R. Viscusi. 1. Hegel’s conception of Caesar as articulated here shows the influence of ancient authors; compare Cic. Balb. 64: Sed quoniam C. Caesar abest longissime, atque in iis est nunc locis quae regione orbem terrarum, rebus illius gestis imperium populi Romani definiunt. 2. The obverse legend directly over the figure’s head reads, ‘C • P • R’, an abbreviation of genius populi Romani. Early scholarship on representations of the Genius of the Roman People on republican coinage focused on a connection with the gens Cornelia; see Borrelli (1943-45), Gagé (1957), and Michiels (1972). Most of this work has been fully integrated (and critiqued) in the notes of Crawford (1974). Of perhaps greater relevance to the themes of this chapter are the suggestions of Richardson (1978). On the iconographic development of images of the Genius of the Roman People and his attributes see Fears (1978), esp. 277-9 and Kunckel (1974). 3. Arnaud (1984) argues emphatically that the globe always represents the cosmos, not the sphere of earth. His argument is based on the structuralist principle that if one can deduce what an orb with particular markings means in one context, the same image means the same thing in all other contexts. This presumes that all viewers always saw the same thing and that there is no room for the dissemination of meaning.

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Liv Mariah Yarrow 4. Vogt (1929) is a short pamphlet, largely outdated, that offers a sweeping survey of the use of the term orbis; the laxity of usage is perhaps the most enduring conclusion to emerge from the work. 5. The identification is a contentious point; see Faccenna (1956); Coarelli (1971-2); Maderna (1988) 217-18; and Hallett (2005) appendix F. Early interest in the statue arose from the idea that it might have been the one beneath which Caesar was stabbed (Dio 44.52.1); a theory encapsulated in the famous 1798 painting by Vincenzo Camuccini. Given the interest in identification less emphasis has been placed on the globe; Hillard (1853) 282 states that traces of a figure were then evident on top of the globe and plausibly hypothesised that it was originally topped with a figure of victory. Kuttner (1999) offers a productive theoretical reading of the space Pompey created adjacent to the theatre.

Bibliography Arnaud, P. (1984), ‘L’image du globe dans le monde romain: science, iconographie, symbolique’, Mélanges de l’École Française de Rome 96: 53-116. Beard, M. (2007), The Roman Triumph (Cambridge, MA). Borrelli, N. (1943-1945), ‘La monetazione dei Cornelii e il Genius populi Romani’, Numismatica 9-11: 33-7. Bourgeaud P. (1987), ‘Du mythe à l’idéologie: la tête du Capitole’, Museum Helveticum 44: 86-100. Brendel, O.J. (1977), Symbolism of the Sphere: A Contribution in the History of Early Greek Philosophy (Leiden). Clarke, K. (1999), ‘Universal perspectives in historiography’, in C.S. Kraus (ed.), The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts (Leiden): 249-79. Coarelli, F. (1971-2), ‘Il complesso pompeiano del Campo Marzio e la sua decorazione scultorea’, Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia 64fs: 99-122. Cohen, G.M. (1995), The Hellenistic Settlements in Europe, the Islands, and Asia Minor (Berkeley). Collingwood, R.G. (1993), The Idea of History, rev. edn (Oxford). Crawford, M.H. (1974), Roman Republican Coinage (Cambridge). DeWitt, N. (1942), ‘Orbis terrarum’, Classical Journal 37: 362-3. Edwards, C. (1996), Writing Rome: Textual Approaches to the City (Cambridge). Edwards, C. and Woolf, G. (eds) (2003), Rome the Cosmopolis (Cambrige). Faccenna, D. (1956), ‘Il Pompeo di Palazzo Spada’, Archéologue Classique 8: 173-201. Fears, J.R. (1978), ‘Ho Demos Ho Romaion, Genius Populi Romani. A note on the origin of the Dea Roma’, Mnemosyne 31: 274-86. Gagé, J. (1957), ‘Les Cornelii Lentuli et le Genius Populi Romani. A propos d’un aspect du culte du Divus Julius’, in J. Babelon and J. Lafaurie (eds), Comité international des sciences historiques. Commission internationale de numismatique. Congrès international de numismatique. Paris 6-11 juillet 1953, II (Paris): 219-27. Hallet, C.H. (2005), The Roman Nude: Heroic Portrait Statuary 200 BC-AD 300 (Oxford). Hegel, G.W.F. (2004 reprint), The Philosophy of History, tr. J. Sibree (Mineola, NY). Hillard, G.S. (1853), Six Months in Italy (Boston).

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9. Focalised Universality: Contextualising the Genre Kunckel, H. (1974), Der Römische Genius (Heidelberg). Kuttner, A.L. (1999), ‘Culture and history at Pompey’s museum’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 129: 343-73. Lintott, A. (1981), ‘What was the ‘Imperium Romanum’?’, Greece & Rome 28.1: 53-67. Maderna, C. (1988), Iuppiter, Diomedes, und Merkur als Vorbilder für römische Bildnisstatuen, Archäologie und Geschichte I (Heidelberg). McClintock, A. (1995), Imperial Leather: Race, Gender, and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest (London). Michiels, A. (1972), ‘Trois Cornelii Lentuli de la première moitié du I s. av. J.C. et leurs deniers’, Revue Belge de Numismatique 118: 7-27. Momigliano, A. (1942), ‘Terra Marique’, Journal of Roman Studies 32: 53-64. Momigliano, A. (1982), ‘The origins of universal history’ Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa III, 12: 533-630 (= Momigliano, Sèttimo contributo, 77-103). Mørkholm, O. (1991), Early Hellenistic Coinage from the Accession of Alexander to the Peace of Apamaea, 336-188 BC (Cambridge). Morstein-Marx, R. (2004), Mass Oratory and Political Power in the Late Roman Republic (Cambridge). Nicolet, C. (1990), Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire, Jerome Lectures 19 (Ann Arbor). Oliver, J.H. (1969), ‘Octavian’s inscription at Nicopolis’, American Journal of Philology 90.20: 178-82. Richardson L. (1978), ‘Honos et Virtus and the Sacra Via’, American Journal of Archaeology 82: 240-6. Sacks, K.S. (1980), Polybius on the Writing of History (Berkeley and Los Angeles). Strong, Mrs S.A. (1916) ‘A bronze bust of a Iulio-Claudian prince (? Caligula) in the Museum of Colchester; with a note on the symbolism of the globe in imperial portraiture’, Journal of Roman Studies 6: 27-46. Swain, J.W. (1940), ‘The theory of the four monarchies: opposition history under the Roman Empire’, Classical Philology. 35: 1-21. Vogt, J. (1929), Orbis Romanus: zur Terminologie des roemischen Imperialismus (Tübingen). White, H. (1989),‘ “Figuring the nature of the times deceased”: literary theory and historical writing’, in Ralph Cohen (ed.), The Future of Literary Theory (London): 19-33. Yarrow, L.M. (2006), Historiography at the End of the Republic: Provincial Perspectives on Roman Rule (Oxford). Zanker, P. (1988), The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (Ann Arbor).

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10

Ennius as Universal Historian: the Case of the Annales Jackie Elliott One of the most arresting features of Roman historiography in virtually all the forms in which we encounter it is its complex blend of the characteristics of the local and the universal.1 The history of Rome is never accessible to us in the form in which we must assume it originated, as purely local history;2 and in retrospect it looks as if the Roman historiographical tradition as a whole moved steadily from its now invisible local beginnings towards the universal – that is, towards a sense on the part of the chroniclers of the city that their subject-matter had significance for, or was even identical with, world history. My contention here is that Ennius, writing in the first third of the second century BC, at a moment when Rome’s claim to figure as an international power was taking real effect even in pragmatic terms,3 communicated this idea earlier than any other interpreter of Rome.4 The poet’s particular negotiation of the local and the universal is at the heart of this matter: if the title of the work, in its allusion to the tradition of local Roman historiography, insists on the limited range of its focus, Ennius’ co-option of the Homeric texts with their undisputed claim to cultural supremacy suggests an equivalence between Greece’s history – so, practically, from the text’s own perspective, the history of the civilised world – and that of Rome. In my reading, the relevance of the title and of the other reflexes of the annalistic tradition in evidence in the fragments lies not (as has traditionally been thought) in a reference to the poem’s style and organisation, but in their strongly weight-bearing allusion to annalistic history’s centralising focus on Rome;5 for it is relation to Rome that endows places and events with relevance and significance to this world, betokened by a place in Ennius’ narrative. At the same time, both the geographical range and the generic complexity of Ennius’ work mean that this is far from a simple local history, as the title in isolation might have suggested: the poem’s horizons are far wider than the locality of Rome, both literally and in terms of the allusions that constitute its imaginative world. The city functions as a centripetal force drawing all of space and time into relationship with itself, as is also true of other universalising narratives of Rome.6 Precisely because the epic shares none of the formal properties of conventional universal histories yet

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10. Ennius as Universal Historian: the Case of the Annales (as I argue) achieves some similar effects by the use of at least some analogous strategies, its juxtaposition with such texts offers an opportunity for thinking about how universalising narratives, in any form, function. Applying the idea of universal history to the Annales in turn has considerable potential for helping us interpret the nature of Ennius’ enterprise and explain the lasting impression of his work on how Romans thought and wrote about themselves, their city and their past.7 The definition of universal history itself and the qualifications of any particular work to belong to it in any case regularly require negotiation.8 The claim itself to be all-encompassing can never literally be effected,9 so that even texts traditionally categorised as universal histories constitute no homogeneous or uncontroversial grouping. Typically, a text’s claim to status as a universal history rests both on an explicit statement that the author makes and on a vision he communicates, of the conceptual unity of the world as it emerges from his text. Polybius’ Histories, for example, generally qualify as a work of universal history because he tells us that that is what they are (Polyb. 1.1.5-5, cf. 1.2.7-8, 3.1.4, 39.8.5-7).10 He subsequently announces that he will begin his history of the known world in the 140th Olympiad (220-216 BC), on the grounds that it was from that date on that history could be conceived as an organic whole: the affairs of hitherto discrete nations were now interrelated and irrevocably destined to fall under Rome’s sway, since now the final events that would enable her to fulfil her ambition of universal domination were under way (Polyb. 1.3.4-6; cf. 2.37.1-4). The limitation Polybius thus imposes on his ‘universal’ history is, of course, wholly representative of limitations, both temporal and geographical, that all those who claim to be writing a history of everything find themselves subject to, whether or not they openly acknowledge the fact.11 What makes a history ‘universal’, in the face of such inescapable limitations, is a conception that the events described, themselves of unique significance, are directed by and hence illuminate the one principle that, in the author’s vision, endows history with significance.12 In Jewish and Christian universal histories, this principle is often the fulfilment of God’s plan. In Graeco-Roman instances of the second and first centuries, it is typically the inexorable movement of history towards the supremacy of Rome;13 for by that time, it appeared to the extant chroniclers of the city, Rome’s power over the known world was the single fact most in need of historical and moral explanation. That explanation in turn provided the one relevant structure enabling the historian to formulate an account of the past, an account that was then pertinent to all of that world’s places and inhabitants. The strategies of both the Christian and the Roman traditions of universalising historiography have their analogues in the Annales. On the one hand, Ennius uses literary precedent as a means to establish a pattern by which to revise his audience’s understanding of the past, in a manner not dissimilar to the use the writers of the New Testament made of the

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Jackie Elliott Hebrew Bible. By transposing the persons and events of Roman history onto Homeric ‘history’, Ennius effectively reveals the story of Rome as both co-extensive with and the fulfilment of that ultimate narrative of the past that the Homeric epics had, for their world, always represented.14 To behold Roman history through this new lens was to understand, not in rational but in emotive and ideological terms, the reason for Rome’s dominance in the contemporary world. Ennius’ strategy in re-describing Roman history in the familiar terms of Greek literature implies not so much the replacement of Greece by Rome as the leader of the ‘civilised’ world but, I suggest, a sort of teleology, whereby the prototypes created in Greek epic – and historiography, as I shall also argue – found their longawaited fulfilment in this new articulation.15 On the other hand, Ennius’ representation of Rome as the gravitational centre of the world – in his case, not least by use of the trademarks of local annalistic historiography – is the hallmark of specifically Roman universalising historiography, as we encounter it in the later narratives of the second century BC and the first centuries 16 BC and AD (cf. n. 6). Below, I explore the means by which Ennius uses the city and its history as the mechanism by which to draw vast swaths of time and place into relation with each other. Since the task of writing the history of Rome from its origins to his audience’s own day presented Ennius with challenges analogous to those faced by conventional universal historians, who also wrote ‘the whole story from beginning to end’,17 it is unsurprising if he and they sometimes adopted similar strategies in response, for example in the use of time, to give their narratives coherence. Ennius’ play with time, however, also enables his own unique and highly literary form of universalising. First, then, I will discuss particular instances of Ennius’ use of Greek literary precedent and his use of time generally as vehicles of his universalising.18 Subsequently, we shall explore some aspects of the potentially intimate structural relationship between city history and world history as Diodorus and Polybius offer it to us. Rather than discussing large-scale and uncontroversial examples of Ennius’ Homerising re-descriptions of the Roman past (such as Ann. 391-8, the description of the tribune Caelius modelled on that of the Ajax of Il. 16.102-11; or fr. XV.iv), I would like to focus attention instead on how the use of literary tradition plays out for the five unobtrusive lines Skutsch tentatively attributes to the description of Cannae. One of the striking facts about the remains of Ennian battle-narrative is that almost nothing bears a resemblance to the description of possibly historical strategic tactics.19 In fact, not one surviving line of the Annales can be attributed with certainty to any given battle. Instead, phrases based on literary models, especially though not exclusively imitations of Homeric formula, abound. The five fragments Skutsch ascribes to Ennius’ description of Cannae are no exception to this rule. The following fragments are unrelated by their sources, which, however, do place each of them in book 8:20

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10. Ennius as Universal Historian: the Case of the Annales consequitur. summo sonitu quatit ungula campum follows. Their hooves shake the plain with massive din …

Ann. 263

iamque fere pulvis ad caeli vasta videtur and just then the dust to the desolate … of the sky seems …

Ann. 264

amplius exaugere obstipo lumine solis to grow greater, with the sun’s rays slanting down …

Ann. 265

hastati spargunt hastas. fit ferreus imber Ann. 266 armed men send their spears in all directions. An iron rain comes on … densantur campis horrentia tela virorum the bristling spears of men throng the fields …

Ann. 267

Skutsch understands these lines as related to each other principally on the basis of Livy 22.46.8, which describes the situation at Cannae:21 sol, seu de industria ita locatis seu quod forte ita stetere, peropportune utrique parti obliquus erat, Romanis in meridiem, Poenis in septentrionem versis; ventus – Volturnum regionis incolae vocant – adversus Romanis coortus multo pulvere in ipsa ora volvendo prospectum ademit. Whether they had purposely taken up their positions thus or because they stood as they did by chance, the sun shone down most favourably in slanting rays on either side, the Romans facing to the South, the Carthaginians to the North; but the wind – the inhabitants of the place call it the Volturnus – rising up against the Romans, by flinging a great deal of dust directly in their faces, deprived them of view.

The underlined words note points of lexical contact, but I will argue below that neither these nor anything else constitute a basis for positing any specific kinship between ab urbe condita 22.46.8 and Ann. 263-7. Skutsch also points to some potential Homeric background, citing Il. 5.502-5 in a footnote on Ann. 264, though he is more hesitant about its relevance:22 ìj tÒt, ,Acaio< leuko< Ûperqe g2nonto konis£lü, Ón "a di, aÙtîn oÙranÕn 1j polÚcalkon 1p2plhgon pÒdej ∑ppwn… So then the Achaeans grew white from beneath with the dust, which the horses’ hooves drove up amongst them to the brazen sky.

In my reading, Skutsch’s emphases need to be reversed and Homer made our primary guide to construing these lines. What makes it clear that literary convention has the upper hand in the Annales over historical detail is the fact that all the lines Skutsch ascribes to Cannae pick up expressions and ideas in evidence elsewhere in Ennius’ own battle-descriptions or

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Jackie Elliott in related texts in the epic and (Homerising, non-analytic) historiographical traditions. Ann. 263, for example, belongs to a set of quasi-formulaic lines repeatedly attested for the Annales by Macrobius, at Sat. 6.1.22, along with a familiar Vergilian reflex from the Aeneid: quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum Ennius in sexto: explorant Numidae: totam quatit ungula terram idem in octavo: consequitur. summo sonitu quatit ungula terram idem in septimo decimo: it eques et plausu cava concutit ungula terram

[Aen. 8.596] [Ann. 242] [Ann. 263] [Ann. 431]

the hooves shake the dusty field with the din of galloping steeds Ennius in book 6: the Numidians set out to explore: hooves shake the entire land Ennius again in book 8: follows. The hooves shake the plain with massive din Ennius again in book 17: the cavalry go forth, and the hollow hooves shake the land with their beating

The flying dust of Ann. 264 not only imitates that of Il. 5.502-5 but recurs in two further lines of the Annales: pulvis fulva volat (‘the tawny dust flies’, Ann. 315) and stant pulvere campi (‘the fields tower with dust’, Ann. 613). The idea of missiles as rain in Ann. 266 is also found at Ann. 391: undique conveniunt velut imber tela tribuno (‘from all sides missiles fly at the tribune like a shower of rain’). The agricultural metaphor of the (battle-) field bristling with spears at Ann. 267 is familiar from elsewhere in the Annales, from Ennius’ Erechtheus and from his Scipio – not to mention, for us retrospective readers, from Virgil’s re-uses of it. These lines are cited as a group by our sole source for Ann. 266, Macrobius (Sat. 6.4.6): … tum ferreus hastis horret ager … ‘horret’ mire se habet. sed et Ennius in quarto decimo: horrescit telis exercitus asper utrimque et in Erechtheo: arma arrigunt horrescunt tela et in Scipione: sparsis hastis longis campus splendet et horret sed et ante omnes Homerus: 4frixen d5 m£ch fqis8mbrotoj 1gce8hsi

[Aen. 11.601-2]23 [Ann. 384] [Erechtheus 143 Joc] [Scipio, Var. 14 V]

… then the field bristles iron with spears ‘bristles’ works wonderfully well; but Ennius too uses it in book 14: on both sides the armies bristle fiercely with spears and in the Erechtheus: they raise their weapons, spears bristle

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[Il. 13.339]

10. Ennius as Universal Historian: the Case of the Annales and in the Scipio: they hurl their long spears and the field gleams and bristles but before any other Homer had it: manslaughtering battle bristled with spears

The arrangement of these lines in Macrobius shows that, at least to those ancient readers whom he represents, the literary modelling of these phrases is paramount over the description of accurate historical detail. Moreover, the easy equivalence, in Macrobius’ presentation, between the use of the same image in the unambiguously Roman Annales and Scipio on the one hand and, on the other, in the Iliad and in Ennius’ version of the Greek story of Erechtheus, shows in action how Rome’s past was patterned after and made culturally analogous to the events of Greek history in their most familiar descriptions. Finally, Skutsch’s juxtaposition of Ann. 265-7, in their combination of hyperbolic metaphors, in particular the ferreus imber of Ann. 266, together with the idea of the opposing slant of the rays of the sun in Ann. 265, brings to mind rhetoric familiar from Greek historiography. In Herodotus’ account of Thermopylae, the Spartan Dieneces famously anticipates sheltering from the rays of the sun in the shade offered by the downpour of the Persians’ many arrows (Hdt. 7.226). The suggestion here is not that the ignominy of Cannae, as seen from all surviving Roman perspectives, could in any heavy-handed way be likened to the glories of Thermopylae; but the transmuting even of defeat and disgrace into an acceptable legend, into a story that the audience could feel that they had always known, was perhaps useful now that Cannae had to become part of what the Romans knew about themselves. Treated thus, as part of a story made palatable by its enshrinement in poetic form and by its irremoveable role in a narrative whose shape, at least overall, spoke of Roman success, it could become part of the past after which Roman readers shaped their own understanding of themselves and of their city. Literary clichés, used thus to bestow on Rome’s vicissitudes even a superficial similarity to events famous through literature, could help re-formulate the account of what had happened or at least colour such memory as there was. The familiar thought-patterns of the Greek traditions of epic and historiography were of infinitely more use for this task than what may have happened on the battle-field. They could also help create the sense, by grafting in the language and images of culturally and generically foreign texts, that this history of Rome was the story of other times and places too. Ennius’ tacit superimposition of Roman history onto the heroic past represented in Homer and Herodotus provides a schematic interpretative framework to re-draft his audience’s understanding of their nation’s past and thus draws his work, in my analysis, into the ambit of universal histories (cf. p. 149 above, with n. 12). By that superimposition, the poet furthermore creates a web of implicit historical parallelisms. These are

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Jackie Elliott analogous to explicit versions of the same, which are the regular stuff of universal histories, useful because they serve to establish recurrent patterns that give a means of comprehending the past by creating a sort of diachronic prism embracing different aspects of the time held within the text’s purview.24 It is clear from at least one instance that Ennius too used explicit historical parallelisms, in direct correspondence with the practice of the universal historians. The parallel in question happens to refer once more to an event famously related by Herodotus: Ann. 369, isque Hellesponto pontem contendit in alto (‘and he threw a bridge over the deep Hellespont’) has long been accepted to have to do with the apprehension felt at Rome in 192 in anticipation of the war against Antiochus.25 We know from the source, Varro, that it referred to the bridge built by Xerxes as narrated by Herodotus 7.34-6.26 (Vahlen suggested the context in Ennius was a speech recalling the earlier invasions of Europe.) Thus we have it that an event of the very recent past and the attendant mood it generated in Rome is presented in the Annales as directly comparable to one of the most memorable incidents of fifth-century Greek history. If Ennius frequently gestured at the practice of the universal historians by creating implicit historical parallelisms through literary allusion, he also on occasion used the more immediately analogous direct technique. The use of historical parallels, implicit or explicit, widens the lens of Ennius’ narrative, allowing it to take in events that stood closer to the geographical and temporal limit of his audience’s knowledge of the world. At the same time, it draws that more distant and exotic past into quasiexplanatory relation with the story that is the poet’s immediate focus. In particular, the use of parallels that co-opt the material of the celebrated texts of Homer and Herodotus is one embryonic means by which Ennius creates the sense that the past his Annales have in their purview is of far wider range and import than ‘annalistic’ or local history had typically claimed for itself. It thus gave impetus, I suggest, to the movement that would culminate in the effective consummation of annales and world history in the works of Livy and Tacitus (cf. nn. 1 and 2), where we encounter in full-fledged form the sense that the affairs of Rome had become co-terminous with world affairs. Awareness of Ennius’ use of parallels inevitably complicates our understanding of the poet’s use of time in his ‘annalistic’ work. In fact, there is much evidence that undermines the traditional idea of a straightforwardly chronological text that the title is often taken to imply. One example is the use of flashback digressions,27 an obvious response within a narrative that needed to have told the entire past relevant to any given historical moment – and that was unavoidably confronted, on occasion, by its shortcomings in this respect. As Katherine Clarke writes, ‘no history that deals with more than one place can adhere constantly to a strictly chronological arrangement’;28 and indeed flashback digressions giving the early history and ethnographical details of peoples newly encountered occur regularly

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10. Ennius as Universal Historian: the Case of the Annales in the narrative of universal historians.29 Skutsch himself, generally a strong proponent of the view that the Annales must have proceeded quite strictly in a straightforward chronological fashion, postulates the need for such: for example, following Merula, he suggests that an origo Carthaginis appeared at beginning of book 7, parallel to an origo gentis Illyricae in book 16,30 and he and others suspect further instances.31 Moreover, at least two extant fragments hint at narration via exemplum, with the speaker harking back to events not in immediate view: Ann. 314, sed quid ego haec memoro? dictum factumque facit frux (‘but why do I recount these things? The useful man no sooner speaks than he acts’); and Ann. 494-5, audire est operae pretium procedere recte / qui rem Romanam Latiumque augescere voltis (‘it is worthwhile to listen, you who wish the Roman state to prosper rightly and Latium to flourish’). In either case, it seems unlikely (and would make an already almost impossibly long poem even longer) that the speaker’s account duplicated direct narrative. Elsewhere, Ennius’ play with time constitutes a mechanism enabling a poetic form of universalising, one that operates via similes and anachronisms and that points to the recurrence of patterns that establish purpose and meaning in history, in a manner analogous to Ennius’ Homerising (as interpreted above). This can be illustrated from the well known fragment describing the auspice-taking of Romulus and Remus (Ann. 72-91), at which the suspense of the crowd waiting for the outcome of the augury is anachronistically compared to that of the crowd at the circus-games, waiting for the consul to give the signal for the start of the chariot-race.32 This again shows Ennius playing a very controlled game with historical perspective. Adrian Gratwick points out how the anachronistic reference ‘impl[ies] the tradition, continuity, even timelessness of Roman public institutions’.33 In a sense, then, this play with time is also an aspect of Ennius’ universalising, since, in a manner analogous to his Homerising, it suggests the transcendence of Roman customs as well as persons, their existence, perhaps in other guises, at other culturally crucial places and times. Thus far, I have suggested that Ennius, in tandem with conventional universal historians, negotiated the use of time to considerable ideological effect. On the one hand, then, on my reading, the ‘annalistic’ qualities of Ennius’ text have suffered considerable corruption, and no narrow interpretation of them will do, either in terms of the text’s economy or of its outlook and aspirations. At the same time, however, antiquity itself was aware of certain underlying affinities between ‘annalistic’ history, precisely in the sense of ‘year-by-year’ history, and universal history: quite apart from the particular gravitation of local Roman history towards universal history, an inherent conceptual relationship between the two forms was evident at least to some ancient practitioners of the more monumental one. In speaking of the universal historian’s need for a single organisational frame (m8a sÚntaxij) into which to bring mankind in all its

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Jackie Elliott geographical and chronological diversity,34 Diodorus Siculus explicitly uses the idea of a city’s local history as an ideal structural model for the successful execution of a universal history: universal historians are, in Diodorus’ phrase, o∑ te t>j koin>j tÁj o9koum2nhj pr£xeij kaq£per mi©j pÒlewj ¢nagr£yantej (‘those who write up the common affairs of the inhabited world as if they were the affairs of a single city’, Diod. Sic. 1.1.3).35 In other words, city history provides the universal historian with the perfect analogue for the task he is to execute: there is a single framework and a single criterion for inclusion (that is, relevance to the city at hand). Diodorus well saw that, for a universal historian to give his narrative real coherence, he needed to adopt a central, unifying principle no less stringent than that which governed the yearly records of any individual city. The more the affairs of the world, in the hands of the universal historian, coalesced to form this single story, the more the year-by-year format, local history’s trademark, became appropriate to that global narrative. Polybius for his part is quite explicit on this point: the archetypal annalistic structure of local history is for him the structure par excellence of universal history, possible only when it has reached its ideal form.36 At 5.31.4-5, in a digression on the construction of his history, Polybius renounces the objective on which he had originally set his sights, that is, to begin his ‘universal’ history in the 140th Olympiad. In practice, it turns out, a single, fully coherent narrative is not yet practicable, because events are, after all, not at that point sufficiently interrelated as to permit it: tÕ d, eÙparakoloÚqhton ka< safÁ g8nesqai t]n diˇghsin oÙd5n ¢nagkaiÒteron 1p< taÚthj tÁj Ñlumpi£doj =goÚmeqa, e!nai toà m] sumpl2kein ¢llˇlaij t>j pr£xeij, ¢ll> cwr8zein ka< diaire√n aÙtj 0xÁj Ñlumpi£daj 1lqÒntej kat, 4toj ¢rxèmeqa gr£fein t>j kat£llhla genom2naj pr£xeij. In order that my narrative may be easy to follow and clear, I think that nothing is more essential for this Olympiad [sc. 140th] than not to interweave events together, but to keep them distinct and separate as much as possible, until, on reaching the next and subsequent Olympiads, I can begin to write of events alongside each other year by year.37

In its perfect form, possible only when the affairs of the world were so closely interwoven that the need for separate narratives of events in discrete theatres had been rendered obsolete, universal history would consist of a single narrative thread – just like local history in its pure form. In aspiring to wait for that moment in history when such a narrative becomes possible, Polybius shows himself both honest about the material with which he works and an idealist about the form of history he wishes to create, though these twin approaches are ultimately irreconcilable.38 Diodorus, less idealist, makes fewer bones about simply imposing a frame-

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10. Ennius as Universal Historian: the Case of the Annales work that brings unity to the disparate, a mechanism necessary for constructing a universalising narrative out of the actually available timber of human history.39 The sword, then, cuts both ways: even a feature of Ennius’ narrative as closely associated with local history as are his various gestures at year-byyear progression in fact bears a relation to what the universal historians too aimed at; and at the same time the actual chronological structure of their narratives tended to be compromised just as much as his was in this regard, and for a similar set of reasons. Both he and they had to take more than one locality into account and hence had more than one story to tell, and chronological sequence, while remaining notionally or ideally in place, in reality had to give way. This required similar sleight of hand on the level of the literal narrative and, at the same time, Ennius had set himself a more complex task in using as the model for the story of Rome Greece’s history, which his story had then too on a different level to encompass. Ennius’ means of staking his claim to universality is a subtle and pervasive one, effected by no outright statement but by the use of linguistic forms and literary types that already possessed a grip on the imagination of his audience. The poem’s unique blend of traits of the annalistic tradition with a Homerising manner of expression signals a wholesale re-formulation of annales, whereby the grandeur of the Homeric vision of the past is re-focused exclusively on Rome. It is this that, in my reading, allows for a universalising interpretation of the work, yielding results analogous to those of Livy or Tacitus’ amalgamation of annales and rationalising historiography, in its widening of the perspective in which Rome appeared. Using literary means, including the complex negotiation of genre, Ennius first among Roman authors to whom we have substantial access showed the way to formulating a sophisticated view of the world in which the centrality of an imperial Rome was paramount and explained by the interrelationship of past and present. Notes 1. Cf. Frier (1999) 218; Feeney (2006) 13. 2. See Frier (1999) 176-200 on the inaccessibility of the early annalistic tradition. The earliest securely historical prose works of Roman history, Fabius Pictor and Cincius Alimentus, are themselves not pure representatives of the annalistic tradition; see e.g. Gelzer (1933) 129 and Cornell in the present volume. By the time we reach Livy and Tacitus, the amalgamation of the local annalistic tradition with other brands of historiography and the tendency towards universalising in a compromised annalistic structure is notorious; cf. Jacoby (1949) 111, Ginsburg (1981) esp. 96-100, Frier (1999) 201-5, and Rich (1997) . 3. See Cornell (1989) 351-419; Franke (1989) 456-85; Scullard (1989) 517-72; Errington (1989) 81-106; Harris (1989) 107-62; Gabba (1989) 197-243; Cornell (1995) 380-98; David (1997) 35-74. 4. However, the (at least occasional) use by both Fabius and Cincius of the Olympiad dating system, to which Dion. Hal. 1.74.1 testifies (= Fabius fr. 6 Peter,

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Jackie Elliott fr. 8 Chassignet; Cincius fr. 4 Peter, fr. 6 Chassignet), together with other features of their narratives, such as their (probably) beginning their works with information on the repertores litterarum, suggests that their narratives too may have had universalising tendencies, in that it shows that they aim to address an audience not limited by nationality and thus considered their narratives of Rome of more than local interest; see Dillery (2002) 1-23, esp. 8, Feeney (2007) 85 and Cornell in the present volume. 5. The use of the term Annales to describe Ennius’ epic is at least as old as Lucilius (343 Marx = 406 Warmington, given by Nonius 428.5). It has no serious competitors. The only hint that there may have been an alternative title comes at Diomedes 1.484 Keil (Romanis; Romais Reifferscheid 157); but the word is hopelessly corrupt. Leo (1913) 163 n. 1, denies that Romais (vel sim.) could have been coined by Ennius and insists that Annales is Ennius’ original title; cf. Skutsch (1985) 6-7. 6. Cf. Clarke (1999a) 268 on Rome as ‘the linchpin of world history’ in Trogus and as the geographical equivalent of that in Strabo. See also ibid. 264 and Clarke (1999) 210-28, 45 and 89, with her n. 26. 7. This essay represents a preliminary foray into the relation between the Annales and universal history. Considerations of space limit the amount of actual text I am able to discuss below. I develop the argument I outline here, adding further material from the fragments, in a chapter dedicated to the subject in a study of the history the Annales and their legacy that I am currently working on. 8. For a strict definition of universal history, to which but few works in the Greco-Roman tradition correspond, see Alonso-Núñez (1990) 173. For other modes of universalism, see Sacks (1981) 96-121 and Yarrow (2006) 124-33. Momigliano (1987) 31-57 and Alonso-Núñez (1990) 173-92 discuss the development of the genre. 9. Cf. Momigliano (1987) 31; Clarke (1999a) 250, 265. 10. See Clarke (1999) 114-28 for a discussion of Polybius’ ‘universalism’ with attention to its artificiality. 11. See e.g. Sacks (1981) 97-8 on the different types of limitations on Polybius’ and Ephorus’ work. 12. Cf. the Introduction to the present volume (pp. 1-2) on universal history, in at least one way of understanding it, as a type of historiography that aims to establish patterns that give meaning to history as a whole; cf. Momigliano (1987) 31. 13. On the emergence of teleology in Polybius for the first time in the Greco-Roman universalising tradition, see Alonso- Núñez (1990) 187. Because of Polybius’ grip on historical realities, that teleology is soon compromised; cf. pp. 156-7. 14. Cf. Häussler (1976) 37, 21-2, citing Loebell (1841) 287-8. 15. For the role of teleology in Jewish and Christian universal histories, see Momigliano loc. cit. 46-52 and, for the lasting legacy in modern historiography of Orosius’ popularisation of the Christian teleological view, Andy Fear’s paper in the present volume; cf. n. 13 above. 16. Polybius, Livy and Tacitus engage in this kind of Romanocentricity, although in different ways and to different degrees, while Trogus, Diodorus, Nicolaus of Damascus and Timagenes variously point up the contrast between the known world and the world Rome controls; see Momigliano (1987) 45-6 and Yarrow (2006) 127-9. 17. Momigliano (1987) 31 speaks of universal history in any tradition as the product of the urge to tell such an all-encompassing story.

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10. Ennius as Universal Historian: the Case of the Annales 18. Cf. C. Schultze in the present volume on Velleius Paterculus’ allusive references to figures and authors whose implicit presence in the text broadens the scope of Velleius’ work beyond its literal confines. 19. It is especially striking when encountered via Skutsch’s edition of the Annales, where Ennius is treated as a reliable tracker of historical fact and his narrative as essentially equivalent to that of an analytic historian. There is not scope here to discuss the problems of Skutsch’s approach and methodology here, though I intend to do so in study I am preparing for publication. For the most general statement of Skutsch’s view of Ennius as an historian of quasipragmatic stamp, see the introduction to his inaugural lecture at University College, London. 20. The sources for Ann. 263-7 are, respectively, Macr. Sat. 6.1.22, Non. 217.8, Fest. 210, Macr. Sat. 6.1.52 and Prisc. 2.480. 21. Skutsch (1985) 242-4. 22. Skutsch (1985) 443. 23. Macrobius’ text omits late after tum at Aen. 11.601. 24. On Diodorus’ and Trogus’ use of synchronisms and diachronic parallels, see Clarke (1999a) 267-9; cf. Clarke (1999) 121-2. On Polybius’ analogous use of geographical parallels that allow his reader to comprehend his spatial world as a unitary whole, see Clarke (1999) 102. 25. See Skutsch (1985) ad loc. 26. Varro, LL 7.21: ‘quasi [Casi Mue.] Hellespontum et claustra’ [trag. frg. inc. inc. 106 R], quod Xerxes quondam eum locum clausit; nam, ut Ennius ait: ‘isque … alto’ …. 27. This technique has already been postulated with great credibility for Naevius’ Bellum Punicum, a text which, like the Annales, was traditionally reconstructed as strictly chronological; see Strzelecki (1935) and Rowell (1947); cf. Clarke (1999) 154-7. 28. Clarke (1999) 156 on Polybius, Posidonius and Trogus. Her whole argument there, including the description of assumptions typically made about the arrangement of ‘annalistic’ texts, the treatment of the fragments of such texts, and the reasons to challenge this state of affairs, is applicable to Ennius. 29. We know that Trogus included origines of forty peoples, cities, countries and kings: see Alonso-Núñez (1990) 179 and Clarke (1999a) 271-3. On flashback digressions in Diodorus, see Clarke (1999a) 270-1. 30. Skutsch (1985) 367, incl. nn. 1 & 2, 379, 564, 571-2. 31. E.g. Skutsch suggests that after the election of Tarquin as king on the death of Ancus, ‘the narrative turned back into the past, explaining who that Tarquin was’ (ibid. 292). The creation of a Roman fleet in the First Punic War ‘may have been reported in a flash-back from the history of the Hannibalic War’ (ibid. 386, cf. 623). There is also Timpanaro’s view that in Ann. 218, poste recumbite vestraque pectora pellite tonsis, we have a flashback to the First Punic War from a later occasion, e.g. the Illyrian War of 229 (Timpanaro [1948] 28); although Skutsch is not convinced by this suggestion (loc. cit. 390). Skutsch points out that the attack of the Gauls in 390, referred to in Ann. 227-8, appears to be mentioned in retrospect (ibid. 405). Pasquali suggests that Ann. 239, deducunt habiles gladios filo gracilento, originates in a Spanish ethnography (Pasquali [1952] 303-4); although Skutsch again demurs (loc. cit. 422). 32. Ann. 78-83: omnibus cura viris uter esset induperator. / expectant veluti consul quom mittere signum / volt, omnes avidi spectant ad carceris oras / quam

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Jackie Elliott mox emittat pictos e faucibus currus: sic expectabat populus atque ore timebat / rebus utri magni victoria sit data regni. 33. Gratwick (1982) 61; cf. Goldberg (1995) 106-7 and Newman (1988) 432-4, esp. on vult (volt Sk.; Ann. 80); also Williams (1968) 684-6, 698. 34. Diodorus describes the universal historian’s ambition as p£ntaj ¢nqrèpouj … tÒpoij d5 ka< crÒnoij diesthkÒtaj ØpÕ m8an ka< t]n aÙt]n sÚntaxin ¢gage√n (Diod. Sic. 1.1.3). 35. The idea recurs soon afterwards, at Diod. Sic. 1.3.6. There is a counterpart to Diodorus’ linking of the structure of city history and that of universal history in Polybius’ practice of using of the imagery of the city and its parts as representative of the structure of the world dominated by Rome (discussed by Clarke [1999] 101-2, 109-10). 36. Yarrow (2006) 130-3 in fact associates annalistic structure more closely with universal history than with local chronicles, on the grounds that more limited subject-matter allows greater freedom to follow a ‘discursive model’, in which whatever dating system is used is not strictly structural in function. 37. Tr. Clarke (1999) 123, whose quotation of the passage drew it to my attention. On Polybius’ move from separate narratives of different localities to a unified annalistic narrative, see Sacks (1981) 115-16. As a universal historian, Polybius is not unusual in his preference for annalistic structure over other organisational models; see again Yarrow (2006) 130-3. 38. Cf. Sacks (1981) 116. 39. By exercising considerable sleight of hand, Diodorus is to some extent successful in creating a sort of annalistic narrative: the fully preserved books of his Bibliotheke, covering the historical period 480-302 BC, are indeed organised year by year. This is enabled by the application of such principles as brevity and proportion about which he is quite explicit; see Clarke (1999a) 257-60, 265-7.

Bibliography Alonso-Núñez, J. (1990), ‘The emergence of universal historiography from the 4th to the 2nd centuries BC’, in H. Verdin, G. Schepens and E. de Keyser (eds), The Purposes of History: Studies in Greek Historiography from the 4th to the 2nd centuries BC (Leuven): 173-92. Clarke, K. (1999), ‘Universal perspectives in historiography’, in C. Kraus (ed.), The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts. Mnemosyne Supplement 191 (Leiden, Boston and Cologne): 249-79. Cornell, T.J. (1989), ‘The conquest of Italy’, in F.W. Walbank, A.E. Astin, M.W. Frederiksen and R.M. Ogilvie (eds), The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 7.2: The Rise of Rome to 220 BC (Cambridge): 351-419. Cornell, T.J. (1995), The Beginnings of Rome: Italy and Rome from the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars (c. 1000-264 BC) (London and New York). David, J.-M. (1997), The Roman Conquest of Italy (Oxford and Cambridge, MA). Dillery, J. (2002), ‘Quintus Fabius Pictor and Greco-Roman Historiography at Rome’, in J.E. Miller, C. Damon and K.S. Myers (eds), Vertis in Usum: Studies in Honor of Edward Courtney (Munich and Leipzig): 1-23. Errington, R.M. (1989), ‘Rome and Greece to 205 BC’ in A.E. Astin, F.W. Walbank, M.W. Frederiksen and R.M. Ogilvie (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 8: Rome and the Mediterranean to 133 BC (Cambridge): 81-106. Feeney, D.C. (2006). On Not Forgetting the ‘Literatur’ in ‘Literatur und Religion:

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10. Ennius as Universal Historian: the Case of the Annales Representing the Mythic and the Divine in Roman Historiography, Princeton/Stanford Working Papers in Classics. Feeney, D.C. (2007), Caesar’s Calendar: Ancient Time and the Beginnings of History (Berkeley). Franke, P.R. (1989), ‘Pyrrhus’, in F.W. Walbank, A.E. Astin, M.W. Frederiksen and R.M. Ogilvie (eds), The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 7.2: The Rise of Rome to 220 BC (Cambridge): 456-85. Frier, B.W. (1999), Libri Annales Pontificum Maximorum: The Origins of the Annalistic Tradition (Ann Arbor). Gabba, E. (1989), ‘Rome and Italy in the second century BC’, in A.E. Astin, F.W. Walbank, M.W. Frederiksen and R.M. Ogilvie (eds), The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 8: Rome and the Mediterranean to 133 BC (Cambridge): 197-243. Gelzer, M. (1933), ‘Römische Politik bei Fabius Pictor’, Hermes 68: 129-66. Ginsburg, J. (1981), Tradition and Theme in the Annals of Tacitus (Salem, NH). Goldberg, S.M. (1995), Epic in Republican Rome (New York). Gratwick, A.S. (1982), ‘Ennius’ Annales’, in E.J. Kenney and W.V. Clausen (eds), CHCL II: Latin Literature (Cambridge): 60-76. Harris, W.V. (1989), ‘Roman expansion in the West’, in A.E. Astin, F.W. Walbank, M.W. Frederiksen and R.M. Ogilvie (eds), The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 8: Rome and the Mediterranean to 133 BC (Cambridge): 107-62. Häussler, R. (1976), Das historische Epos der Griechen und Römer bis Vergil: Studien zum historischen Epos der Antike (Heidelberg). Jacoby, F. (1949), Atthis: The Local Chronicles of Ancient Athens (Oxford). Leo, F. (1913), Geschichte der römischen Literatur (Berlin). Loebell, J.W. (1841), ‘Über die Epochen der Geschichtsschreibung und ihr Verhältnis zur Poesie’, Historisches Taschenbuch, N.F. 2: 282-372. Momigliano, A. (1987), On Pagans, Jews, and Christians (Middletown, CT and Scranton, PA). Newman, J.K. (1988), ‘Ennius’ Annales: innovation and continuity’, American Journal of Philology 109: 431-41. Pasquali, G. (1952), Vecchie e nuove pagine stravaganti di un filologo (Turin). Rich, J. (1997), ‘Structuring Roman history: the consular year and the Roman historical tradition’, Histos 1 (http://www.dur.ac.uk/Classics/histos/1997/ rich1.html). Rowell, H.T. (1947), ‘The original form of Naevius’ Bellum Punicum’, American Journal of Philology 68: 21-46. Sacks, K. (1981), Polybius on the Writing of History (Berkeley and London). Scullard, H.H. (1989), ‘Carthage and Rome’, in F.W. Walbank, A.E. Astin, M.W. Frederiksen and R.M. Ogilvie (eds), The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 7.2: The Rise of Rome to 220 BC (Cambridge): 486-572. Skutsch, O. (1985), The Annals of Q. Ennius (Oxford and New York). Strzelecki, W. (1935), De Naeviano Belli Punici Carmine Quaestiones Selectae (Krakow). Timpanaro, S. (1948), Studi Italiani di Filologia Classica 23: 5-58. Williams, G.W. (1968), Tradition and Originality in Roman Poetry (Oxford). Yarrow, L.M. (2006), Historiography at the End of the Republic: Provincial Perspectives on Roman Rule (Oxford and New York).

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Theology versus Genre? The Universalism of Christian Historiography in Late Antiquity Peter Van Nuffelen Universality is commonly advanced as a defining feature of Christian historiography, on the argument that the Christian view of the world gives a universal outlook to its understanding of history.1 Two elements in particular are singled out in this respect: the universal intention of God’s plan of salvation and the linear development of Christian time from Creation via Incarnation to Second Coming.2 God’s message, and history as the record of it, is meant for all people of all times. All history written by Christians is thus at least potentially universal, especially chronicles and church history, the two specifically Christian forms of historiography.3 This assessment of early Christian views of history is widely accepted and is seen as shaping modern philosophies of history such as Marxism, as has been most famously argued by K. Löwith.4 Such an understanding of the Christian view on history presupposes that theological considerations determine how a Christian writes history. As a consequence, it is often suggested that there is little difference between a Christian work of history and a Christian theology of history. Indeed, scholars occasionally tend to disregard specificities of genre and to conflate Christian historiography, biblical exegesis and theology. For example, Augustine’s De Civitate Dei has been assimilated to church history and biblical exegesis seen as not fundamentally different from the writing of history.5 The ground for this identification is that all these works, although they belong to different literary genres, are understood as having the same aim: defending the Christian theology of history. Even heresiology has recently been diagnosed as universal history.6 Such a list could be expanded ad libidum given the reasoning behind it. Because the Christian world view is assumed to be universal and to underpin everything a Christian says about the past, present and future, there does not seem to be a difference between the writing of history and a theology of history. And if the latter is universal by essence, the former must be so as well, at least potentially if not in act. Everything a Christian says about the present and past is thus universal.

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11. Theology versus Genre? It is not my aim here to argue against the idea that the Christian theology of history is universal in theory, although I am convinced this is too one-sided an assessment. Indeed, it is important to realise that the category of ‘universal’ history originated in modern European thought7 and that the bland characterisation of ancient Christian thought as ‘universalist’ may miss numerous nuances.8 For example, it is important to realise that for much of its early history, Christianity understood itself as a community of the elect. If there was a focus of God’s dealings with history, it was that limited community, not the rest of mankind. It is not by accident that an important strand of early Christianity saw itself as a ‘third people’, besides the Jews and ‘pagans’.9 Thus, rather than harbouring a simple universalism, Christianity was characterised by a tension between, on the one hand, the idea of a universal spread of Christ’s message and, on the other, that of a salvation restricted to the adherents of the faith. Although much more could be said about the limits of Christian theological universalism, this is not the avenue that I shall pursue here. Rather, I wish to draw attention to the distance between the universalism of Christian historiography as it is assumed on a theological plane and its very limited expression in actual histories. This is a gap one needs to reflect upon before identifying universalism as an essential characteristic of Christian historiography in general. This chapter thus argues for the importance of genre for the understanding of Christian historiography, against the tendency to define the latter only by its supposed theological presuppositions. Exegesis and history For considerations about genre to be helpful, one has to establish first that Christian authors were indeed able to distinguish between history and other forms of writing. This is in itself obvious, but in the light of a tendency to amalgamate theological exegesis and historiography it may be useful to dwell briefly on this. A good example to start with is Sulpicius Severus’ Chronica, a work that covers human history from Adam to the present (c. 403). Three times, early in his work, Sulpicius makes clear that he is not dealing with the spiritual sense of Scripture but only with its historical meaning.10 Such a distinction between a primary historical meaning of the Bible and a more spiritual one was common in biblical exegesis, and the distinction between ‘history’ and ‘exegesis’ was often clearly affirmed.11 Unsurprisingly, theologians could use the distinction to deprecate history for remaining at a distance from the true spiritual meaning.12 Sulpicius is thus explicitly making clear to his audience that they should not expect a spiritual reading of the Bible, but that he is setting out the historical facts contained in it.13 This difference in perspective was observed by church historians as well. Eusebius of Caesarea (c. 260-339) conceived his task in parallel to

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Peter Van Nuffelen that of classical historians and defined church history through a series of topics that his work would address, such as episcopal succession, Judaism, and persecution.14 Later church historians adopted an equally ‘formal’ definition of church history and did not use their histories to set out a theology of history. Indeed, explicit utterances on the overall meaning of history and typological interpretations are very few and far between in the extant church histories.15 Christian historians fully appropriated the classical demands for exactitude and precision as hallmarks of history, and they explicitly defended that the main task of the historian is to get the facts right. Theology of history is left to other works. A further indication of this is that in the works of Eusebius and Theodoretus of Cyrrhus (c. 390-460), bishops who wrote biblical commentaries and church histories, one does not notice a tendency to amalgamate both: they clearly knew what was expected in what kind of work. I obviously do not wish to deny that Christian historians had views about how history developed and how God intervened in it, but a church history was not the place for explicit reflection on this nor for probing the deeper meanings of history.16 In this respect it is important to note the peculiar nature of the world history of Orosius in the context of late antique historiography. Extremely influential in the Middle Ages, his work may resemble, in hindsight, the paradigmatic Christian history. It is explicitly written to provide further historical proof for one of the theses put forward by Augustine in the City of God, namely that Christianity was not the cause of the calamities of the Roman empire. In his zeal, Orosius turned his work into a proof that more catastrophes befell mankind before the birth of Christ. Orosius’ work is thus more strongly impregnated by an explicit apologetical and theological aim than most other Christian histories. And even in this case Orosius acknowledges that the argument for his reading of history had already been made by Augustine and that he is providing proof for it as a historian.17 As one of the most theological of Christian historians, Orosius is less the paradigm of Christian historiography in late antiquity than an important exception.18 Church history as universal history? The writing of history cannot thus be simply reduced to the expression of a theology of history. This has important consequences for our understanding of the universal nature of Christian historiography. A first one regards the interpretation of church history, a typically Christian addition to the writing of history and of which the first practitioner was Eusebius of Caesarea. As noted above, universal intentions are often ascribed to the genre. As D. Timpe put it in an elegant and thoughtful study: Die eusebianische Kirchengeschichte folgt in ihren Intentionen und mit ihren Grundgedanken der christlichen Chronistik; wie diese fordert und fördert sie kein Interesse an realer Geschichte, aber will den Gesamtraum

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11. Theology versus Genre? der Weltgeschichte als heilsgeschichtlichen Weg der Erfülling des Verheissenen erklären und als sinnvollen Realzusammenhang, in dem der einzelne seinen Platz und Aufgabe hat, verständlich machen. Kirchengeschichte is kein konkreter und spezieller historischer Gegenstand neben anderen möglichen und erst recht kein Gegensatz zu profaner Geschichte, sondern potentiell Weltgeschichte unter heilsgeschichtlichem Aspekt; sie zeichnet die geoffenbarten Wege der göttlichen Vorsehung mit den Menschen nach.19

This assessment of Eusebius is usually extended to later church historians, who are seen as following and imitating him. In line with general assessments of Christian historiography, Timpe’s argument attributes a primacy to the theological understanding of history implicit in church history and not to genre, i.e. literary characteristics and its tradition. It is significant that he does not think church historians had an interest in ‘real history’ (whatever that may be), but interpreted history in the light of theological premisses. Therefore church history is at least potentially universal because it sets out God’s plan of salvation for mankind. The term ‘potentially’ is crucial here, as it admits that no church history is actually universal. That of Eusebius may seem to lay most claim to that title in that it pretends to cover the history of the church since the Apostles to his own day and thus narrates the history of the entire church from its origins. In fact, however, we notice a clear focus on the Eastern Roman empire in Eusebius. A local geographical focus is even more evident in later church histories. Except for Rufinus (c. 400), the genre is Greek and Eastern. Socrates and Sozomen, who both wrote c. 440-450, focus on Constantinople, their place of residence, whereas Theodoretus’ history centres on Antioch. Zacharias Scholasticus (c. 465-536) focuses on Alexandria, whereas Theodorus Lector (after 518) prefers Constantinople. As the secretary of the bishop of Antioch, Evagrius Scholasticus (c. 536-594) is most interested in that region.20 Information about the West or regions beyond the Roman empire is scarce in all these histories. Temporal universality could be alleged for church history because many church historians continue each other’s work so as to form a continuous history from the origins of the church. But this is largely an optical illusion created by the preferences of later readers. Many church historians did indeed write in continuation of each other (Rufinus, Socrates, Sozomen, Theodoretus continuing Eusebius, being in turn continued by Theodorus Lector and Evagrius Scholasticus). But fragments preserved of other church histories show that they could also focus on a single council or a single region.21 The fact that the series from Eusebius to Evagrius survives is because they were read as offering a continuous history, not because church historians wrote by definition in continuation of one another. There is no intrinsic, theological reason why a church history must be part of a chain: if there is a reason, it is that writing in continuation of a predecessor was a well-established practice in classicising history, to which church

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Peter Van Nuffelen history progressively oriented itself. The actual practice of church historians is thus not universal in any sense of the word: they do not aim at temporal or spatial universalism. The limits that the genre imposed on church historians become clear from the polemic waged by Socrates against the ‘Christian history’ of Philip of Side. The massive work, which was published between 426 and 439, covered the history from Creation to the present day, supposedly in 36 books that each contained 24 tomoi. Socrates, who disliked Philip for being a supporter of John Chrysostom, criticised the work as an indigestible hodge-podge of digressions. Yet he admitted that the title was well-chosen, because an ecclesiastical history should start with the Incarnation and not with Creation.22 Here Socrates shows a clear awareness of the genre he practised: in temporal terms, he was not supposed to go back to Creation. It is clear that Philip’s history would stake a much better claim to the label ‘universal’ than a church history. Socrates informs us also about another limitation set to church historians: they were to narrate events relating to the church, and secular and imperial matters can only be included to the extent that they are relevant for church history.23 Thus, as shown by Socrates’ explicit reflections on the genre, church history had a clearly defined scope and was not universal. The world chronicle One of the traditional proofs for the universalism of Christian historiography is the spread of chronicles in late antiquity, often called ‘world chronicles’ because they give a summary of history from earliest times (often creation) to the present.24 Moreover, many chroniclers continue the work of their predecessors, and thus create an impression of the unity of time. Indeed, their universalism can be argued to be not just temporal: for the earlier part of the history, they include, for example, the history of Chaldaeans, Egyptians, Greeks and Romans, besides Hebrew history drawn from the Bible. Chronicles thus appear to have a genuinely universal spatial and temporal dimension.25 Yet the argument should be nuanced. Christian chronicle writing started with Julius Africanus, who published a work entitled Chronographiai, covering history from creation to 221 AD. Preserved in fragments, it had a major influence on the real father of Christian chronicle writing, Eusebius of Caesarea. Eusebius’ chronicle indeed included king-lists for various peoples of the Mediterranean, which were set in parallel, as well as historical entries in chronological order. This tendency for setting various peoples in parallel must be situated against its proper apologetic background. From early on, Christianity was locked in an argument with Greco-Roman culture about the antiquity of its traditions. The age of a culture was not simply the degree of respect it commanded: Platonist and Stoic philosophers in this period widely ad-

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11. Theology versus Genre? hered to the idea that earliest mankind had discovered philosophical knowledge about cosmos and had hidden this in the symbolism of religion. The older a tradition was, the closer it therefore was to that primitive wisdom. Christianity tried to establish that it was older than its surrounding cultures, by arguing that it was the true heir of Judaism – drawing in this on Jewish polemic against Greco-Roman culture one already notices in Philo of Alexandria.26 Julius Africanus and Eusebius inherited this polemical context and their chronographical work must be seen as supplying the proof that Hebrew culture is indeed older than the others in the Mediterranean. Even though Julius Africanus and Eusebius used earlier, classical universal historians, such as Diodorus of Sicily and Castor of Rhodes,27 their ‘universal’ interest was primarily apologetical.28 In this context it must be noted that Eusebius’ chronicle only started with Abraham, and not with Adam. Absolute temporal universality was not his foremost aim, as it sufficed to settle which tradition was the oldest.29 Eusebius’ chronicle became the mother of all chronicles, supplying the basis for much of the later Byzantine tradition, and, through the translation into Latin and continuation of Jerome, for much of Western chronicle writing as well. Such later chronicles invariably assume the shape of an ‘inverted pyramid’ in respect to the geographical scope of their material. Either by continuing a version of Eusebius/ Jerome or by reworking the material found there, chroniclers seem to have a ‘universal’ interest as far as early history is concerned, where they discuss Chaldaean and Egyptian history besides that of the Greeks. But that interest soon peters out. Already Eusebius focuses solely on the Roman empire from the first century AD onwards, and when each of his continuators adds his bit, they narrowly focus on their own region. The focus on the West, and in particular Spain, for example, of Hydatius and John of Biclar is wellknown (respectively late fifth and sixth century AD). John Malalas (sixth century AD) has, in turn, a clear focus on the East, and in particular Antioch, although he is also well-informed on Constantinople where he resided. One does not notice any universal interest for their contemporary world. The apparent universalism of the chronicle is thus largely determined by literary tradition. Inserting themselves in the tradition of Eusebius, chroniclers are obliged either to continue him or to rehearse his material, and they therefore incorporate the earlier material relating to non-Greek people as well – even in a time when the argument about antiquity had long been won by the Christians. But the scope of their actual contribution is very limited and hardly universal in any sense of the word.30 The genre of the chronicle thus incorporates some universal elements, not because Christian chroniclers are universal historians, but because these universal elements were a fossilised part of the genre ‘chronicle.’

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Peter Van Nuffelen The genre ‘history’ as universal history The foregoing pages have shown that there was little actual universal historiography in late antiquity. Church historians are not universal historians in any sense of the word, whereas the universal dimension often noticed in chronicles is actually a relic of the apologetic origins of the genre, and does not betray a real universal interest on the part of each individual chronicler. When considered from the view point of actual historiographical practice, universalism is not the essential characteristic of Christian historiography that it is made out to be in a theological perspective. It would be facile, however, to play out genre against theology without having an eye for nuances. Even when focussing on historiographical practice, universal elements can be detected. We have seen that there exist a few histories, such as those by Orosius and Philip of Side, that could be labelled universal. Moreover, even as a relic, chronicles did incorporate some universal elements. In this last section, I wish to draw attention to another area in which one can detect a universal dimension in Christian historiography. I have argued above that church historians usually focus on a limited geographical and temporal part of ecclesiastical history, and that their practice is not universal at all. If they did not conceptualise their own particular history as universal, however, there exists a fascinating passage in the late sixth-century church historian Evagrius, who seems to have considered the entire historiographical tradition as mapping the entire world and the entire span of time. In this way, the genre ‘history’ in its entirety becomes universal, even if individual works are not. Living in Antioch, Evagrius continued Theodoretus’ church history from 428 up to 592 in six books. He concludes his fifth book by summing up the foregoing historiographical tradition (5.24). The chapter breaks up in three parts. First, Evagrius situates himself in the tradition of church history by enumerating his predecessors Eusebius, Theodoretus, Socrates, Sozomen. Theodoretus wrote as the last of the three successors of Eusebius,31 but Evagrius lists him as the first because both were Antiocheans and because Evagrius picks up where Theodoretus left off. By this time church history had clearly established an identity as a genre with canonical names that one needed to continue and imitate.32 Then Evagrius distinguishes between archaia and thurathen history. The former is what we would call sacred history: the books of the Old Testament written by Moses and Flavius Josephus. Evagrius indicates that Moses paved the way for Christianity and that Josephus’ work is also extremely useful for this period. This may be his reason for designating it with the term ‘ancient history’: it is the history that precedes and prepares Christianity. Thurathen history is profane, classical history, opposed to both ‘ancient history’ and church history. In the third section, Evagrius offers us a long

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11. Theology versus Genre? list of various classical historians. It is noteworthy that they are arranged so as to cover the entire history of the world from its origin. In the previous section, Evagrius had noted that Moses had started with the creation of the world and he now starts with earliest profane history: All that occurred, whether in legend or fact, between Greeks and the ancient barbarians in their struggles between themselves or against the other, and anything else which has been achieved from the time when they record that mankind existed, has been recorded by Charax and Ephorus and Theopompus and innumerable others.33

Evagrius thus starts with the first generation of ‘universal historians’, which discussed the various peoples from their earliest memory onwards, including Ephorus. But it is doubtful that Evagrius or his source went back to Ephorus himself: the central figure seems to have been Charax, a second-century AD universal historian who probably included their material into his own work up to his own age. Evagrius’ interest then quickly shifts to Roman history. He constructs a chain, including Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Polybius, Appian, Diodorus, Dio Cassius, Herodian, Dexippus and some minor historians, up to his own age with Procopius and Agathias. This chain is obviously spurious: not all these historians, especially the earlier ones, are writing in continuation of one another. But the list of Evagrius arranges them in such an order to give the impression that they cover the entire history of Rome without any gap. This distortion has the remarkable consequence that Evagrius does not appreciate the universal dimension of authors, such as Diodorus Siculus, who is reduced to a Roman historian. The way Evagrius has constructed this list strongly reminds one of the universal dimension found in chronicles: just as these had a traditional interest in other peoples besides the Greeks, such as Chaldaeans and Egyptians, before the rise of Rome, their attention shifted primarily to Rome after that. And indeed, it is highly likely that Evagrius has lifted the entire passage from the world chronicle (chronike epitome) of Eustathius of Epiphania (early sixth century).34 Evagrius’ overview of the historiographical tradition is fascinating because it constructs the genre ‘history’, with its subgenres ecclesiastical, sacred, and profane history, as covering all time and space. The universal temporal dimension becomes clear in the fact that he construes his predecessors as a chain of historians who wrote in continuation of one another: for Evagrius the line of time has to be covered by an unbroken chain of history.35 This becomes explicit in what Evagrius says about his own work in his preface: Since subsequent events (i.e. after Theodoretus), which are not far inferior to these, have not obtained any sort of sequential account, I decided … to undertake the labour for their sake and to make these into an account ….36

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Peter Van Nuffelen The idea is clearly that time needs to be filled out with works of history. Evagrius thus construes the historiographical tradition not as a selection of great individual examples to follow (Herodotus and Thucydides are conspicuously absent), but as a continuous stretch of historians who cover the entire span of time one after the other. But history is not just universal in a temporal sense. The clear distinction between ecclesiastical and profane history can already be found in earlier church historians, who see classicising and ecclesiastical history as covering two distinct realms of society: that of the church and that of the empire. Taken together, they cover the whole of society.37 By including both in his overview, as well as ‘sacred’ ancient history that preceded the history of the church, Evagrius has structured historiography so that it covers all parts of society. In this way, time and space is entirely carved up among historians, who as a collective entity offer a general history of the world, being universal in both time and space – with the important caveat that the perspective remains restricted to the Roman empire. Historiography, in its various guises and with its various traditions (classical and ecclesiastical), is made to map the full span of time and to cover the two main parts of society (church and state). Each historian occupies his specific position and role in that grand scheme. Evagrius, or any other historian on his own, is not a universal historian, but he clearly has the awareness that he is part of a historiographical tradition that can provide complete coverage of the history of mankind. Conclusion This paper has argued against the tendency to project a universal intention on every Christian work of history, on the assumption that Christian theology is by definition universal and that Christian history is by default theological. Not only does such an interpretation overemphasise the theological nature of Christian historiography at the expense of the actual practice of historians, I also doubt that such an ‘a priori’ universal dimension is very helpful in understanding Christian historiography in late antiquity. As I have shown, when one focuses on genre (i.e. when one asks what the literary constraints of a particular work are and what the tradition is in which historians situate themselves), it becomes clear that that there is little actual universalism in Christian writing of history. There are very few histories that are truly universal: even chronicles have a very limited scope, except for the parts regarding the earliest times that they have copied from their predecessors. Scholarship has a subliminal awareness of this difficulty, illustrated by the recurring distinction between ‘potential’ and ‘real’ universality regarding Christian historiography.38 The former is supposedly shared by all Christian historians, whereas the latter would rarely be actualised.

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11. Theology versus Genre? The gap between modern assessment and ancient practice should not be glossed over, as if it is accidental that no church history realised its universal potential. Besides the fact that the gap illustrates that the vocabulary and concept of ‘universal history’ is largely a modern one which must be applied with care to antiquity,39 it also shows that scholars tend to define Christian historiography not by genre, but by its theological underpinnings: a Christian work of history is one that harbours a Christian theology of history. An important paper by M. Meier, for example, distinguishes Christian historiography from classicising histories on the basis of the mode of explanation of the events (divine intervention versus chance and rational causality).40 Such an approach may make sense to distinguish Eusebius from Ammianus in the fourth century, but when Christians start to write classicising history this distinction becomes hard to maintain: although Procopius uses a classicising vocabulary, it is hard to see a clear-cut difference with how an ecclesiastical historian would explain events.41 More importantly, such a definition disregards the fact that Christian historians had a clear awareness of genre: ecclesiastical historians, for example, had an explicit understanding of what it meant to write church history: using the tools of classical historiography to cover the history of the church, in contrast with secular matters which were left to ‘profane’ historians. They thought of ecclesiastical history as a subgenre of history,42 and did not define their task as ‘tracing God’s plan of salvation in history’. We should therefore see Christian historiography in the first place as history, obviously written from a Christian perspective, and not as a transposition of theology in history. This means that for Christians in late antiquity, just as for their non-Christian contemporaries, history is in the first place a discipline in its own right, not a subcontractor for theology. When we wish to understand Christian forms of historiography, we must situate them in the context of ancient historiography, not set them apart as theology in disguise. Awareness of the gap between theological universalism and actual historiographical practice is important in another respect. By labelling Christian historiography ‘universal’ in its entirety, one runs the risk of creating a false continuity with earlier forms of universal history. Indeed, a continuity between Hellenistic universal historians and Christian chroniclers has been claimed.43 It is clear that Christian historians were aware of the works of previous universal historians (as they were of Herodotus and Thucydides) and that they incorporated facts drawn from these sources. But one cannot argue for a continuity of the tradition of Hellenistic ‘universal history’ into late antiquity. Rather, both ‘universalist’ traditions fit into different contexts. Whereas Hellenistic universal history is the result of the incorporation of various peoples in the Roman empire and is for that reason largely limited to the late republic and the early empire,44 the universal dimension of Christian historiography, as found in chronicles and Orosius, is determined by its apologetic background. Whereas one can claim that there were always universalist

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Peter Van Nuffelen tendencies in ancient historiography, I doubt one can construct a direct continuity between the various tendencies. Due care must thus be taken when claiming universal universalism for Christian historiography. But this does not mean that all universal elements are absent. Some historians, such as Orosius and Philip of Side, can be labelled as such, and universalist elements became fossilised in the chronicle tradition. More important, probably, was the conception that history as a genre covered time and space entirely: in Evagrius’ summary of the historiographical tradition, that tradition is construed as universal. No individual historical work really was universal, but as a genre, history could be. Notes 1. See, e.g., Allan (2003) 17: ‘The practice of universal history from A.D. 300 to 1000 reflects basic tenets and wider concerns of Christian belief.’ 2. Dawson (1977) 30-7; Latourelle (1977) 75-7; Luiselli (1980) and (1991) 22-3; Goetz (1991) 247; Wallraff (2004) and (2005) 4. 3. den Boer (1961); Goffart (1987) 3-4; Luiselli (1991) 29; Timpe (2001) 108; Wallraff (2004) 153; Ilski (2007). 4. Löwith (1953). See also Niebuhr (1949). 5. Luiselli (1980) 518; Press (1982) 123-6; Zakai and Mali (1992-1993); Allan (2003) 24-5; Alonso-Nuñez (2005). 6. Schott (2007). 7. Koselleck (1979) 687; Desideri (2001). 8. See the brief remark by Inglebert (2001) 464. 9. For the example of Eusebius of Caesarea, see now Johnson (2006). An emphasis on the universal aspects of Christianity can be found in Schott (2008). 10. Sulp. Sev. Chron. 1.1.1, 1.5.1, 1.19.1. 11. Asterius Hom. 13; Greg. Naz. Or. 4.18-20; Jer. In Ier. 1.4.11; Const. Apost. 1.6.1-7; Aug. Doctr. Chr. 2.105-9; Junilius De part. div. legis PL 68.16d. 12. Hil. Pict. Adv. Val. Urs. 1.6; Evagr. Schol. Gnost. 4. 13. One notices the impact of an essentialistic, theological definition of Christian historiography in Luiselli’s claim ([1980] 519) that Sulpicius wrote history in a way ‘in cui uno storico cristiano non può e non deve scrivere storia’. It seems the contrary is actually the case. 14. Eus. Hist. Eccl. 1.1 and 5.pr. The evidence on which this paragraph relies is discussed at length in Van Nuffelen (2004a) 162-217. 15. There is one possible example of a typological reading of a historical event in Socr. Hist. Eccl. 7.43. However, Socrates is reporting a sermon by Proclus of Constantinople: see Van Nuffelen (2004b) 194-8. 16. One can note that no historian figures in Luneau’s standard discussion of patristic views on the history of salvation (1964). On Theodoretus’ exegesis and its relation with history, see Guinot (1995). 17. Orosius, 1.pr. and 1.1.1. The standard work on Orosius’ Geschichtstheologie is Goetz (1980). 18. Orosius is usually seen as the only really universal historian of late antiquity (see Alonso-Núñez [2005] 26 and Fear in this volume) besides the world chronicles (on which see below). 19. Timpe (2001) 108: ‘Eusebius’ church history follows in its intentions and principles the Christian tradition of chronicle-writing. Just as the latter, it does

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11. Theology versus Genre? not foster any interest in real history, but intends to explain the full span of world history as a history of salvation and a fulfilment of God’s promise, and to make history intelligible as a meaningful whole, in which each individual element has its place and function. Church history is not a defined and specific historical topic besides other possible themes, and definitely not the counterpart of profane history: it is potential world history seen from the perspective of salvation. It traces the path of divine providence for mankind, as it has been revealed to man.’ See also, e.g., Giordano (1973) 70; Winkelmann (1992). 20. For the geographical focus of these histories, see Blaudeau (2006). 21. Van Nuffelen (2004a) 210-12. 22. Socr. Hist. Eccl. 7.27. On Philip of Side, see Van Nuffelen (2004a) 209-10; Heyden (2006). 23. Socr. Hist. Eccl. 5.pr. Van Nuffelen (2004a) 166-70 shows that this position is shared by the other church historians as well. 24. The term ‘world chronicle’ is especially used among medieval scholars: see Goetz (1991) 247 with further references. 25. Alonso-Núñez (2005); cf. Allan (2003) 36. 26. Pilhofer (1990); Boys-Stones (2001). See also Schott (2008). 27. See Roberto (2006) regarding the sources of Julius Africanus. 28. Burgess (2006). 29. See Inglebert (2001) 508. 30. For a similar argument regarding medieval chronicles, see Goetz (1991). 31. Martin (2006) 29-37 has argued that Theodoretus wrote before Sozomen, but I have expressed my reservations regarding such a change of the traditional order: Van Nuffelen (2007) 410-12. 32. On the formation of the genre ‘church history’, see Van Nuffelen (2004a) 163-217. 33. Tr. Whitby (2000) 286. 34. Whitby (2000) 286-7; Allen (1981) 237-9. 35. See the use of the expression ‘in continuation’ (kath’heirmon) (5.24 p. 218 l. 3). 36. Evagrius Hist. Eccl. pr., tr. Whitby (2000) 5. 37. Van Nuffelen (2004a) 117-23, 153-6. 38. Besides the references above, see Inglebert (2001) 478. 39. Desideri (2001) suggests to do away with the term when discussing ancient works of history. 40. Meier (2004). 41. See Van Nuffelen (2004a) 292-309; Brodka (2004); Whitby (2007). 42. Van Nuffelen (2004a) 214-15. 43. For arguments in this sense, see Roberto (2006) 15, who suggests that Julius Africanus adapted the viewpoint and method of Hellenistic universal historians when composing his chronicle. See also Mortley (1996); Schott (2008). 44. Clarke (1999); Yarrow (2006). See also Hartog, Sheridan, and Engels in this volume.

Bibliography Allan, M.I. (2003), ‘Universal history 300-1000: origins and Western developments’, in D.M. Deliyannis (ed.), Historiography in the Middle Ages (Leiden): 17-42. Allen, P. (1981), Evagrius Scholasticus, the Church Historian (Leuven). Alonso-Núñez, J.M. (2005), ‘Die Universalgeschichtsschreibung in der Spätantike

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Peter Van Nuffelen und die westgotische Historiographie’, in J. Dummer and M. Vielberg (eds), Zwischen Historiographie und Hagiographie (Stuttgart): 9-25. Blaudeau, P. (2006), Alexandrie et Constantinople (451-491): de l’histoire à la géo-ecclésiologie (Paris). Boys-Stones, G.R. (2001), Post-Hellenistic Philosophy: A Study of its Development from the Stoics to Origen (Oxford). Brodka, D. (2004), Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie (Frankfurt am Main). Burgess, R.W. (2006), ‘Apologetic and chronography: the antecedents of Julius Africanus’, in M. Wallraff (ed.), Julius Africanus und die christliche Weltchronistik (Berlin and New York): 17-42. Clarke, K. (1999), Between Geography and History: Hellenistic Constructions of the Roman World (Oxford). Dawson, C. (1977), ‘The Christian view of history’, in C.T. McIntire (ed.), God, History, and Historians: An Anthology of Modern Christian Views of History (New York): 28-45. den Boer, W. (1961), ‘Some remarks on the beginnings of christian historiography’, Studia Patristica 4: 348-62. Desideri, P. (2001), ‘Nascita e rinascite della storia universale antica’, in Storiografia locale e storiografia universale: forme di acquisizione del sapere storico nella cultura antica (Como): 199-209. Goffart, W. (1987), The Narrators of Barbarian History (AD 550-800): Jordanes, Gregory of Tours, Bede and Paul the Deacon (Princeton). Giordano, O. (1973), Jordanes e la storiografia nel VI secolo (Bari). Goetz, H.-W. (1980), Die Geschichtstheologie des Orosius (Darmstadt). Goetz, H.-W. (1991), ‘On the universality of universal history’, in L’historiographie médiévale en Europe (Paris): 247-61. Guinot, J.-N. (1995), L’exégèse de Théodoret de Cyr (Paris). Heyden, K. (2006), ‘Die Christliche Geschichte des Philippos von Side’, in M. Wallraff (ed.), Julius Africanus und die christliche Weltchronistik (Berlin and New York): 209-36. Ilski, K. (2007), ‘Kirchengeschichte als Weltgeschichte’, in D. Brodka and M. Stachura (eds), Continuity and Change: Studies in Late Antique Historiography (Cracow): 121-9. Inglebert, H. (2001), Interpretatio Christiana: les mutations des savoirs (cosmographie, géographie, ethnographie, histoire) dans l’Antiquité chrétienne (30-630 après J.-C.) (Paris). Johnson, A. (2006), Ethnicity and Argument in Eusebius’ Praeparatio Evangelica (Oxford). Koselleck, R. (1979), ‘Geschichte’, in O. Brunner (ed.) Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe (Stuttgart): 593-718. Latourelle, K.S. (1977), ‘The Christian understanding of history’, in C.T. McIntire (ed.), God, History, and Historians: An Anthology of Modern Christian Views of History (New York): 46-67. Löwith, K. (1953), Weltgeschichte und Heilsgeschehen: die theologischen Voraussetzungen der Geschichtsphilosophie (Frankfurt). Luiselli B. (1980), ‘Indirizzo universale e indirizzi nazionali nella storiografia latino-cristiana dei secc. V-VIII’, in La storiografia ecclesiastica nella tarda antichità (Messina): 508-33. Luiselli, B. (intr.) and A. Zanella (tr.) (1991), Paolo Diacono. Storia dei Langobardi (Milan).

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11. Theology versus Genre? Luneau, A. (1964), L’histoire du salut chez les Pères de l’Eglise: la doctrine des âges du monde (Paris). Martin, A. et al. (2006), Théodoret de Cyr. Histoire ecclésiastique. Tome 1 (Paris). Martínez Pizzarro, J. (2003), ‘Ethnic and national history ca. 500-1000’, in D.M. Deliyannis (ed.), Historiography in the Middle Ages (Leiden): 43-84. Meier, M. (2004), ‘Prokop, Agathias, die Pest und das “Ende” der antiken Historiographie: Naturkatastrophen und Geschichtsschreibung in der ausgehenden Spätantike’, Historische Zeitschrift 278: 281-310. Mortley, R. (1996), The Idea of Universal History from Hellenistic Philosophy to Early Christian Historiography (Lewiston, NY). Niebuhr, R. (1949), Faith and History: A Comparison of Christian and Modern Views of History (New York). Pilhofer, P. (1990), Presbyteron kreitton: Der Altersbeweis der jüdischen und christlichen Apologeten und seine Vorgeschichte (Tübingen). Press, G.A. (1982), The Development of the Idea of History in Antiquity (Kingston). Roberto, U. (2006), ‘Julius Africanus und die Tradition der hellenistischen Universalgeschichte’, in M. Wallraff (ed.), Julius Africanus und die christliche Weltchronistik (Berlin and New York): 3-16. Schott, J. (2007), ‘Heresiology as universal history in Epiphanius’ Panarion’, Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 10: 546-63. Schott, J. (2008), Christianity, Empire, and the Making of Religion in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia). Timpe, D. (2001), Römische Geschichte und Heilsgeschichte (Berlin). Van Nuffelen, P. (2004a), Un héritage de paix et de piété: étude sur les Histoires ecclésiastiques de Socrate et de Sozomène (Leuven). Van Nuffelen, P. (2004b), ‘Socrates van Constantinopel en de antieke christelijke geschiedenisfilosofie’, Handelingen van de Koninklijke Zuid-Nederlandse Maatschappij voor Taal-, Letterkunde en Geschiedenis 57: 187-201. Van Nuffelen, P. (2007), rev. A. Martin et al., Théodoret de Cyr. Histoire ecclésiastique. Tome 1 (2006), Antiquité tardive 15: 410-16. Wallraff, M. (2004), ‘Protologie und Eschatologie als Horizonte der Kirchengeschichte? Das Erbe christlicher Universalgeschichte’, in W. Kinzig et al. (eds), Historiographie und Theologie (Leipzig): 153-67. Wallraff, M. (2005), ‘Von der antiken Historie zur mittelalterlichen Chronik’, in M. Wallraff (ed.), Welt-Zeit: Christliche Weltchronistik aus zwei Jahrtausenden in Beständen der Thüringer Universitäts- und Landesbibliothek Jena (Berlin and New York): 1-16. Whitby, M. (2000), The Ecclesiastical History of Evagrius Scholasticus (Liverpool). Whitby, M. (2007), ‘Religious views of Procopius and Agathias’, in D. Brodka and M. Stachyra (eds), Continuity and Change: Studies in Late Antique Historiography (Cracow): 73-94. Winkelmann, F. (1992), ‘Grundproblemen christlicher Historiographie in ihrer Frühphase (Eusebios von Kaisareia und Orosius)’, Jahrbuch der Oesterreichischen Byzantinistik 42: 13-28. Yarrow, L. (2006), Historiography at the End of the Republic: Provincial Perspectives on Roman Rule (Oxford). Zakai, A. and Mali, A. (1992-93), ‘Time, history and eschatology: ecclesiastical history from Eusebius to Augustine’, Journal of Religious History 17: 393-417.

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Orosius and Escaping from the Dance of Doom Andrew Fear It is a well-worn cliché, and truism, that Christianity changed the course of history; however, more importantly, Christianity also changed the very nature of history and has continued to condition historical thought to the present day. This is not merely true of explicitly Christian historians, but even of writers openly hostile to the faith, such as Karl Marx, who can still be characterised in fundamental respects as Christian authors.1 To the ancient mind, history was never-ending; indeed, according to the commonly held doctrine, ex nihilo nihil fit, it had, and could have had, no beginning either. Rather, time comprised a cycle which ran its course, terminated, and then began again to run in an identical pattern. This doctrine is best known from the Stoics, who labelled this phenomenon, as they saw it, of recurrent cycles of history anacyclosis and the cataclysm which ended any particular cycle ecpyrosis. However, the intellectual seed from which these dogmata sprang had existed long before Stoicism became a developed philosophical system. Heraclitus may well have held this doctrine.2 Plato shows a belief in a similar system, as we can see from his description of the transformation of political dispensations in the eighth book of the Republic. Aristotle, too, accepted the notion of anacyclosis, stating that advances in the arts and sciences have been lost and regained innumerable times.3 In expounding this notion of cyclical decline, these philosophers were doing nothing new, but merely expanding, in a more formal fashion, what was already the intellectual currency of their day.4 The common nature of these beliefs can be seen from the way in which they are used outside formal philosophical systems. Tacitus, for example, deploys the notions of anacyclosis and ecpyrosis to great effect in his account of the development of the Roman state at the beginning of the Annals. Punning on in principio (at first) and princeps (first man), he implies that the principate is nothing more than the beginning of a new politico-historical cycle following the ecpyrosis of the civil wars.5 Conveniently for the historian, this means that the principate is but a re-incarnation of the Romans’ most hated political system: monarchy. Tacitus is never explicit in his attack; it is the fact that anacylosis was held to be true by

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12. Orosius and Escaping from the Dance of Doom the average educated man of his times that allows his damning innuendo to be successful. It should come as no surprise that classical antiquity took this view of history, as it is an attitude to time which recurs as a common feature in the thought of Indo-European peoples. This can be seen from sources as diverse as the notion of Ragnarok and the subsequent rebirth of the world found in Norse mythology and the concept of Mahâyuga, or the great cycle, found in Hindu thought.6 The dogma of anacyclosis effectively denies that history has a permanent direction or that any given historical change will last. The best an historian can do is determine with which part of the never-ending cycle he is concerned and attempt to understand the way the cycle will progress. In such a system history can never be a means to an end, it is simply an end in itself. As Oswald Spengler, a modern cyclical historian, put it: ‘Mankind has no aim, no idea, no plan any more than the family of butterflies or orchids.’7 The task that modern historians can set themselves – namely to look to history for clues as to the overall meaning of man’s existence – was not available to historians in antiquity and remained a question whose answer was to be sought only through philosophy. Cyclical history also tends to pessimism.8 The cycles of time in the classical world, as is also true in other analogous systems, are ones which lead to decay and ineluctable destruction. Even Plato concedes that were his ideal state to be established, it would fall away from perfection.9 Polybius believed that in the notion of the ‘mixed constitution’ he had found the reason why the Romans had been able to arrest, if not halt, this inevitable downward cycle, but the notion of decline and fall was integral to ancient thought.10 As such, the purpose of history was seen as largely pragmatic or moralising. At times it became a quarry for exempla to help manage successfully a particular set of circumstances by reference to how they had been dealt with in a previous cycle. Hence Thucydides’ view that he had written a ‘possession for all time’ on the grounds that ‘the future … in the course of human things must resemble [the past] if it does not reflect it’.11 Alternatively, history could be used as a stimulus to the good life by holding up exempla of such a life and offering the prospect that one could oneself be immortalised as such an exemplum. Equally, it was used as a deterrent to wickedness through the fear of being stigmatised through the ages as an exemplar of evil.12 Thucydides’ comments perhaps also show another consequence of anacyclosis: an inability to envisage the world as changing in a radical fashion. Ancient historians are often perceived as being anachronistic in their approach to the past. Thucydides’ ‘archaeology’ is a case in point. This distant period of Greek history is regarded by him as if it were merely a retrojection of his contemporary world but with different characters. As Spengler put it, ‘classical culture possessed no memory’.13

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Andrew Fear This approach to history clashes sharply with most modern work, especially that of modern universal historians. These, albeit with some notable exceptions, such as Spengler who retained a cyclical approach to his subject, often wish to eschew detailed knowledge of any given period of history and instead attempt to identify patterns in the historical record as a whole in order to find a ‘goal’ for historical events, or at least to discern in which direction history is ‘moving.’ Marx’s analysis of history is the most well-known of these attempts, but there are many others, such as that of Kojève and his notorious disciple, Francis Fukayama.14 In the post-classical world, therefore, history was radically re-orientated – it ceased to be cyclical and became linear: a form which it has retained until the present day. It is Christianity which marks the transition between these two very different concepts of history. It is impossible for a Christian to hold the cyclical approach to history as it runs contrary to Scripture. As St Augustine pointed out, ‘That God made the world we can believe from no one more safely than from God Himself. Where have we heard Him? Nowhere more distinctly than in the Holy Scriptures, where His prophet said “In the beginning God made the heavens and the earth.” ’15 If the act of divine creation could not be fitted into the cyclical scheme of things, anacyclosis also made a nonsense of Christianity’s key doctrines of the redemption and the coming kingdom of heaven. The world had been but created once and would definitively end with Christ’s second coming and the kingdom of heaven that was to be ushered in by the parousia would endure for ever. Christ’s passion, which had provided the possibility for man’s salvation, was a unique event, valid for all time.16 There is no room in Christianity for previous or future acts of salvation. As Augustine put it: ‘far be it, I say, from us to believe this [i.e. cyclical history]. For once Christ died for our sins; and, rising from the dead, He dies no more. Death has no more dominion over Him; and we ourselves after the resurrection shall be ever with the Lord to Whom we now say, as the sacred Psalmist dictates, “You shall keep us, O Lord, You shall preserve us from this generation.” ’17 To the Christian mind, therefore, far from history being all there is, has been and will be, it, and hence time, are simply an interlude between a prehistory when there was no time and the ‘posthistoric’ kingdom of heaven which again will be timeless. Given the radical break with contemporary historical thought required by Christian belief, it is unsurprising that intellectual early Christians such as St Augustine developed a profound interest in time. Augustine devotes much of the twelfth book of his City of God to attacking cyclical theories of history.18 Apart from the problems of dogma, Augustine adduces a eudaimonist argument against cyclical history, arguing that a belief in anacyclosis traps the soul and produces misery: ‘And from this fantastic vicissitude they are not able to free an immortal soul that has

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12. Orosius and Escaping from the Dance of Doom attained wisdom, but consign it to a ceaseless transmigration between delusive blessedness and real misery.’19 Christianity was not unique in seeing the potential problems that belief in anacyclic history could bring.20 The Neoplatonist Plotinus also held that history was an interlude in true being. For him time is the product of the motions of the Soul, which are caused by its estrangement from the One. Communing with the One will bring about the philosopher’s release from the tyranny of time and history.21 One can see a similar solution to the problem in Buddhist thought, where attainment of the state of nirvana brings an individual’s release from the wheel of continual rebirth or samsara. But these solutions differ from the Christian solution to the problem in that they do not deny the reality of anacyclosis, they simply give advice to individuals on how to cope with it. The Christian approach is quite different both in that it outlines the way salvation has come to all mankind, rather than to a few select individuals, and also in that it does not propose an accommodation with anacyclosis, but rather argues that this doctrine is illusory. The Christian position is not that we can escape from the circle of time, instead it asserts that such a circle does not exist. Augustine triumphantly concludes his discussion of the question by stating: ‘And that too which follows, is, I think, appropriate enough: ‘The wicked walk in a circle’, not because their life is to recur through these circles, which is their belief, but rather because the path in which their error, namely false doctrine, now runs is circuitous.’22 It is here for the first time in European thought that history is re-orientated into a line. Moreover, that line has a direction – for Christian history moves towards a goal, an eschaton, which is the parousia and coming of the kingdom of heaven, after which there will be no more time and history will come to an end. History therefore has become a journey or pilgrimage, a image which is familiar to us all, especially in its secular mutation: ‘progress’.23 Early Christians derived their views of history from the Scriptures. Hence Augustine notes that Genesis definitively states that the world was brought into being by an act of creation, and this text forms the centrepiece of his refutation of the cyclical view of history. At the heart of primitive Christian thought on history lie two distinct parts of the Scriptures. The first of these is found in II Peter: ‘one day with the Lord is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day’,24 itself a reminiscence of Psalm 90, ‘A thousand years in thy sight are as the day that has passed.’25 While it is highly debatable whether either of these passages is referring to the length of a ‘divine day’ rather than pointing to the transcendence of the deity, the view was soon formed that, mirroring the sixth day of creation and the seventh day of rest of the first week, the life of the world would last for six periods of a thousand years with the seventh ‘divine day’ ushering in the eternal kingdom of God. St Augustine was one who was prepared to accept this metaphor, and he devised a schema for the ‘six ages

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Andrew Fear of man’. These began with the first age which ran from the creation down to Noah and continued to the sixth age which began with the birth of Christ and would run to His second coming.26 Augustine’s periods of time are all based on episodes from Biblical history; the fourth age, for example, runs from the rule of David to the beginning of the Captivity in Babylon’.27 Running alongside the notion of the six ages of man in primitive Christian thought is that of the ‘four monarchies’. This was derived from a second key Biblical text: the Book of Daniel. Daniel is a difficult text as it has a deliberately fictitious date. Its stated time of composition is the early sixth century BC, but it was in fact written in the second century BC as a polemic against the Hellenistic king Antiochus Epiphanes at the time of Maccabean revolt.28 Daniel contains a mixture of material, but amongst this is an account of universal history (in the sense that its narrative purports to cover all the history there is and ever will be). In chapter 2 of Daniel is a description of a dream experienced by Nebuchadnezzar, the king of Babylon. In it, the king sees a statue with a head of gold, a chest of silver, a stomach and thighs of bronze, legs of iron, and feet which were a mixture of iron and clay. The statue is destroyed by a stone not cut by human hand; this stone then grows into a mountain which fills the whole earth. Daniel interprets the dream as a succession of kingdoms which will rule on earth and the stone as ‘a kingdom that will never be destroyed … but will endure for ever’.29 In chapter 7 Daniel himself has a dream in the reign of Nebuchadnezzar’s successor, Belshazzar. In this he sees four beasts come out of the sea. These beasts, looking like a lion, a bear, a leopard, and a ‘terrifying and frightening beast’ with ten horns, succeed one another until the last one is destroyed by ‘one like the son of man’ who establishes an ‘everlasting dominion that will not pass away’.30 At first sight, the sequential schemes in Daniel, particularly that of chapter 2, seem related to earlier Greek schemata such as the metallic ages found in Hesiod.31 However, it is more likely that Daniel 2 draws from a Zoroastrian text, the Denkart, where we again find a declining sequence of ages running from gold to iron.32 However, the differences between Daniel and Hesiod are far more important than their similarities. Hesiod’s text looks back to a golden age in the past. It is a typical product of classical anacyclosis. Daniel, on the other hand, reverses this attitude. This text looks not backwards, but forward to find its golden age. This is a highly significant factor. Classical anacyclosis was habitually pessimistic, while the linear approach to history has a strong tendency to be optimistic in its outlook. Daniel’s story, unlike Hesiod’s, has an ending, and it is a happy ending. The stone which smashes Nebuchadnezzar’s statue and the son of man who kills the frightening beast bring in the kingdom of heaven which will endure for ever. Here history has acquired a narrative meaning, a goal, and also a beginning and an end. The book of Daniel is a Jewish propaganda pamphlet aimed at Antiochus Epiphanes, whose kingdom is intended as the victim of the divine

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12. Orosius and Escaping from the Dance of Doom intervention which will bring history to an end. But, of course, the pamphleteer’s hopes were doomed to failure. Antiochus’s realm was not smashed in a way that ushered in an everlasting Jewish kingdom. The text therefore had to be readjusted. Already by around 60 BC the Jewish Apocalypse of Baruch was interpreting the fourth beast as symbolising Rome rather than Antiochus’ kingdom. Primitive Christians continued with this process of exegesis; the vainglorious dreams of a small tribe were becoming the vainglorious dreams of a small sect. We can see this process at work in the Book of Revelation, which embroiders Daniel. This time the pamphlet is aimed against Rome, crudely allegorised as the whore of Babylon.33 Again, the old order and time are swept away with the arrival of the eternal New Jerusalem. As well as building on the intellectual inheritance of Daniel, Christian thought continued its reinterpretation. This can be seen in Hippolytus’ Commentary on Daniel written in the early third century. The four kingdoms of the statue in Daniel 2 are now seen as Babylon, Persia, Greece and Rome. The mixture in the material of the last part of the statue is symbolic of the fact, we are told, that the Romans are not all one people. The stone that ‘smites the image and breaks it in pieces,’ and that went on to fill the whole earth, is Christ.34 Nor was this form of exegesis limited to Western Christendom. In the fourth century the Syriac bishop Aphrahat proceeds in exactly the same manner in his fifth Demonstration.35 Both these Christian schemata of time fitted the dictates of the faith, but were also somewhat parochial, as outlined above. By tying the ages of the world closely to events in the Old Testament, the appeal of this new interpretation of history would be strictly limited, as it ignored large swathes of history which at would have seemed to many contemporaries to be of some significance – the rise of the Roman empire is a case in point. Similar problems arise with the interpretation of history via the ‘four monarchies’. While the standard exegesis of Daniel may have appeared satisfactory to inhabitants of the Eastern Roman empire, to those living in the West, it would have seemed an implausibly partial reading of history. Added to this drawback was a general narrowness of vision concerning history among early Christian writers. Here there was an assumption that the only significant historical events were those to be found in the Scriptures or that had happened to the church. Augustine is a good example of this tendency. While interested in time, he was less interested in history and made a sharp division between ‘sacred history’ – the account of the Jews found in Scripture – and ‘secular history’ – the rest of the historical record. For Augustine only the former had any significance beyond itself, the latter had no discernible meaning. In his De Doctrina Christiana he remarks, ‘Anything, then, that we learn from history about the chronology of past times assists us very much in understanding the Scriptures’.36 These ‘past times’ have no meaning in themselves for Augustine; they are merely an aid to Biblical exegesis.

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Andrew Fear Beyond this, secular history is used by the bishop of Hippo in precisely the same way as his pagans predecessors had done – as a quarry for exempla to illustrate his underlying arguments. The triumph of the Christian approach to history is therefore due in large measure, not to Augustine and similar authors, but rather to the now much neglected Spanish writer Paulus Orosius. As a fiercely devout Christian, Orosius naturally employed the notions of the seven ages and the four kingdoms in his Seven Books of History which he composed at the beginning of the fifth century AD. However, his method of using these intellectual tools differed markedly from that of his co-religionists in the past. Orosius was proud of both his faith and his membership of the Roman empire, and as such was determined to demonstrate to his pagan opponents that Rome’s history could only be understood if it were seen as part of God’s plan for the world. He therefore deliberately chose to use secular, not church, history to illustrate the truth of Christianity. In doing so, he carefully eschewed any reference to the church and, starting from the beginning of time, a point he is careful to emphasise,37 he traces the development of world history, modifying Augustine’s scheme of six ages of man into seven sections, through a series of four kingdoms. History, it is asserted, will come to a triumphant climax in the future, something almost achieved already, Orosius patriotically avers, by Rome’s adoption of Christianity.38 Not only did this approach avoid any accusation that Orosius was simply using circular arguments to make his points, but, by widening the scope of the data used, it also made Christian approaches of interpreting the past much more appealing and credible to a general audience. The composition of Orosius’ work in seven books was a conscious choice. The seven books correspond to the ages of man. The final book, which deals with the Roman empire from the birth of Christ, posits it as the last age before the parousia. Unlike Augustine’s divisions, Orosius’ are firmly based on the secular world. This approach boldly projects the Christian arrangement of history onto all of history, something which Augustine had not merely failed, but refused, to do. Orosius in contrast widened these analyses to the secular world allowing its history too to be invested with meaning, hence providing a universal history for Christianity’s universal message. The secular and the Christian are triumphantly made interdependent by a synchronism of the birth of Christ and the accession of power of the emperor Augustus. The stakes are then raised higher still by Orosius, who had no understanding that prior to the emperor Caracalla’s grant of universal citizenship in 211 AD many free inhabitants of the empire were not Roman citizens, as he insists that Christ was, and indeed consciously chose to become incarnate as, a Roman citizen. This allows his reader to see that Rome’s secular history has been part of God’s plan all along and that it is only by the use of a Christian analysis of the past that her history can be properly understood. Orosius was the first author to give Roman history a purpose.39

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12. Orosius and Escaping from the Dance of Doom As well as secularising the seven days of Augustine’s schema, in a similar fashion Orosius changed the standard interpretation of the four kingdoms of Daniel in order to include Western elements. Babylon was retained and, indeed, emphasised as the opposite to Rome, but Persia was suppressed, and while the Greek kingdoms remained, they were relegated in importance. Carthage was now introduced as the third kingdom, before Rome appeared as the fourth and final kingdom. Unlike his application of the ‘seven days’ which enjoyed great success, Orosius failed in his attempt to re-interpret the four kingdoms, and the ‘traditional’ kingdoms were re-instated by Jerome and accepted as late as Luther, who stated that there could be ‘no doubt’ about them.40 Nevertheless, the importance of this failed reform is great – once again Orosius wished to broaden the appeal of Christian historical methodologies by showing they had universal application. Orosius’ endeavours mark a crucial moment in the development of European historiography. Until his work, there had been no extensive application of Christian principles to secular history.41 Perhaps because of the chiliastic expectations of the primitive church, ecclesiastical history had remained extremely introverted, concentrating on the development of the church itself with only incidental interest in other affairs. Orosius opened all history to Christian analysis. In pursuing this task, he became the first writer to invest secular history with meaning. It is he rather than Augustine who determined what Mommsen called the ‘theology of history which prevailed through the Middle Ages’.42 The world is presented as travelling towards a discernible goal, and while this goal, the parousia, is posited a priori, Orosius endeavours to use secular history as empirical proof of its truth. Anacyclosis is dismissed as intellectual nonsense, while ecpyrosis remains as a one-off occurrence and in fact an event to be welcomed as it is merely the midwife which delivers us from history into a different, everlasting, and for the believer at least, better world. History is has become meaningful and that meaning for Orosius gives rise to optimism. It is difficult to underestimate the importance of Orosius. If not the inventor of the notion of historical progress, he is its most important and influential populariser. As such, he can rightly be called the father of modern historiography. If we accept Roger Scruton’s definition of modernism as to ‘live the pastness of the present – confronting each moment as it will be from the vantage-point of future time’, Orosius could also be seen as one of the founding fathers of modernism.43 Linear history, by tracing out the course of history, allows us to encounter the past precisely in the way that Scruton outlines; as our journey is mapped out for us we can tell precisely at what point we have arrived. Sadly, Orosius was an optimist born in an ill hour. Part of his aim was to persuade his audience that the contemporary world was getting better not worse, and his hopes for the emperor Honorius were hopelessly naïve.

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Andrew Fear According to his linear scheme of history, such attitudes were perfectly, indeed necessarily, correct, but the recent sack of Rome by Alaric would have presented to many a seemingly insurmountable objection to such assertions.44 One tactic Orosius uses to persuade his readers of his case is to point out that to those enduring them even small present troubles inevitably seem worse than past catastrophies.45 He aims to illustrate this by an empirical comparison of the sack of Rome by the Gauls in 390 BC and by Alaric in 410 AD.46 However, Orosius is driven too by the a priori assumptions of his position. For him the world is on a course to salvation planned by God and as such all events must be for the good. Setbacks on the road to salvation are simply forms of just castigation or tests of constancy.47 Orosius’ history is the history of the providentia of God for His creation, a providence which for Orosius is necessarily, albeit at times, inscrutably good.48 Orosius would have happily assented to the sentiments of Alexander Pope that: All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee; All chance, direction, which thou canst not see All discord, harmony not understood, All partial evil, universal good: And, spite of pride, in erring reason’s spite, One truth is clear, whatever is, is right.

Such an attitude requires a great deal of faith, though it can also in times of difficulty provide a great deal of comfort. Orosius’ view that history had meaning and that that meaning was essentially good became the dominant model for the historiography of the Middle Ages and beyond. Otto of Friesing’s twelfth-century work of universal history, Chronica de Duabus Civitatibus, was so named to echo Augustine’s Civitas Dei, but its approach to history is Orosian, not Augustinian. Ranulf Higden’s fourteenthcentury Polychronicon is another popular medieval work that accepted Orosius’ progressive philosophy of history and was written in order to bring his work up to date. The seventeenth-century French writer Jacques-Benigne Bossuet shows himself a disciple of Orosius when in his Discours sur l’Histoire universelle, he declares ‘Thus all the great empires which we have seen on the earth contributed in different ways to the good of Religion and the Glory of God, as God Himself has proclaimed through his prophets.’49 Bousset also retains Orosius’ seven ages of man with the birth of Christ marking the last of these. Providential history faces stern tests when confronting the disasters of the world. As faith declined, the religious attitude to providential history fell under ever fiercer attack. However, if the notion that God is the guide of history began to fall from grace, the belief that there was a guiding hand to history remained, but in an increasingly secular form. Voltaire, who had mocked religious providential

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12. Orosius and Escaping from the Dance of Doom historians in his Candide, regarded history as the progress of a mysterious ‘espirit humain’, while Hegel saw not God but a rational spirit or Geist as history’s moving hand. Such attitudes have retained the optimism of their religious predecessors that history is ‘progressing’, i.e. moving in a direction which will have a happy end. Hegel’s Geist in turn gave up the ghost to be replaced by ‘scientific laws’ such as those posited by Marxism. In this way we can see that ironically one of Christianity’s most hostile opponents is in fact her bastard child, guided by the same spirit of providential history which inspired Orosius – only the guide has changed, the methodological sentiments and the end result, save for one vital difference, remain the same.50 This difference is that while, as we have seen, the supernatural guide of providential history has receded over time, conversely its eschaton has drawn nearer and become an earthly rather than supernatural goal. This is a process described by Voegelin as its immanentisation.51 Orosius’ formal position is that the end point of history is the supernatural, and timeless, kingdom of God which will be founded by the second coming. Nevertheless, at times his optimism implies that the Roman empire is already beginning that process on earth. It is but a small step from such optimism to posit an entirely worldly eschaton for history: a notion which has been enthusiastically embraced in the modern world. For Marx, history will come to an end on earth – this end, and the endless state of ‘communism’ which it will usher in, are merely Orosius’ parousia brought down to earth. The same process can be seen in Fukayama’s equally messianic statement in 1992: ‘What we may be witnessing is not just the end of the Cold War, or the passing of a particular period of post-war history, but the end of history as such: that is, the end point of mankind’s ideological evolution and the universalization of Western Democracy as the final form of human government.’52 The next step is to assume that one can help the ‘inevitable’ flow of history on its way. Orosius appears to have at times given mental assent to this attitude too. While he has little to say about the politics of his day he regards Theodosius’ outlawing of paganism as a positive step on the road to the parousia.53 In this respect he can be seen not just as the godfather of Marxism, but also of its activist offspring, Leninism. While Augustine would have been shocked by the hubris of Marx and Fukayama, Orosius, given his feelings for the Roman empire, might well have recognised in their works errant, but kindred, spirits.54 There is therefore a spectre haunting contemporary historiography – the spectre of Orosius. It is he, through his attempt to baptise secular history and invest it with meaning, who is the intellectual root of modern Western history, and while this turbulent priest has himself dropped from recognition, there is little sign that his ghost will be exorcised in the near future.

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Andrew Fear Notes 1. See the discussion in Mommsen (1951) and Lowith (1957). 2. See Censorinus, De Die Natali 18.11, who suggests that a Heraclitan epoch lasted 10,800 years. 3. Metaphysics 1074b11; De Caelo 270b19. Pace Liddel, this volume, arguing that whereas Plato’s and Aristotle’s schemes of constitutional transformation concentrated on decay or a downward spiral, Polybius went a step further by making his scheme of constitutional transformation a circular one. 4. Among the references to anacyclosis are Heraclitus, fr. 30, 31, 51, 63; Empedocles, fr. 115; Aristotle, Metaph. 12.8; Seneca. Ep. ad Lucilium 24; Marcus Aurelius 11.1. For a Christian assumption that this is the common pagan position, see Augustine, CD 12.11. 5. Urbem Romam a principio reges habuere … [Augustus] cuncta discordiis civilibus fessa nomine principis sub imperium accepit (Tacitus, Annals 1.1). 6. See G. Nagy (2005). The Mahâyuga, which lasts 4,320,000 years, consists of four phases, the last of which, the kaliyuga, ends in physical catastrophe. 7. Spengler (1991) 17. 8. It is not surprising that cyclical historians have tended to enjoy most popularity in the modern world at times of tension. Spengler’s work, published in the immediate aftermath of World War I, is a good example; see Farrenkopf (this volume). 9. Plato, Republic 8.546. 10. Polybius, 6.3 and Tacitus’ sarcastic comments that a state with a mixed constitution is ‘easier to praise than occur and, if it occurs, it is unable to last long’, Annals 4.33. See Walbank (2002) ch.13. 11. Thucydides 1.22. 12. See for example, Herodotus 1.1 and the work of Valerius Maximus. For the deterrent effect of history see Tacitus, Annals 3.65. 13. Spengler, (1991) 7. 14. Kojève (1980); Fukayama (1992). 15. Quod autem Deus fecerit mundum, nulli tutius credimus quam ipsi Deo. Vbi eum audiuimus? Nusquam interim nos melius quam in scripturis sanctis, ubi dixit propheta eius: In principio fecit Deus caelum et terram (Augustine, CD 11.4). 16. Quia et Christus semel pro peccatis mortuus est iustus pro iniustis ut nos offerret Deo mortificatus carne vivificatus autem spiritu – For Christ died for sins once for all, the righteous for the unrighteous, to bring you to God. He was put to death in the body but made alive by the Spirit (I Peter 3:18). 17. Absit, inquam, ut nos ista credamus. Semel enim Christus mortuus est pro peccatis nostris; surgens autem a mortuis iam non moritur, et mors ei ultra non dominabitur, et nos post resurrectionem semper cum Domino erimus, cui modo dicimus, quod sacer admonet psalmus: Tu, Domine, seruabis nos et custodies nos a generatione hac et in aeternum (Augustine, CD 12.14. Augustine is quoting from Psalm 11.8). 18. Augustine, CD 12.10-20. 19. A quo ludibrio prorsus inmortalem animam, etiam cum sapientiam perceperit, liberare non possunt, euntem sine cessatione ad falsam beatitudinem et ad ueram miseriam sine cessatione redeuntem (Augustine, CD 12.13). 20. We should not, however, neglect the fact that many in antiquity were perfectly happy with the notion of anacyclosis. This is also true of some modern writers: Eliade holds that anacyclosis can give societies an interpretative tool with which to understand catastrophy by investing it with ‘metahistorical meaning’.

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12. Orosius and Escaping from the Dance of Doom See Eliade (1971), ch. 4: ‘The Terror of History’. 21. Plotinus, Enneads 1.4.11. 22. Satis autem istis existimo conuenire quod sequitur: In circuitu impii ambulabunt; non quia per circulos, quos opinantur, eorum uita est recursura, sed quia modo talis est erroris eorum uia, id est falsa doctrina (Augustine, CD 12.13). 23. See the somewhat grudging comments of Bury (1920: 22) and the more enthusiastic comments of Wood (1934) ch. 5. 24. II Peter 3.18. 25. Psalm 90.4. 26. Augustine, De Catechizandis rudibus 22. 27. In full the scheme runs as follows: Age 1 Adam to Noah Age 2 Noah to Abraham Age 3 Abraham to David Age 4 David to the Captivity in Babylon Age 5 Captivity to Nativity Age 6 Nativity to present day 28. For a full discussion see Rowley (1935). 29. Daniel 2:31-46. 30. Daniel 7. 31. Hesiod, Works and Days 109-201. 32. Denkart 3.396. 33. Revelation 17:3-18. 34. ‘As these things, then, are destined to come to pass, and as the toes of the image turn out to be democracies, and the ten horns of the beast are distributed among ten kings, let us look at what is before us more carefully, and scan it, as it were, with open eye. The “golden head of the image” is identical with the “lioness,” by which the Babylonians were represented. “The golden shoulders and the arms of silver” are the same with the “bear,” by which the Persians and Medes are meant. “The belly and thighs of brass” are the “leopard,” by which the Greeks who ruled from Alexander onwards are intended. The “legs of iron” are the “dreadful and terrible beast,” by which the Romans who hold the empire now are meant. The “toes of clay and iron” are the “ten horns” which are to be. The “one other little horn springing up in their midst” is the “antiChrist.” The stone that “smites the image and breaks it in pieces,” and that filled the whole earth, is Christ, who comes from heaven and brings judgment on the world’ (Hippolytus, Commentary on Daniel 3, tr. in Roberts and Donaldson [1868]). 35. Sometimes ‘Aphraates’. See the edition by Parisot (1894). 36. Quidquid igitur de ordine temporum transactorum indicat ea quae appellatur historia, plurimum nos adjuvat ad sanctos Libros intelligendos (Augustine, De Doctrina Christiana 2.28). 37. Histories 1.1. Orosius dismisses the notion of endless time as a caeca opinio, a ‘blind prejudice’. 38. See Histories 7.41; 7.43. 39. Histories 6.22.8. 40. ‘In this interpretation and opinion all the world are agreed, and history and fact abundantly establish it’; see Keil and Delitzsch (1973) 245. 41. See Momigliano’s (1963) comments on the Christian historiography of the fourth century AD: ‘A re-interpretation of ordinary, military, political, or diplomatic history in Christian terms was neither achieved or attempted.’ 42. Mommsen (1951).

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Andrew Fear 43. Scruton (1996) 160-1. 44. Augustine realised that this was the case, Enarr. in Ps. 45 13 = 46 9, and denounced attempts to link secular history to biblical history in CD 18.52. 45. Histories 4 praef. 46. Histories 2.9.12; 7.39. 47. Histories 1.1.9-12; 2.1.1-3. 48. Histories 1.1.9 diuina prouidentia, quae sicut bona ita et iusta est; 7.28.26 shows genuine confusion as to why the Christian emperor Constantine killed his own family: sed inter haec latent causae, cur uindicem gladium et destinatam in impios punitionem Constantinus imperator etiam in proprios egit affectus. 49. Pt 3, ch. 1, originally published Paris, 1681; reprinted London: Regley, 1862: ‘ainsi tous les grands empires que nous avons vu sur la terre ont concouru par divers moyens au bien de la religion et à la gloire de Dieu, comme Dieu même l’a declaré par ses prophètes.’ 50. See the perceptive comments of Plumb (1969) ch. 2. 51. Voegelin (1952) 120. 52. Fukuyama (1992). 53. Histories 6.1.23. 54. For a spirited warning of the dangers, and indeed the impossibility, of bringing the eschaton of history down to earth, see Voegelin (1952). Bibliography Bury, J.B. (1920), The Idea of Progress (London). Eliade, M. (1971), The Myth of the Eternal Return: Cosmos and History (Princeton). Fukayama, F. (1992), The End of History and the Last Man (New York and Toronto). Keil, C. and Delitzsch, F. (1973), Biblical Commentary on the Book of Daniel (Grand Rapids). Kojève, A. (1980), Introduction to the Reading of Hegel: Lectures on the Phenomenology of Spirit (Ithaca). Lowith, K. (1957), Meaning in History: The Theological Implications of the Philosophy of History (Chicago). Mommsen, T.E. (1951), ‘St Augustine and the Christian idea of progress: the background to the City of God’, Journal of the History of Ideas 12: 346-74. Momigliano, A. (1963), ‘Pagan and Christian historiography in the fourth century AD’ in A. Momigliano (ed.), The Conflict between Paganism and Christianity in the Fourth Century (Oxford): 79-99. Nagy, G. (2005), ‘The epic hero’, in J.M. Foley (ed.), A Companion to Ancient Epic (Oxford): 71-89. Roberts, A. and Donaldson, J. (eds) (1868), The Ante-Nicene Christian Library, vol. 6 (Edinburgh). Rowley, H. (1935), Darius the Mede and the Four World Empires in the Book of Daniel (Cardiff). Parisot, J. (1894), Patrologia Syriaca I (Paris). Plumb, J. (1969), The Death of the Past (London). Scruton, R. (1996), Philosophy: Problems and Principles (London). Spengler, O. (1991), The Decline of the West (tr. and ed. H. Stuart Hughes) (Oxford). Voegelin, E. (1952), The New Science of Politics (Chicago). Walbank, F. (2002), Polybius, Rome and the Hellenistic World: Essays and Reflections (Cambridge). Wood, H. (1934), Christianity and the Nature of History (Cambridge).

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A Rose in the Desert? Late Antique and Early Byzantine Chronicles and the Formation of Islamic Universal Historiography Marco Di Branco Under exactly what conditions was produced the last molecular shock, indispensable for the expansion of the gas? We must often resign ourselves to ignorance. This is no doubt regrettable, but what of the chemists? Their position is not always much better. Nevertheless, the composition of the explosive mixture remains perfectly susceptible of analysis. (Marc Bloch, Apology for History)

1. The debate about origins For a long time studies of Islamic historiography were founded on two ‘dogmas’ expressed respectively by H.A.R. Gibb and Bernard Lewis: the former asserts that Arabic historiography ‘cropped up by spontaneous generation’,1 like a rose spontaneously blooming from the arid sands of Arabia, without relation to the outside world; the second affirms that Muslim chroniclers ‘at no time did attempt to consult Greek historical sources, or to deal in a connected form with the history of the Greek empire’, and therefore he concludes that no direct connections between Greek and Roman historiography and Arab-Islamic historiography ever existed.2 In fact, the great syntheses of Jean Sauvaget,3 Claude Cahen,4 Dennis Margouliouth5 and Franz Rosenthal6 favoured such a vision, locating the origins of Muslim historiography exclusively in the pre-Islamic past and in the idea of the world elaborated by Muhammad. In this context external elements are obviously considered (particularly the influence of biblical tradition), but in a quite subordinate manner. In other instances the role of the Sasanian culture has been excessively emphasised: Ignaz Goldziher went as far as to claim that Arabic historiography ‘is the child, or at least the disciple, of Persian literature’.7 Nevertheless, the most enlightened scholarship has widely criticised such overstatements and has showed that Sasanian tradition, which was destined to have a significant influence among the Islamic historians at the end of the tenth and beginning of the eleventh centuries AD, plays a quite limited role (with the exception

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Marco Di Branco of the works of authors such as Ibn al-Muqaffa‘ and Dînawarî) in the historiography of early Islâm.8 The most recent studies dealing with the origins of Muslim historiography often offer new, rich and pertinent analysis, but they do not distance themselves from the traditional approach. Even when – as, for example, in the important works by ‘Abd al-‘Azîz Dûrî,9 Fred Donner,10 Tarif Khalidi11 and Bernd Radtke,12 – methodological problems are clearly displayed and the overall view of the development of history in the Islamic field is widely and fully sketched, it takes it for granted that its horizon is restricted to the Arab-Islamic world, a world still considered as ‘apart’, completely isolated from the most important cultures of the time. On the other hand, discussion of the origin and the development of historiography in the Muslim world has for a long time concentrated on different problems, and in particular on the great question of the reliability of early Islamic literature: in fact, scholars such as Ignaz Goldziher,13 Julius Schacht,14 John Wansbrough15 and above all Michael Cook and Patricia Crone,16 starting from the analysis of the ‘chains’ (isnâd) of testimonies of traditions concerning Muhammad (hadîth), consider all this production to be a mere late fabrication: in particular, according to Wansbrough, the two fundamental sources of Islâm, the Qur’ân and the prophetic tradition, are nothing but a late outcome of a sectarian controversy developed over about two centuries and fictitiously projected backwards to Muhammad’s time; the whole Islamic doctrine would have to be moulded on Judaic prototypes and early Islamic historiography would be only a late expression of salvation’s history according to the Old Testament. Moreover, according to Cook and Crone, authors of the controversial Hagarism, the Making of the Islamic World, the narration of Muslim history, at least until ‘Abd al-Malik’s caliphate (685-705 AD), is to be held reliable only from the prosopographical, social and anthropological point of view, but is much less valuable from the ‘evenemential’ one, even more since the historical narratives about early Islâm are to be considered merely as fanciful re-elaborations of obscure qur’ânic passages. According to this interpretation, Islâm emerges as an autonomous religion and culture only through a long struggle for identity. Scholars have answered in several ways to Crone and Cook’s provocative thesis: James Burton, 17 G.H.A. Juynboll18 and Albrecht Noth19 tried hard to attenuate their radicalism, even if they accepted, at least partly, their main propositions. Other scholars reaffirmed strenuously the reliability of early Islamic sources, above all on the basis of a careful and refined analysis of the formation and transmission of early corpora of hadîth, from which we can infer a very early use of writing in the historiographical field.20 A third group of scholars claimed instead a different ‘regime of truth’ for Islamic historiography, comparable to occidental historiography. These scholars considered the unreliability of accusations brought against Muslim historians (and in particular those by Crone and Cook), as an indication of an

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13. A Rose in the Desert? inability to understand the fundamental values of early Islamic society.21 Nevertheless, in this discussion the global context in which the Islamic culture grew takes a back seat. Recently, on the contrary, we can observe a new trend. In 2000 a German scholar, under the pseudonym Christoph Luxenberg, presented the results of his philological studies on the interpretation of the qur’ânic text in a book which has provoked a heated debate: Die Syro-aramäische Lesart des Koran.22 This work is an attempt to interpret several obscure passages of the Qur’ân by means of Syriac, the ‘frank language’ of the late antique Near East. Luxenberg’s book has given a new impulse to the studies of qur’ânic philology and has tried to contextualise concretely the Qur’ân in the multicultural background in which it formed at the beginning of the seventh century AD. This renewed effort of contextualisation has only partially concerned studies of Islamic historiography; indeed, where this has been attempted, as for instance in the case of the workshops on late antiquity and early Islâm promoted by Averil Cameron and Lawrence Conrad23 and of some essays by Glen W. Bowersock and Garth Fowden,24 these scholars preferred to insist on the tricky topic of the continuity between the world of late antiquity and the Islamic world. There are, however, some meaningful exceptions: the most important is the work on Muslim ‘kingship’ by Aziz al-Azmeh, which deals with the problem of the theories and practice of political power in Muslim polities against the background of the Near Eastern traditions of sacred kingship, particularly Hellenistic, Persian and Byzantine.25 Furthermore it is necessary to bear in mind a few but important pages from the recent book, Islamic Historiography by Chase F. Robinson, who wonders whether it is possible that ‘the nascent tradition … may also have drawn upon non-Islamic schemes that were in circulation in the eighth and ninth century’,26 and calls for further work on this topic. Another fundamental work is Les Arabes et l’appropriation de l’histoire by Abdessalam Cheddadi,27 which analyses the origin and early development of Muslim historiography up to the eighth century AD and represents a preliminary answer to Robinson’s wishes. The explicit goal of Cheddadi is ‘to specify the relations of continuity and discontinuity which can be identified between Muslim historiography and the earlier Greek and Jewish-Christian historiographic traditions’.28 2. Possible models In a famous essay dating back to 1962, Rosenthal had extensively underlined the importance of Biblical tradition in the formation of Muslim historiography,29 showing how such tradition ‘provided Muslim historical writing with some of its most significant elements’.30 In his History of Muslim Historiography the scholar went further, identifying some possible models for Islamic annalistic in Greek and Syriac works dating back to late antiquity and the early Byzantine age.31 Nevertheless he seemed to

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Marco Di Branco underestimate the significance of his observations and ruled out the possibility that ‘Greco-Syriac historiography … reached Muslim historians early enough in this way to inspire their use of the annalistic form’.32 When Cheddadi reopened the discussion on the issue, he did it with the theme of Biblical influences33 and eventually moved on to deal with the forms of communication between the first Arabic-Islamic historiographical productions and Byzantine historiography.34 Cheddadi’s tight analysis, which unfortunately analyses only the authors dating back to the first two centuries of Islâm and concentrates almost exclusively on the historiographical genres of magâzî-sirah and ahdâth wa ’l-siyâr, has the merit of emphasising the general terms of this relationship. He effectively underlines the elements of continuity and discontinuity between the two traditions, with a certain tendency towards a vision of excessive continuity, to which subject I shall return.35 However, if we can broadly share his approach, it is difficult to agree with all the points of his analysis: in particular, the description of the fundamental characteristics of late antique and Byzantine sources turns out to be very limited and superficial. Even the ways through which such sources influence Islamic historiography are not well understood (for instance the role of John Malalas, the so-called Byzantine Kaiserkroniken and the Kleinchroniken are totally ignored).36 Furthermore, Cheddadi’s analysis reveals a substantial lack of comprehension of the role played by the hagiographical literature in the elaboration of the early biographies of Muhammad (according to Cheddadi these were quite influenced by the Hellenistic genre of the bioi of illustrious men and by the evangelic model).37 3. Contextualisation without continuity The less convincing element of Cheddadi’s work is represented by its strong inclinations towards continuity.38 The legitimate need to contextualise Islamic historiography in the wider background of Mediterranean culture and the desire to identify sources and models deriving from Byzantine historiography should not prevent us from appreciating the great change represented by the advent of Islâm, not only on the economic, political, social and religious level, but also on the cultural one.39 A quite illuminating example of the misunderstandings to which a continuistic interpretation can lead is offered by Cheddadi’s analysis of the famous ‘Six Kings’ painting at Qusayr ‘Amrah, a luxurious residence dating back to the Umayyad period and located not far from ‘Ammân. Since its discovery by Alois Musil in 1898, this extraordinary wall-painting, which features six rulers, three of whom are labelled in Greek and Arabic as ‘Caesar’, ‘Chosroes’ and ‘Negus’ respectively, has stimulated the imagination and critical insight of generations of scholars. Damaged soon after discovery and poorly preserved despite two subsequent restorations, the painting has hitherto remained enigmatic. In his recent book on

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13. A Rose in the Desert? Qusayr ‘Amrah, Garth Fowden has argued that those six rulers are ‘symbolic figures who stand for the whole political and cultural heritage of the world the Arabs had now inherited’,40 thus taking the painting as a witness to the cultural continuity between Hellenistic and early Islamic worlds. Yet he failed to consider another Arabic inscription, long since read by Enno Littmann: painted on the garment of ‘Caesar’, i.e. the Byzantine emperor, it styles the same figure as ‘Muqawqis’, i.e. Patriarch of Egypt – in Arabic tradition, the ‘lord of Alexandria’ and ‘head of the Copts (and Greeks)’.41 In fact, this inscription belongs to the first phase of the painting, and proves crucial for a better understanding of its iconography: the presence of the ‘Muqawqis’, who must have been already next to the Roman, Persian and Ethiopian kings, suggests that the scene originally referred to a celebrated event of early Islamic history, namely the embassies sent by Muhammad to the six ‘kings of the earth’ – including the ghassânid phylarch and the lord of the Yamâmah – in the year 6 H (= AD 628). The relevant ancient traditions, perfectly fitting in with the painting, were later canonised by Ibn Ishâq (d. AD 761) and al-Wâqidî (d. AD 823). The bilingual inscriptions, among which is the one transforming the ‘Muqawqis’ into ‘Caesar’, are thus likely to belong to a subsequent phase.42 Cheddadi, following the theories of Oleg Grabar and Glen Bowersock, considers the Qusayr ‘Amrah painting as an illustration of the ancient concept of the ‘Family of Kings’, that is to say the Persian idea of a spiritual family relationship between the rulers of the world.43 But we have seen that this interpretation is confuted by philological examination of the painting. Beyond the superficial continuity of the artistic forms, it is therefore evident that to understand the real significance of the Qusayr ‘Amrah painting we must look more to Islamic tradition in the strict sense than to the common background of Hellenism and Islâm.44 This example should serve as a warning to those scholars who emphasise the role of the Greek heritage in the formation of Islamic civilisation. 4. Gesta dei per homines: the late antique and early Byzantine chronicles The trend in studies to promote systematic comparison between late antique, early Byzantine and Islamic historiographical traditions has produced another noteworthy work, Bernd Radtke’s Weltgeschichte und Weltbeschreibung im mittelalterlichen Islam. This work, born as a commentary on a text by the cosmographer Ibn al-Dawâdârî, expanded and became a ponderous study of universal history in Christianity and Islâm.45 Radtke rejects the idea of a more or less direct dependence of early Islamic historiography upon non-Islamic historiography, but in his analysis of Muslim Weltgeschichte he refers continuously to the already existing studies in Christian historiography. As a matter of fact, from the Christian point of view as well as from the Islamic one, human life and history make

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Marco Di Branco sense only with reference to God: it is not by chance that in the Christian Orient and in the lands of Islâm world history is narrated as sacred history. Typical results of this frame of mind are the so-called universal chronicles, often wrongly considered as an expression of cultural decline.46 These chronicles have the delicate task of answering the new questions about the interpretation of the past which originate from the Christianisation of the Roman empire.47 As Arnaldo Momigliano noticed, ‘the jump from the creation of scientific chronology in the third century BC to the Christian canons is a wide one’;48 however, the chronological problems which the early universal chronicles had to deal with were completely different from those of the past. The task of Christian chroniclers was a hard one: they had to establish the exact chronology of the vicissitudes of God’s people beginning from the Creation.49 In fact, the scope of such texts was to record the key events of world history from the specific Christian point of view, which identified in them important stages of the realisation of the divine project of salvation. The language of these chronicles was very close to oral expression: in this way they became the most popular instrument of recording the past for a Christian public. Cyril Mango correctly observed that the idea of history formulated by the Byzantines is ‘a construct of the Christian and Jewish apologists … and its ingredients were mostly biblical with an admixture from other sources, both classical and oriental, but always subordinated to the teaching of the Bible’. This idea is at the same time providential and didactic, and is extraordinarily similar to the Orthodox Islamic vision of universal history such as we find in the great Islamic historian Tabarî (d. 923).50 From such a mindset derives a fundamental feature of this type of literature: in order to avoid continuous paraphrases in the account of the early events, the majority of the chroniclers chose to copy – sometimes word-for-word – the works of their predecessors, modifying them only if they wanted to provide an original interpretation of some specific events. Therefore a sort of transmission chain was created: the most ancient texts were ‘co-opted’ within the most recent ones, which somehow represented an update, eventually used – and copied – by other authors.51 5. An exceptional model: the Chronographia by John Malalas If the theoretical reference point of late antique chronography is certainly the Chronicon by Eusebius, its great literary model is the Chronographia by John Malalas,52 which, to use an apt phrase of Elizabeth M. Jeffreys, ‘puts a little flesh onto the bare bones of Eusebius’.53 Malalas’ narrative structures, inserting themselves in the Eusebian scheme, originated a fundamental paradigm, which for many centuries to come remained at the base of one of the most important historiographical Byzantine trends. The new role taken by biblical history in Malalas’ works and above all

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13. A Rose in the Desert? the need to connect it, even chronologically, with classical history, caused the re-evaluation – often in an euhemeristic sense54 – of the myths related to the war of Troy, useful to establish specific temporal connections,55 as well as a growing attention to the Judaic and Oriental world. This ‘mythical history’, which had already undergone a remarkable revival between the first and second century AD,56 would be harshly criticised by Procopius, who categorically stated that myth had nothing to do with history (save for making large use in his own work of rationalised mythical tales).57 According to Malalas, as well as according to the majority of the Byzantine historians, the only noteworthy governmental form is the empire (a state without emperor is not civilised or, even worse, it is not a state at all): from this position derives an absolute lack of interest in the history of the Greek cities (Malalas devotes to Periclean Athens only one line of his Chronographia)58 and of republican Rome. From this derives a subordination of the Greek element within Byzantine civilisation to the Roman imperial component, which would lead to a vision of Byzantium as a summa of Christianity and Roman spirit, where the Greek heritage is totally unimportant, and even more, in that it is pagan, represents a danger to the souls of good Christians.59 In Malalas’ work – as well as in the work of his contemporary Cosmas Indicopleustes –space is given to the theory of the translatio imperii (‘transfer of rule’), which identifies in the Roman empire the climax of the succession of kingdoms: as a consequence the author is particularly interested in the relationship between empire and church,60 in the deeds of the saints (not infrequently inserted into the heart of narrations concerning political and military events)61 and in the theosophic doctrines according to which the reflections of the Greek philosophers anticipated the divine revelation: the Chronographia quotes several times the renowned Theosophia of Tübingen, in which the Athenian philosophers announce the coming of Christ.62 Malalas also evinces a fascination for ancient monuments, seen as the relics of the ancient grandeur of the cities, and for the literary genre of the mirabilia (for example, the Patria of Constantinople), in which – as Gilbert Dagron has demonstrated in a masterly manner – we find the relation between past and future, between the ancestral memories of the city and the oracles and the prophecies relating to it. These latter can be revealed only by a key character, the philosopher: ‘the person who knows, either through different techniques or through a reading which is almost a deciphering, how to combine present, past and future, the one who asks himself and who must find for everything an explanation and a mystery’.63 In a similar perspective, time seems to contract and the events of more distant times are reconstructed on the basis of categories belonging to recent history. These characteristics of Malalas’ Chronographia may appear eccentric, but they must have been largely shared by numerous chronicles of earlier date, today unfortunately lost.64 The same can be said of another important

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Marco Di Branco characteristic of Malalas’ work, the absence of a real critical interpretation of events, an absence which also characterises Procopius, a historian whose mindset is quite distant from that of Malalas.65 From the linguistic point of view, it is to be stressed that Malalas’ chronicle is the first work of Greek literature set in an absolutely vernacular register: his language is a popular one, rich in formulaic repetition, which makes it very similar to the spoken language: this is undoubtedly one of the main secrets of his success.66 Indeed, the Chronographia was widely diffused and extensively cited by the chronicles of later ages, and this explains its survival as an independent text. Malalas’ work had a conspicuous influence even beyond the Greek-speaking world, and in particular in the Syriac world, where we find it employed by many of the main chroniclers, from Ps.-Dionysius of Tel-Mahrê, whose work was completed in 775 AD, to Michael Syrus (twelfth century AD).67 This last element is particularly relevant: as is well known, the Syriac chronicles represent one of the main sources through which the Arabic historians had access to Greek and Roman history. This means that the vision of such history transmitted to the Islamic world through the Syriac medium was deeply influenced by Malalas’ approach. One must therefore seriously take into consideration the possibility of an indirect impact of the Chronographia’s model upon the development of Islamic historiography. Unfortunately such circumstances seem to completely escape the attention of Cheddadi, in whose work John Malalas is not even mentioned.68 6. Universal historiography between Byzantium and Islâm With the beginning of the tenth century AD we meet three different types of universal Islamic history. They were preceded by Dînawarî’s chronicle, a synchronised presentation of Biblical, Persian and pre-Islamic Arabic history. The first of these three types of world history is the work of Ya‘qûbî (d. c. 900 AD), which begins with Biblical history and replaces political history with cultural history. The second type is represented by the world history of the great Muslim theologian Tabarî (d. 923 AD). This work was incomparably more important than that of Ya‘qûbî, who was soon all but forgotten. Tabarî brought to his history the scrupulousness of the theologian and the accuracy of the jurist. Its pre-Islamic history is restricted to a synchronised presentation of Islamised Biblical history, Arab history and Persian history. No notice is taken of the widening of the historical and cultural horizon which had taken place during Tabarî’s life. The third great universal history of the period is the work of Mas‘ûdî. In this book the story of the creation of the world is followed by a physical description of the earth. The treatment of pre-Islamic Arabs which stresses the cultural elements in their history is combined with a discus-

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13. A Rose in the Desert? sion of all foreign nations known to the Muslims of the tenth century. Very little space is given to the history of the Prophet. As we have seen, scholars such as Rosenthal and Radtke are excessively cautious about the possibility of direct influence of Byzantine and Syriac models upon the formation of Islamic universal historiography. However, they make allowances for influence upon annalistic and universal history: according to Rosenthal ‘there can be little objection to the assumption that Muslim annalistic historiography in its beginning was indebted to Greek and Syriac models’;69 according to Radtke, the Vorbilder and the Ordnungsschemata belonging to the Islamic conception of universal history are to be looked for, at least in part, ‘im syrisch-byzantinischen christlichen Raum’.70 Both the Byzantine universal chronicles and the Islamic ones narrate the vicissitudes of God’s people on earth starting from Creation, and for this reason they belong to all intents and purposes to the sphere of the ‘ilm, the divine science approved and transmitted by the ‘ulamâ’, that is, the religious elite.71 In the same way, history is considered ‘ibrah, an enlightening example, which reveals the providential divine design, just as the cosmos itself reveals the wisdom of God.72 Further elements common to both historiographies are the idea of the translatio imperii; the lack of interest in other political experiences; the radical distortions of temporality, which made myth very close to history;73 the strong interest in mirabilia (‘ajâ’ib), prophecies and apocryphal traditions;74 and the stratification of historiographical materials without an evident principle.75 Finally, two further and fundamental common peculiarities are the trend to embed, with slight variants, predecessors’ narrations and the use of formulae and structures recalling the oral tradition. In this regard, it is legitimate to wonder whether, as the vulgata state, such use in Muslim historiography derives from the ‘interplay of oral and written tradition’,76 or whether – as the convincing considerations by Abbott and Sezgin on the early affirmation of writing in the Islamic context would have us believe – it is rather the product of a specific stylistic choice within a tradition which is, all things considered, literary. One must however keep in mind that this view of the formation of Muslim historiography (consisting of its representation of ‘ancient history’, that is pre-Islamic), runs the risk of excessively stressing the elements of continuity while underestimating the elements of rupture among the various historiographical traditions of late antiquity. This is all the more true since, in the narration of facts relating to non Islamic people and the empires prior to the advent of Islâm, Muslim historians reveal themselves to be ineluctably influenced by their sources, not only as regards content, but also from the formal and structural point of view. In this sense one can easily share the reflections of R. Stephen Humphreys and Khalidi regarding the tight bond present in the Islamic chronicles between the idea of Islâm as a ‘decisive break in world history’

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Marco Di Branco and the use of renovated narrative structures (even of qur’ânic derivation) in the narration of its achievements .77 At the same time it is undeniable that the vicissitudes of the ‘prophets and kings’ before the Revelation offered to Muslim universal historians a never-ending repertoire of themes and models, such as, for example, the annalistic scheme which, almost paradoxically, was applied more to the events relating to the Islamic community itself rather than to the narrations of pre-Islamic history from which it derives.78 It therefore appears quite appropriate to extend to historiography what Oleg Grabar has correctly theorised for the formation of Muslim art: the idea that the originality of the new Islamic language is based on the re-elaboration and the re-interpretation of a vocabulary and grammatical rudiments from the whole conquered world, and in particular from Byzantium.79 7. The mystery of the ‘missing translations’ In order to underline those ‘links between the eastern Christian and early Muslim historiographic traditions’ which according to Humphreys ‘remain to be explored’,80 one last question should be discussed: that of the relative paucity of Arabic translations of Greek, Roman and Syriac historiographical works. Only one Latin text translated into Arabic has come down to us, the Historiae adversus paganos by Orosius, and in all the Arabic literature fewer than ten classical works translated into Arabic are mentioned: the kanon basileiôn (Canon of Kings) by Claudius Ptolemy; the history by John Philoponus;81 the History of Philosophers by Porphyry;82 the Chronicon by Jerome;83 a section of the Etymologiae by Isidore of Seville;84 a Byzantine chronicle by a certain Anianus dating to the fifth century (also known in the Syriac context);85 a chronicle dating to the sixth century and composed by a certain Andronicus;86 an anonymous Byzantine Kleinchronik;87 a History of the Greeks translated into Arabic by Habîb b. Bahrîz from Mosul;88 a historical Byzantine work translated by an anonymous author, used by the judge Wakî‘ (d. 918), famous for the history of Muslim juriconsults.89 If to this list we add some brief pieces of information on Eusebius (read by the Christians of Syria, especially in the abridged version, and very popular, through a Christian intermediary, also among the Muslims),90 and sporadic references to other authors contained in the work by Abû ‘Îsâ b. al-Munaggim (eleventh century), citing the Contra Iulianum of Cyril of Alexandria;91 Abû Sulaymân al-Sigistânî (d. 985 AD), who knows Thucydides’ name and refers to sayings credited to him;92 Gibrîl ibn Buhtîšû‘ (d. 1006 AD) and Mas‘ûdî (d. 956 AD), who mention several writings of Greek and Byzantine history,93 we will have a quite complete, if uninspiring, picture of direct and explicitly attested relations between late antique Greco-Roman and Syriac historiography and Arabic historiography. Obviously, scholars have many times asked themselves the reasons for

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13. A Rose in the Desert? this apparent lack of interest, on the Islamic side, in Occidental historical works: according to Spuler and Rosenthal, for example, pagan GrecoRoman literature would have looked suspicious to Muslim theologians (unlike scientific texts, which usually did not attract any objection), limiting their diffusion and translation.94 In Lewis’ opinion, on the contrary, everything should be explained by reference to the absolute lack of intellectual curiosity of the Muslim man, deriving from his deep belief in the ‘finality, completeness, and essential self-sufficiency of his civilization’.95 However, the enigma of the ‘missing translations’ may find another solution if we take into account the idea of translation in medieval Arabic culture. In a fundamental essay, Dimitri Gutas has clearly demonstrated that in the view of the great Arabic translators of the early ‘Abbâsid period, the main criterion used to identify the text to be translated is not its form (that is, the specific and precise chain of words), but rather its content, for which it was consulted in the first place.96 Muslim scholars were not therefore interested in the texts as such, but in their fundamental core, and above all in their practical utility. If this is correct, the supposed enigma can be seen in a different light: it is enough to consult the Greco-Roman sections of any Muslim universal history to find in a condensed form everything that Islamic culture considered it useful to know about the history of those civilisations. They represent heterogeneous historical materials which substitute for translations:97 these texts can often be recognised and ascribed to specific sources (Alexander Romance, Malalas, Eusebius, etc.), but more often belong to the large group of Byzantine Kleinchroniken and Kaiserchroniken (not infrequently simple lists of kings and emperors from the Biblical era down to the Byzantine age).98 We could say that somehow they are themselves ‘interpretative translations’ in the sense specified by Gutas, that is to say without any interest in philological accuracy or correspondence to the original, but with a strong inclination towards selection and synthesis of information that was considered useful. Not acknowledging their existence (and their origin) simply because the explicit citation of the sources is missing, means ignoring the dynamics of ancient and medieval historiography. On the other hand, just as the Arabic translations of scientific and philosophical Greek texts are always aimed at applied and theoretical science, in the same way the historical synthesis derived from Greek and Syriac sources was immediately put to the service of Islamic historiography, which incorporates them, making (with few exceptions)99 the creation of autonomous translations of historical texts superfluous. It is evident that the activities of translation and synthesis could involve only those Greek and Syriac works that were easily accessible and, above all, in line with the historical vision proper to Islamic history. To Lewis, who laments the fact that Muslims had no curiosity for Greek history narrated by Herodotus or by Thucydides, one could object that not even the Byzantines, legitimate heirs of the Greeks, were very much

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Marco Di Branco interested in it: the history of the polis remains, in every sense, outside the providentialistic Islamo-Christian perspective.100 Notes 1. Gibb (1926) 116. Cf. also Goodman (2003) 172ff. For editorial reasons, the transliteration of Arabic has been simplified. 2. Lewis (1962) 181. 3. Sauvaget (19612) 24-41. 4. Cahen (1986) 133-98. 5. Margouliouth (19722). 6. Rosenthal (19682) 8-17, (1962) 35-45. 7. Goldziher (1969) 382. 8. See Spuler (1955) 127; Dûrî (1983) 58f.; Rosenthal (19682) 74f.; Desomogyi (1988) 374; Cahen (1986) 141f.; Busse (1987) 264-8; Springberg-Hinsen (1989) 5ff.; Humphreys (1989) 273f. 9. Dûrî, The Rise of Historical Writing among the Arabs. 10. Donner (1998). 11. Khalidi (1994). 12. Radtke (1991), (1992). 13. Goldziher (1890). 14. Schacht (1949), (1967) 138-59. 15. Wansbrough (1977), (1978). 16. Cook and Crone (1977). Cf. also Crone (1980), (1987). 17. Burton (1977). 18. Juynboll (1983). 19. Noth (19942). 20. See Abbott (1957); Sezgin (1967) 51-389. Cf. Khoury (1986). 21. See Radtke (1985) 59-70, (1992), 4-7. 22. Luxenberg (20042). On the debate about this work see id. (2005). 23. Cameron, Conrad, Haldon and King (eds) (1992-2004). The question of the relationship between late antique and Islamic historiography is completely absent from the important work by Leder (1992) 277-315. 24. See especially Bowersock (1990); Fowden (2004). 25. al-Azmeh (2001). 26. Robinson (2003) 46-50. 27. Cheddadi (2004). 28. Ibid. 20f. Calasso (1994) 207f. 29. Rosenthal (1962). 30. Ibid. 45. 31. Rosenthal (1968) 75-81. 32. Ibid. 80. For a similar undervaluation of the influence of the late antique historiography over the formation of Islamic historiography see also Spuler (1955) 128f. 33. Cheddadi (1998) 141-50. 34. Cheddadi (2004) 126-63. 35. Ibid. 136-57. 36. Ibid. 136-40. 37. Ibid. 187-97. 38. Cf. ibid. 15-21.

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13. A Rose in the Desert? 39. On this point see the important considerations by Giardina (1999) 157-80. In the same perspective Morony (1989) 21-5. 40. Fowden (2004) 198. 41. Littmann (1955). 42. See Di Branco (2008) 597-620. 43. Cheddadi (2004) 26-32. 44. Following Bowersock (1990) 81, monuments of the early Islamic period such Qusayr ‘Amrah and the mosaics of Umm al-Rasâs would represent the proof of the indigenous character of Hellenism in that part of the new Islamic world and the proof that at least some of the roots of Islam were embedded in that local Hellenism. If it is true that – as it has been well demonstrated by Monneret de Villard (1966) 23-88 and Grabar (1989) – the Hellenistic figurative language is one of the fundamental ‘ingredients’ in the formation of Islamic art, we must underline that this language is employed only in a superficial form, deprived of all its deepest contents and communicating values which are in large part foreign to the GraecoRoman world. The appropriation of such language by some of the Islamic artists, rather than demonstrating their striking root in the ‘local Hellenism’, appears to be dictated by the fact that the refined figurative Hellenistic (as well as Sasanian) culture represented for the Muslims the main reference point for the elaboration of an elite form of art, essential for the Islamic empire still in formation. One wonders whether the idea itself of ‘local Hellenism’ is not a contradiction in terms and whether it is not more appropriate to speak of flourishing of local identities in spite of Hellenism, a universalistic and elite phenomenon par excellence. See on this subject Mazzarino (19882) 164-70. 45. Radtke (1992) VIIf. 46. See, e.g., Jones (1966) 3; Whitby (1992) 25-80. 47. See in particular Gelzer (1898); Adler (1989); Croke (1990); Mortley (1990), (1996) 151-204; Nilsson (2006); Roberto (2006) 3-16. 48. Momigliano (1975) 17. 49. On the concept of time in paganism and Christianity is still fundamental Mazzarino (19832) n. 555, 412-61. On the relationship between ancient historiography and Christian revelation see Becker (2005) 1-17. 50. Mango (1984) 57. On Tabarî’s conception of history, see especially Rosenthal (1989) 5-154; Khalidi (1994) 73-82; Radtke (1992) 16-27; Robinson (1993) 32-6; and lately Shoshan (2004) 85-107. 51. See, e.g., Jeffreys (1979) 199-238. 52. Ioann. Mal. Chron., ed. I. Thurn (Berolini et Novi Eboraci, 2000: CFHB, XXXV). 53. Cf. Jeffreys (1979) 216. 54. Jeffreys (1979) 223f. 55. See, e.g., Goulet (1987) 137-64. 56. See, e.g., Bowersock (1989) 407-14. 57. Proc. Bell. 8.1. 12-13, to be compared with 8.2.12-15 and 30-1, and 8.3. 5-11. Cf. Cameron (1985) 216-19; Scott (1990) 70-8. 58. Ioann. Mal. Chron., ed. I. Thurn, VI 27. 59. See especially Bratianu/Iassi (1937) 86-111; Irmscher (1981) 569-80, (1982); Cavallo (1986) 91-9; Jeffreys (1979) 227-34, (1990) 60f. 60. On Malalas and ecclesiastical history see now Martin (2004) 85-102. 61. See Boulhol (2004). 62. Cf. Bidez (1902); Jeffreys (1990) 63f.; Scott (1990) 68f.

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Marco Di Branco 63. Dagron (1984) 59. On the Patria see Cameron and Herrin (1984). On this topic see now M. Di Branco (2005). 64. Jeffreys (1979) 522, and Scott (1990) 69. 65. See Cameron (1985) passim; Scott (1990) 71. 66. See Helms (1971-72) 313f.; James (1990); Jeffreys (2003) 511f. 67. See Witakowski (1990) 299-310, (1987) 35-8; Debié (2004) 147-64. 68. On the contrary, according to Rosenthal (19682) 76, ‘in Ioannes Malalas, we thus have exactly the same annalistic form and contents encountered later on in Muslim annalistic historiography’, and nevertheless he tends to deny (loc. cit, n. 4) a ‘direct knowledge of Malalas by the Muslims’. 69. Rosenthal (19682) 77. 70. Radtke (1992) 160. 71. Ibid. 152f.; Springberg-Hinsen (1989) 135-44. 72. On the Islamic concept of ‘ibrah see now Azmeh (1984) 109. 73. Ibid. 101ff. 74. Cf. Radtke (1992) 185. 75. Cf. Scott (1990) 76. 76. See Leder (1992) 277-315; Beaumont (1996); Robinson (1993) 25f. 77. Khalidi (1975) 114; Humphreys (1989) 274. 78. See Radtke (1992) 163ff. 79. Grabar (1989) 257-70. 80. Humphreys (1989), n. 10, 288. 81. See Meyerhof (1932) 12-14. 82. See Rosenthal (19682) 77f. 83. See Dietrich (1971) 95. 84. Ibid. 95. 85. See Rosenthal (19682) 79. 86. Ibid. 78f. 87. Ibid. 78. 88. Ibid. 79. 89. Rosenthal (19682) 79. 90. Ibid. 78 and n. 3. About Eusebius’ fortune in the Syriac world see especially S. Brock, Eusebius in Syriac Christianity, in Eusebius, Christianity, and Judaism, ed. H.W. Attridge and G. Hata (Detroit, 1992): 212-34 (= id., From Ephrem to Romanos: Interactions between Syriac and Greek in Late Antiquity, AldershotBurlington, nr. II). 91. Rosenthal (19682) 79. 92. Siwân al-hikmah, §133, ed. ‘Abd al-Rahmân Badawî (Tehran, Intishârât Bunyâd Farhang Irân, 1974). 93. Rosenthal (19682) 79. Cf. also Goodman (2003) 171. 94. Spuler (1955) 128 f.; Rosenthal (19682) 75f., (1975) 24-8.4 95. Lewis (1962) 180f. 96. Gutas (2002) 164f. 97. An analogous phenomenon happens in the Syriac tradition. Cf., e.g., Debié (2004) 149. 98. See especially Schreiner (1967) 3-6. 99. In this regard, we must underline that Levi Della Vida (1954) has demonstrated that also the famous Arabic version of Orosius is not a literal translation, rather an interpretative one: in it we can find several interpolations coming from other sources. 100. See also Robinson (2003) 131f.

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Marco Di Branco Croke, B., ‘The origins of the Christian world chronicle’, in B.C. and A.M. Emmet (eds), History and Historians in Late Antiquity (Sydney and Oxford): 116-31 (= id., Christian Chronicles and Byzantine History, 5th-6th Centuries, AldershotBrookfield, 1992, nr. III). Crone, P. (1980), Slaves on Horses: The Evolution of the Islamic Polity (London and New York). Crone, P. (1987), Meccan Trade and the Rise of Islam (Princeton). Dagron, G. (1984), Constantinople imaginaire (Paris). Debié, M. (2004), ‘Jean Malalas et la tradition chronographique de langue syriaque’, in J. Beaucamp (ed.), Recherches sur la Chronique de Jean Malalas I (Paris): 147-64. Desomogyi, J. (1988), ‘The development of Arabic historiography’, Journal of Semitic Studies 3: 373-87. Di Branco, M. (2005), ‘Atene immaginaria’, Rendiconti dell’Accademia dei Lincei, Classe di Scienze Morali, Storiche e Filologiche, s. IX, 16: 65-134. Di Branco, M. (2008), ‘I sei sovrani di Qusayr ‘Amrah’, Rendiconti dell’Accademia dei Lincei, Classe di Scienze Morali, Storiche e Filologiche, s. IX, 18: 597-620. Dietrich, A., ‘Hellas und Rom in der islamischen Geschichte’, in Festschrift für H. Heimpel I (Göttingen), 81-101. Donner, F.M., Narratives of Islamic Origins: The Beginnings of Islamic Historical Writing (Princeton). Dûrî, ‘A. (1983), The Rise of Historical Writing among the Arabs (1960), tr. L. Conrad (Princeton). Fowden, G. (2004), Qusayr ‘Amra. Art and the Umayyad Elite in Late Antique Syria (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London). Gelzer, H. (1898), Sextus Iulius Africanus und die byzantinische Chronographie (Leipzig). Giardina, A. (1999), ‘Esplosione di tardoantico’, Studi Storici 4: 157-80. Gibb, H.A.R. (1926), Arabic Literature (Oxford). Goldziher, I. (1890), Muhammedanische Studien II (Halle). Goldziher, I. (1969), Historiography in Arabic Literature, in id. (ed.), Gesammelte Schriften III (Hildesheim): 359-94. Goodman, L.E. (2003), Islamic Humanism (Oxford). Goulet, R. (1987), ‘Porphyre et la datation de Moïse’, Revue de l’histoire des religions 184: 137-64 Grabar, O. (1989), Arte islamica. La formazione di una civiltà (1973), Italian tr. M. Parizzi (Milan). Gutas, D. (2002), Pensiero greco e cultura araba (1998), Italian tr. C. Martini (Turin). Helms, P. (1971-72), ‘Syntaktische Untersuchungen zu Ioannes Malalas und Georgios Sphrantzes’, Helikon 11-12: 309-88. Humphreys, R.S. (1989), ‘Qur’anic myth and narrative structure in early Islamic historiography’, in F.M. Clover and R.S. Humphreys (eds), Tradition and Innovation in Late Antiquity (Madison): 271-90. Irmscher, J. (1981), ‘Hellenische Polis und byzantinisches Staatsdenken’, Revue des études sud-est européennes 19: 569-80. Irmscher, J. (1982), ‘L’ideologia ellenica della polis e i Bizantini’, Byzantinische Forschungen 8: 71-85. James, A. (1990), ‘Language of Malalas, 1: A general survey’, in E.M. Jeffreys, B. Croke and R. Scott (eds), Studies in John Malalas (Sydney): 217-25.

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13. A Rose in the Desert? Jeffreys, E.M. (1979), ‘The attitudes of Byzantine chroniclers towards ancient history’, Byzantion 49: 199-238. Jeffreys, E.M. (1990), ‘Malalas’ world view’, in E.M. Jeffreys, B. Croke and R. Scott (eds), Studies in John Malalas (Sydney): 55-66. Jeffreys, E.M. (2003), ‘The beginning of Byzantine chronography: John Malalas’, in G. Marasco (ed.), Greek and Roman Historiography in Late Antiquity (Leiden and Boston): 497-527. Jones, A.H.M., The Decline of the Ancient World (London and New York). Juynboll, G.H.A. (1983), Muslim Tradition: Studies in Chronology, Provenance and Authorship of Early Hadith (Cambridge). Khalidi, T. (1975), Islamic Historiography: The Histories of Mas‘udi (Albany, NY). Khalidi, T. (1994), Arabic Historical Thought in the Classical Period (Cambridge). Khoury, R.G., ‘Abd Allâh ibn Lahî‘a (97-174/715-790): juge et grand maître de l’école égyptienne. Avec édition critique de l’unique rouleau de papyrus arabe conservé à Heidelberg (Wiesbaden). Leder, S. (1992), ‘The literary use of the khabar: a basic form of historical writing’, in A. Cameron and L.I. Conrad (eds), The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East. I. Problems in the Literary Source Material (Princeton): 277-315. Levi Della Vida, G., ‘La traduzione araba delle storie di Orosio’, Al-Andalus 19: 257-93 (= id., Note di storia letteraria arabo-ispanica, a c. di M. Nallino, Rome 1971: 79-107). Lewis, B. (1962), ‘The use by Muslim historians of non-Muslim sources’, in B. Lewis and P.M. Holt (eds), Historians of the Middle East (London): 180-91 (= id., Islam in History, Chicago-La Salle, 19932: 115-27). Littmann, E. (1955), ‘Mukaukis im Gemälde von Kusair ‘Amra’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 105 (1955): 287-89. Luxenberg, Ch. (20042), Die Syro-aramäische Lesart des Koran (Berlin). Luxenberg, Ch. (2005), Streit um den Koran. Die Luxenberg-Debatte: Standpunkte und Hintergründe (Berlin). Mango, C. (1984), ‘Discontinuity with the Classical Past in Byzantium’, in Byzantium and its Image (London). Margouliouth, D. (19722), Lectures on Arabic Historians (New York). Martin, A. (2004), ‘L’histoire ecclésiastique intéresse-t-elle Malalas?’, in J. Beaucamp (ed.), Recherches sur la Chronique de Jean Malalas I (Paris): 85-102. Mazzarino, S. (19832), Il pensiero storico classico III (Rome and Bari). Mazzarino, S. (19882), La fine del mondo antico (Milan). Meyerhof, C. (1932), ‘Joannes Grammatikos (Philoponos) von Alexandrien und die arabische Medizin’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Instituts für Ägyptische Altertumskunde in Kairo 2: 12-14. Momigliano, A. (1975), ‘Greek historiography’, History and Theory 18: 1-28 (= id., History and Biography, in The Legacy of Greece, Oxford 1981: 155-84). Monneret de Villard, U. (1966), Introduzione allo studio dell’archeologia islamica (Florence 1966). Morony, M.G. (1989), ‘Teleology and significance of change’, in F.M. Clover and R.S. Humphreys (eds), Tradition and Innovation in Late Antiquity (Madison), 21-5. Mortley, R. (1990), ‘The Hellenistic foundation of ecclesiastical historiography’, in G. Clarke (ed.), Reading the Past in Late Antiquity (Rushcutters Bay): 225-50. Mortley, R. (1996), The Idea of Universal History from Hellenistic Philosophy to Early Christian Historiography (Lewiston). Nilsson, I. (2006), ‘To narrate the events of the past: on Byzantine historians, and

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Marco Di Branco historians on Byzantium’, in J. Burke (ed.), Byzantine Narrative: Papers in Honour of R. Scott (Melbourne): 47-58. Noth, A. (19942), The Early Arabic Historical Tradition: A Source Critical Study, in collaboration with L.I. Conrad, tr. M. Bonner (Princeton). Radtke, B. (1985), ‘Das Wirklichkeitsverständnis islamischer Universalhistoriker’, Der Islam 62: 59-70. Radtke, B. (1991), ‘Towards a typology of Abbasid universal chronicles’, Occasional Papers of the School of Abbasid Studies 3: 1-18 Radtke, B. (1992), Weltgeschichte und Weltbeschreibung im mittelalterlichen Islam (Beirut and Stuttgart). Roberto, U. (2006), ‘Julius Africanus und die Tradition der hellenistischen Universalgeschichte’, in M. Wallraf (ed.), Julius Africanus und die christliche Weltchronistik (Berlin and New York): 3-16. Robinson, Ch.F. (2003), Islamic Historiography (Cambridge). Rosenthal, F. (1962), ‘The influence of the Biblical tradition on Muslim historiography’, in B. Lewis and P.M. Holt (eds), Historians of the Middle East (London): 35-45 (= id., Muslim Intellectual and Social History, London 1990, nr. IV). Rosenthal, F. (19682) History of Muslim Historiography (Leiden). Rosenthal, F. The Classical Heritage in Islam (1965), tr. E. and J. Marmorstein (London and New York): 24-8. Rosenthal, F. (1989), ‘General introduction’, in The History of Al-Tabarî, An Annotated Translation. I. General Introduction and From the Creation to the Flood (Albany, NY): 5-154. Sauvaget, J. (1961), Introduction à l’histoire de l’Orient musulman (Paris). Schacht, J. (1949), ‘A revaluation of Islamic traditions’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 1949: 143-54 (= ‘The Quest for the Historical Muhammad’, in M. Ibn Warraq [ed.], New York 2000: 358-67). Schacht, J. (1967), Origins of Muhammadan Jurisprudence (Oxford). Schreiner, P. (1967), Studien zu den Brachéa chroniká (München1967). Scott, R. (1990), ‘Malalas and his contemporaries’, in E.M. Jeffreys, B. Croke and R. Scott (eds), Studies in John Malalas (Sydney): 67-85. Sezgin, F. (1967), Geschichte des Arabischen Schrifttums I (Leiden). Shoshan, B. (2004), Poetics of Islamic Historiography: Deconstructing Tabarî’s History (Leiden and Boston). Springberg-Hinsen, M. (1989), Die Zeit vor dem Islam in arabischen Universalgeschichten des 9. bis 12. Jahrhunderts (Würzburg). Spuler, B. (1955), ‘Islamische und abendländische Geschichtschreibung’, Saeculum 6: 125-37. Wansbrough, J. (1977), Qur’anic Studies: Sources and Methods of Scriptural Interpretation (Oxford). Wansbrough, J. (1978), The Sectarian Milieu: Content and Composition of Islamic Salvation History (Oxford and New York). Whitby, M. (1992), ‘Greek historical writing after Procopius: variety and vitality’, in A. Cameron and L.I. Conrad (eds), The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East. I. Problems in the Literary Source Material (Princeton): 25-80. Witakowski, W. (1987), The Syriac Chronicle of Ps.-Dionysius of Tel-Mahre (Uppsala). Witakowski, W. (1990), ‘Malalas in Syriac’, in E.M. Jeffreys, B. Croke and R. Scott (eds), Studies in John Malalas (Sydney): 299-310.

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Universal Historiography and World History according to Hegel Allegra de Laurentiis Introduction G.W.F. Hegel’s theory of the relation between history and historiography must be culled from a variety of texts,1 principally the Lectures on the Philosophy of World History,2 delivered in the last decade of his life, and the political philosophy of his system, that is, the Philosophy of Right of 18213 and its abbreviated version in the Encyclopaedia of Philosophical Sciences (1830).4 In the Lectures, ‘world history’ (Weltgeschichte) and occasionally ‘universal world history’ (allgemeine Weltgeschichte) refer to the history of mankind as a whole. In the Philosophy of Right, however, ‘world history’ is more often used to refer to international events peculiar to modern history and their foreseeable developments – not unlike our contemporary use of ‘globalisation’. To begin with, the terminology at work in these texts requires a few clarifications. Hegel’s term Geschichte refers to the open-ended, noncyclical aspects of human life activities on earth.5 It denotes the social, political, economic, also artistic, religious, even psychological and physiological self-transformations of the species over time – the totality of which he calls ‘world spirit’ (Weltgeist). Accordingly, ‘spirit’ does not denote a ‘substance’ in the traditional metaphysical sense6 but rather the totality of processes and activities set in motion by human needs and actions. When the focus is on the dynamic aspect of this super-individual agency, Hegel calls it ‘the movement of spirit’. The study of spirit’s movement is the study of history. Hegel postulates and claims to prove that history exhibits a pattern.7 In keeping with Aristotelian and Stoic conceptions of world-immanent logos, he calls this discernible pattern the ‘logic’ of world spirit or ‘reason in history’. In agreement with the cultural optimism widely spread in the first half of his century, Hegel argues that this immanent principle produces with logical inevitability an expansion of the species’ capacities for self determination (‘freedom’) and a deepening of its self understanding (‘self-knowing’). Summing up his conception, Hegel writes: ‘World history is progress in the consciousness of freedom – a progress that we must comprehend in its necessity.’8 The proof that

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Allegra de Laurentiis freedom is the necessary end of history is contained in the logical-metaphysical foundation of Hegel’s system, the Science of Logic. The Lectures presuppose this proof and proceed to illustrate the objective presence of reason, thus the ultimate necessity of freedom, in the historical material treated. The first section of the present essay highlights the common and distinct uses of ‘world history’ in the Lectures and the Philosophy of Right, respectively. The following three sections make explicit the general features of history as subject-matter of Hegel’s investigations and stress the feature most relevant to our present theme, namely the essential role played by historiography in the shaping of history itself. The last section argues that Hegel’s classification of types of historiography directly depends upon his philosophical determination of the nature of history. The three main types are the ‘original,’ the ‘reflective’ and the ‘philosophical’ or ‘universal.’ Each comprehends in turn various subcategories. By Hegel’s own admission, the details of the classification have purely didactical purposes. The only theoretically relevant divide is that between the first two and the last type – that is, between non-philosophical and philosophical historiae rerum gestarum. The reason Hegel gives for the scientific superiority of the latter (which of course he also identifies with his own contribution to the ‘science of history’) lies in the ‘inwardised’ (erinnert) character that res gestae acquire once they are captured, interpreted and preserved in the collective recollection begun by their recording. ‘World history’ in the Lectures and in the Philosophy of Right Hegel lectured on the philosophy of history at the University of Berlin five times in all, between 1822 and the year of his death. Only the last of the five lecture cycles appears to have been formulated for publication purposes. All others, consistent with Hegel’s habit, are manuals written as memory props for public lecturing. The greatest extant portion of these lectures consists of transcriptions by students. Only a fraction is in Hegel’s own hand: the Introduction used in four semesters (1822-28), which includes the just mentioned catalogue of kinds of historiography;9 and an almost complete first part of the last lecture course.10 One table of contents11 in particular is apt to illustrate the range and organisation of the topics treated in the body of the Lectures. One may notice that in the classification of historiographies the qualifier ‘world’ is affixed to the philosophical kind only, indicating the uniquely universal character of a historiography whose object is the movement of spirit on a global scale.

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14. Universal Historiography and World History according to Hegel Table of Contents of the Lectures on the Philosophy of History 1822-23 The concept of a world history Modes of treatment of history Original historiography (Die ursprüngliche Geschichte) Reflective historiography (Die reflektierende Geschichte) Philosophical world historiography (Die philosophische Weltgeschichte) The idea of human freedom The nature of the state Partition of world history Itinerary of world history The Oriental world China India Persia Egypt The Greek world Periods of Greek history Origins of the Greek spirit (Ursprünge des griechischen Volksgeistes) Maturity of the Greek spirit Decline and downfall The Roman world Periods of Roman history Expansive development (Ausbildung) of Roman power Rome’s world dominion Rome’s downfall The Germanic world Historical periods of the Germanic world Preliminaries (Vorbereitung) of the early Middle Ages The Middle Ages The history of modernity (Die Geschichte der Neuzeit)

‘World History’ is also the title of the Philosophy of Right’s final chapter. Its main subdivisions repeat those of the Lectures. Yet under ‘External State-Right’ Hegel makes frequent use of ‘world history’ to denote something quite different. Table of Contents of the Philosophy of Right 1821, Part Three Third Part: The State A. Internal State-Right (Das innere Staatsrecht)

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Allegra de Laurentiis I. Internal constitution II. External sovereignty B. External State-Right (Das äussere Staatsrecht) C. World History [1. The Oriental realm (§355)] [2. The Greek realm (§356)] [3. The Roman realm (§357)] [4. The Germanic realm (§358)]

The modern state and its ‘state’ or condition of right (as opposed to the state or condition of nature of Hobbesian and Lockean memory), which Hegel refers to as Staat and Staatsrecht respectively, is explained in terms both of its internal structure (the ‘constitution’), whose principle is absolute sovereignty (A.I), and of its external relations to all other nationstates (international relations, A.II). The external relations of the state naturally depend upon its internal features, in particular upon the claim to absolute sovereignty sanctioned by the constitution. (As Hegel explains, absolute state-sovereignty is a modern concept. Patriarchal nations or peoples claim ‘independence’ but have no conception of absolute sovereignty.12) It follows that in modernity international relations will inevitably manifest the merely conditional and externally unenforceable claim of each state to absolute sovereignty vis-à-vis the identical claims of all others. From this Hobbesian dynamic follows the necessity of treaties and warfare (B). Hegel thinks of both these as necessary features of modern global relations in that they logically derive from the antagonism among limited entities (the nation-states) having identical claims to unlimited sovereignty. In this section, Hegel makes frequent use of the term ‘world history’ to refer to the global occurrences issuing from the specifically modern predicament of a plurality of supreme sovereign bodies. Yet since the following chapter on pre-modern epochs is also entitled ‘World History’, Hegel adds to the notion of modern world history the qualification of being ‘actual,’ wirkliche Geschichte or history proper, as distinguished from worldwide developments leading up to it. Dull innocence on the one hand, but also courage in the fight for formal recognition and in the search for revenge, on the other, characterize the time preceding the inception of actual history.13

Pre-modern developments, Hegel argues, take place in relative geographic, cultural, even ethnic isolation from one another. His views on the genealogy of the modern state are a variation upon Aristotle’s doctrine (in the Politics) of the predecessors of the Greek state: ‘The Hellenes were under royal rule before they came together, as the barbarians still are. Every family is ruled by the eldest … For they lived dispersedly, as was

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14. Universal Historiography and World History according to Hegel the manner in ancient times.’14 Similarly for Hegel, pre-modern epochal transformations are ‘worldwide’ only in hindsight. Though he never uses the term ‘potential history’, his references to modern history as ‘actual’ show that he views pre-modern epochs as quasi natural stages of an organic development towards a non-natural condition. Indeed he does speak of ‘natural principles’ embodied in particular cultures or peoples who represent by turns the spirit of past ages: History [Geschichte] is the shaping of spirit in form of events [Geschehen], that is, in form of … natural reality. Accordingly, the stages of this development are like immediately natural principles. On account of this naturalism, these principles are manifold and separate, and in such a way that each one falls to one people – constituting its geographical and anthropological existence.15

With the advent of modern civil society, of the nation state, and of their expansion on a global scale, the quasi- natural development of mankind ends. History turns into ‘actual world history’.16 To sum up this point: in Hegel’s Lectures, the concept of ‘world history’ refers to worldwide transformations in the life of the species that, unbeknownst to peoples and individuals, lead to the rise of modernity. In the Philosophy of Right ‘world history’ with the qualification ‘actual’ instead refers to global processes resulting from the pre-eminent polity of modernity, the nation-state. Whether this amounts to a reduction of the scope of ‘world history’ or to an expansion of ‘pre-history’ hardly matters. What matters is Hegel’s claim that there is a momentous change in the transition from the premodern to the modern age – a genuine watershed in the existence of mankind. This view affects profoundly Hegel’s judgment on the functions and types of historiography. Universal historiography proper becomes possible only in modernity, because only then does its object, the movement of spirit or history of mankind, become by itself17 universal. Accordingly, before turning to this and other characterisations of the writing of history, we shall briefly look at the main features of history itself. Immoralism and rationality of history The first set of features characterising the subject-matter of the historian is rather paradoxical. On the one hand, Hegel maintains that history offers the spectacle of a ‘slaughter bench’ on which the interests and existence of peoples and individuals are mercilessly sacrificed to indifferent forces beyond their control. On the other hand, he also claims that history can be grasped as an essentially rational process. Borrowing from an allegory by Friedrich Schiller, he actually speaks of history as a ‘tribunal’ of reason.18 In the impartial and non-moralistic view that alleg-

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Allegra de Laurentiis edly prevails in this court or Weltgericht, victorious civilisations represent a superior form of rationality that could not but prevail vis-à-vis the civilisations of the vanquished, thus justifying the latter’s incorporation, amalgamation or even oblivion – from which historians may only rescue them, as it were, post mortem. Needless to say, the idea of this world-historical court of justice is among Hegel’s most controversial.19 It cannot be discussed here, except to note that it rests on a prima facie reasonable distinction between moral and amoral agency. In most of modern philosophy, moral judgment can only be predicated of agents endowed with self-consciousness, not of the impersonal forces of nature or history. Hegel in particular does not subscribe to Leibnizian conceptions of a world history providentially guided by a personal God because he considers these extraneous to philosophy. On occasion, he does call world history a ‘theodicy’, but his conception of theos is closer to Aristotle’s divine nous than to the God of the Christian tradition. Indeed he often identifies God with the reason (Vernunft) intrinsic to nature and history.20 In this context, it is clear that evaluative criteria appropriate to actions carried out by individual subjects must differ substantially from criteria appropriate to processes of history or nature. The following passage from the Philosophy of Right well illustrates the point: Justice and virtue, wrongdoing, power and vice, … guilt and innocence … fortune and misfortune of states and individuals, all have determinate meaning and worth in the sphere of conscious reality … . World history falls outside these viewpoints. In it, the necessary moment … that is world spirit’s own present stage attains absolute legitimacy, and the people that lives and acts in this context achieves its accomplishment and fortune and fame.21

Accordingly, while world history takes place in sovereign indifference to the hopes and expectations of individuals and communities, the philosopher of history detects in its overall dynamic a direction towards increasingly rational, and this also means rightful, forms of the political life. Teleology of history Whether it is a slaughter bench or a rational court of justice, history for Hegel is a self-directed movement, that is, it is intrinsically teleological.22 Nomadic, familial, tribal forms of social life emerge, compete and eventually become absorbed in poleis and imperia. These in turn acquire, then lose, meaning, power and legitimacy on behalf of new orders, all of them eventually to merge (to be ‘aufgehoben’) into modernity. Yet modernity itself is a world in motion.23 The ‘movement of spirit’ is the continued actualisation of potentialities. It is driven by an internal principle. This is human self-determination, the inescapable, logically necessary goal of

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14. Universal Historiography and World History according to Hegel creatures of mind that Hegel interprets as progressive expansion ‘of the consciousness of freedom’.24 Much of Hegel’s theorising consists of a reworking of Aristotelian themes in view of theoretical goals beyond Aristotelian horizons.25 Hegel’s teleological understanding of history is no exception. His account of the ‘predecessors’ of the modern state is more than just reminiscent, mutatis mutandis, of the following outline of the origin of the polis from Aristotle’s Politics: In the first place there must be a union of those who cannot exist without one another, that the race may continue …, and a union of natural ruler and subject, that they may be preserved … Out of these two relationships first arises the family … When several families are united … the first society is the village … When several villages are united … the state comes into existence … for the sake of a good life. Therefore, if the earlier forms … are natural, so is the state, for it is their end … Furthermore, the state is by nature clearly prior to the family …, since the whole is by necessity prior to the part.26

As discussed above, Hegel shares Aristotle’s ‘historical naturalism’ but with a strong qualification, namely for use as a framework to refer to pre-modern history. By contrast, he shares fully the idea (expressed in the last line of the quote) that the chronologically last phenomenon in an ‘organic’ development is the logically first: Aristotle’s polis and Hegel’s Staat are simultaneously first principles and final causes of mankind’s moral evolution. Hegel however parts company with the Stagirite in two fundamental respects. First, the intrinsic telos of the whole movement, namely human self-determination, is for him well outside the realm of nature, that is, well beyond Aristotle’s ‘for the sake of a good life.’ Second, the non-natural character of the goal lends to the whole process an unnatural dimension: it is a movement of spirit away from its natural origin. While being firmly rooted in material nature as its necessary condition, history represents humanity’s increasing independence from natural determinacy. Natural systems aim at self-preservation and are therefore cyclic. Social systems aim at self-determination and thus display a peculiar open-endedness. We may say, in sum, that despite their methodological and intellectual kinship Hegel departs in a radical way from Aristotle in postulating that natural and historical metabolai differ fundamentally on account of the difference of their intrinsic ends. Constitution of history Hegel is of course not alone among modern thinkers in limiting the scope of naturalistic explanations of history. Giambattista Vico’s ‘new science’ and Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s inquiries into our ‘second nature’ are among his forerunners. Hegel’s original contribution lies in his theory of the constitutive role of historiography as ‘self-reflection’ of the historical spe-

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Allegra de Laurentiis cies. ‘Philosophical historiography’ is the kind of writing that best expresses this role. Instead of attempting to reconstruct Hegel’s involved argument for the central function of reflection (‘mediation’) in any manifestation of spirit, including its development as human culture, I will rather summarise his answer to a question germane to the argument: Why does the human animal have a history, rather than none? Simply put, the answer lies in the ‘universal’ and thus ‘indeterminate’ character of human nature. Contrary to widespread misconceptions of the phrase ‘human nature’, the fact of history shows that this so-called nature is not very ‘natural’ at all. Paradoxically, our physis consists in our relative deficiencies in all things natural. We are, quite literally, creatures of history. Individually, we are of course participants in nature’s cycles marked by birth, reproduction and death. But the life of the species displays features incompatible with the cyclic determinacy of the rest of nature. It rather displays a puzzling lack of determination. This feature Hegel calls our ‘indeterminate universality’ or, more concretely, ‘historicity’ (Geschichtlichkeit). For Hegel, a historical creature is not one that participates in temporality (after all, all natural creatures do) but one that also makes temporal events part of itself by internalising them. Human beings inwardise events by memorising,27 recording, and reflecting upon them as meaningful. Walter Jaeschke aptly characterises Hegel’s notion of Geschichtlichkeit as having a ‘double structure of temporality and reflection about temporality’.28 Hegel waxes lyrical about the Greeks as the first of the ‘historical peoples’, originators of mankind’s self-reflection, initiators – through Socrates’ gnôthi seauton – of the knowledge that we only are what we have become. Greece’s first writers of history connected fleeting and singular events ‘into a whole erect[ed] in the Temple of Mnemosyne, lending it immortal duration’.29 In this view, res gestae are not just chains of empirical events to be described or narrated. Rather, empirical events become res gestae once they are narrated or recollected. This implies that events with historical import are not found but constituted. The first constitutive act of history is historiography. By being consigned to Mnemosyne, past and transient facts become integral to humanity’s self-understanding and self-knowledge. They become history, and this means, they become part of the so-called nature of man. Hegel’s idea of the constitutive role of historiography in the making of history amounts to a revision of the traditional relation between objective res gestae and subjective historia rerum gestarum. For him, whether empirical events acquire objective historical import depends upon their perceived meaning – a non-empirical, collectively subjective factor.30 They acquire this meaning, in turn, by being recorded or recollected. The ambiguity of the word ‘history’ as both discipline and subject-matter in most European languages, Hegel adds, is not accidental. It reflects the fact that objective and narrated history always condition one another:

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14. Universal Historiography and World History according to Hegel The union of both meanings [has] a higher reason than mere accident; we must understand that the narration of history appears simultaneously with properly historical deeds and occurrences; they are brought forth by a common intrinsic ground.31

Hegel’s differentiation between merely empirical and properly historical subject matter is facilitated by the distinction between Historie and Geschichte in the German language. Consistent with ancient Greek and modern Enlightenment uses of ‘history’ for taxonomy,32 the German Historie refers to the narrative organisation of empirical material. Geschichte instead derives from geschehen, ‘to come into existence’ or ‘to become’. Thus the writing of Geschichte proper includes an account of the underlying developmental logic (the ‘intrinsic ground’) of deeds and events. This is ‘philosophical historiography’: a historiography based on a theory of the laws of history, just as theoretical physics is a science of the laws of nature.33 Typology of historiographies The 1822 Introduction to the Lectures on the Philosophy of History contains, next to a preliminary discussion of the ‘Geographic Foundation of World History’, Hegel’s typology of historiographies from their inception (Herodotus) to the present (Hegel). Hegel defines the following types (a list that he considers by and large exhaustive): original (ursprüngliche), reflective (reflektierende), general (allgemeine), pragmatic (pragmatische), critical (kritische), conceptual (begriffliche) and philosophical or universal historiography. The text offers various justifications for assigning particular historians to one or the other group (for example, Xenophon and Polybius are assigned to the first, Diodorus Siculus and Livy to the third, and so forth). For our present purpose, the most interesting aspect of this classification is the fact that no writer of Greek or Roman antiquity appears in the last category. In Hegel’s view, ancient writers cannot be universal historiographers in principle. The argument derives from a general methodological presupposition of his philosophy, one first explicated and put to use in the 1807 Phenomenology of Spirit. In a nutshell, the thesis is that the character, scope and methodology of thinking (‘modes of knowing’) change concurrently with transformations in the subject-matter being thought. Applied to our topic, this implies that historiography can be properly universal only in an epoch in which human history has itself become – or is becoming – universal history. Despite the large-scale migratory movements and farreaching geographical conquests of antiquity, Hegel claims that human history becomes ‘universal’ only at the onset of modernity. This, he argues, is due to the intrinsically expansionistic tendencies of modern society’s economic and cultural foundations: the ‘inner dialectic’ of production in

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Allegra de Laurentiis civil society, the ‘catholic’ proclivities of Christian culture, and the universal connotation of the secular concept of ‘human right’. These are the material, cultural and juridical facts that explain why only modern historiography can aspire to the title of a ‘universal’ science. The main divisions of the types of historiography listed above are among the ‘original,’ the ‘reflective’ and the ‘universal’. The following characterisations are based on three textual sources from Hegel’s corpus, each incomplete but complementary to the others:34 (a) Original historiography The common denominator of original historiographies is that they are written by eye witnesses or at least contemporaries of the subjects narrated. Through the act of recording, facts become meaningful events, events become representations in the individual and collective imagination (Vorstellung), and their uniqueness becomes repeatable.35 The function of these written accounts, Hegel says, is reminiscent of ‘the ancient Elysium, where heroes do forever the deeds they performed only once in their life’.36 Common features of original historiographies are the cultural identification of the author with the civilisation he writes about (‘the spirit of the author and the … spirit of the deeds … are one and the same’);37 the relative sophistication of a civilisation that can afford to record itself; and the author’s association with the leadership of his time – not so much the wealthy or erudite as rather the military or political commanders. This social bond with men of action, Hegel writes, enables historians’ ‘farsightedness’ as opposed to the philistine views of those ‘who from beneath look up through the bottleneck of moralism or other such wisdom’.38 Despite its name, ‘original historiography’ is not limited to antiquity, though its greatest masters are Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Polybius and Caesar. The genre becomes rare in the Middle Ages where, Hegel maintains, ‘political consciousness is underdeveloped’.39 In modernity it proliferates in the form of memoirs ranging from the petty and philistine – the German – to the masterly – the French.40 Since the original historiographer lives immersed in his Zeitgeist, but reflection requires distance, his work is unreflective. He shares candidly the ethos of the epoch. In a sense, original historiography is always autobiographical: the deeds of the people are deeds of the author and his circles; the events of the time are events of his life; the thoughts he attributes to his heroes – for example, Pericles’ speeches in Thucydides’ account – echo his own thoughts. There is no affectation in the writer’s identification with his subject-matter because ‘the content and form of his consciousness’ are genuinely the same as ‘the content and form of those he makes speak thus’.41 Accordingly, original historiography is limited to treating a relatively short period of time. Eventually, the need arises for a writing of history that reaches beyond individuals’ lived experience and the present.

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14. Universal Historiography and World History according to Hegel (b) Reflective historiography. This is composed under conditions remarkably different from those of the world narrated. Attempting to hide this distance, the historian often fakes contemporaneousness with his subject. Yet he betrays his pretences by becoming judgmental and weaving the narration with moralistic, ‘edifying reflections, Christian and otherwise’. Some reflective historiographies are ideologically fraught ‘compilations’ of original works. Hegel has little patience with these. He exemplifies them with Livy’s ab urbe condita (compared unfavourably to Polybius’ Histories) and, among the moderns, with the chronicler of the Swiss Confederation, J. von Mueller.42 A second variation of reflective historiography is the ‘pragmatic’. While ignoring the motives and passions of their subjects, ‘pragmatic’ historiographers do not pretend contemporaneousness. Firmly and explicitly rooted in the concerns of their present, they manage to lend liveliness to a past presumed dead. Hegel does not mention specific works here, but hints at imperial (Roman), nationalistic (German) and revolutionary (French) interests as guiding and forcing the hand of pragmatic historians.43 A third kind of reflective historiography is labelled, quite dismissively, ‘critical’. This is not so much writing about history as rather writing about writings on history. B.G. Niebuhr’s Römische Geschichte (1811-32) is the epitome of this approach. According to Hegel, only the wit of the writer can make these works shed light on the subject. French wit, for example, has produced much that is quite good in ‘critical’ histories; in Germany instead fashionable ‘higher criticism’ has taken hold of the discipline, abandoning reality and losing itself in the misty regions of ‘digressions and fantasies’.44 The final subcategory of reflective historiography is the ‘conceptual.’ By this Hegel means the reasoned, developmental reconstruction of particular human endeavours whose significance extends to the whole of human history: the history of the arts, of science, of jurisprudence and so on. As a whole, reflective historiography has one advantage over the ‘original’. Having gained distance from the particular times and places of its subject matter, it allows a more general, potentially universal perspective to emerge. The manuscript of the Introduction from 1822-28 ends abruptly with these remarks on ‘reflective’ historiography. But students’ transcriptions of the Lectures of the first semester contain an account of Hegel’s notion of the last category: (c) Philosophical world history This is the properly universal kind, whose method Hegel claims for himself. It allows the historian to uncover in each age, period and event the fundamental features of the subject-matter: the constituted, the teleological, and the implicitly rational character of history. The philosophical historiographer writes from a privileged position. His is an epoch in which history itself has become worldwide and opened up the possibility of a

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Allegra de Laurentiis genuinely universal perspective on the movement of spirit. Aristotle had claimed that adequate philosophical knowledge of anything is a combination of its perceivable and logical features.45 Hegel applies this principle to the decidedly non-Aristotelian subject-matter of history. Like nature, history can only be grasped through its facts and their underlying logic. Spelling out the ‘logic of spirit’ is the business of the philosopher. Describing the manifestations of this logic in real history is the task of the ‘philosophical historiographer’. Notes 1. For the individuation of the texts most relevant to our topic I am particularly indebted to Jaeschke (2003). 2. Ilting (1996). These lectures are not in Hegel’s hand. They are based on transcriptions by his students von Griesheim, Hotho and von Kehler. 3. Hegel (1821). In the following, I cite passages from this work according to section (§) number. The most recent English translation is H.B. Nisbet’s in Wood (1991). 4. Hegel (1830). Other relevant texts can be found in the Lectures on Aesthetics, Lectures on the Philosophy of Religion, and Lectures on the History of Philosophy. These cannot be dealt with here. 5. On cyclical vs. evolutionary understandings of world history, see Fear, this volume. 6. ‘Traditional metaphysics’ is for Hegel pre-critical, i.e. pre-Kantian metaphysics. 7. On other conceptions of history as exhibiting a pattern, see Cornell, this volume. 8. Jaeschke (1995) 153. For a theory of history in many respects antithetic to Hegel’s see Farrenkopf’s exposition of Spengler, this volume. 9. Jaeschke (1995) 121-38 and Ilting (1996) 3-24. 10. Jaeschke (1995) 138-207. This is somewhat misleadingly entitled ‘Introduction’. There are two further pages in Hegel’s hand, containing epigrammatic notes on necessity and contingency, means and ends, virtue and crime in world history (ibid. 208-14). 11. Ilting (1996) V-VI. 12. See Hegel (1821) §349. 13. Hegel (1821) §349 Remark. 14. Politics 1.1.7. On Aristotle and the changing of constitutions, see Liddel, this volume. 15. Hegel (1821) §346. 16. Hegel’s understanding of this expansion is all but ‘idealistic’: ‘This inner dialectic of civil society [the mediation between increasing wealth and increasing need through work] drives it … to push beyond its own boundaries and seek markets … in other lands which are deficient in the goods it has overproduced or else generally backward’: Hegel (1821) §246. 17. Hegel’s technical term for the objective qualities of a subject-matter is ‘in-and-for itself’, an und für sich. 18. Hegel (1821) §§341 and 342. 19. One aspect of the idea of Weltgeschichte as Weltgericht is that it represents

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14. Universal Historiography and World History according to Hegel a problematic secularisation of the Old Testament Last Judgment, albeit one with no end in sight. 20. According to Hegel, only the presence of reason in nature and history can ground the legitimacy of our claims to true rational cognition of them: adaequatio rei et intellectus is only possible if it is at bottom correspondence of reason with itself. 21. Hegel (1821) §345. And see more ominously in Ilting (1996) 10: ‘The field of the fates of peoples, of the subversion of states, is a different one from the moral field, it is a higher, a broader one.’ 22. Hegel understands ‘telos’ as the objective goal/end of a movement, not necessarily its outcome in time; correspondingly he understands ‘arche’ to mean ‘principle’, i.e. a logical but not chronological ‘first’. 23. Contrary to popular belief, there is no theory of an ‘end of history’ as cessation of historical events in Hegel’s philosophy. 24. See above, Introduction. 25. Contemporaries nicknamed Hegel ‘der deutsche Aristoteles’. 26. Politics 1.1.4- 11. I am modifying slightly the translation by Benjamin Jowett in Barnes (1984). 27. The literal meaning of the German erinnern, to recollect, is ‘to internalise’. 28. Jaeschke (2003) 405. 29. Jaeschke (1995) 123. 30. ‘Subjective’ is not equivalent to ‘individual’ in Hegel’s philosophy, but refers primarily to the subjectivity of spirit. It is the kind of ‘subjectivity’ that everyone attributes to cultural phenomena in contrast to, say, astronomical ones. Thus it is not just the individual historian that endows happenings with historical meaning: entire social groups (artists, teachers, politicians and so on) and whole societies do this. The historian, as the philosopher, is the mouthpiece, not the demiourgos of his Zeitgeist. 31. Jaeschke (1995) 192. 32. From Pliny the Elder’s Naturalis Historiae to Buffon’s Histoire Naturelle. 33. In nineteenth-century German, ‘philosophy’ and ‘science’ share the common meaning of ‘body of knowledge’ (Wissen-schaft). Hegel, for example, uses Philosophie and (philosophische) Wissenschaft interchangeably. Although in today’s English ‘science’ is used as a short for ‘natural science’, in German one must still specify whether the reference is to Natur-, Sozial- or Geistes-Wissenschaft. 34. One source is the threefold transcription of the 1822-23 Lectures in Ilting (1996). The second is the Introduction to the Lectures 1822-28 in Jaeschke (1995). The third is the so-called Introduction to the 1830-31 Lectures, also contained in the latter. 35. Jaeschke (1995) 124-5. 36. Jaeschke (1995) 124. Hegel’s predilection for original historiography, despite or because of its unreflective character, is unmistakable: ‘If one does not want to become exactly an erudite historicus, but rather to enjoy history, one may almost limit one’s study … to these writers’ (ibid. 127). 37. Jaeschke (1995) 125. 38. Jaeschke (1995) 129. 39. Jaeschke (1995) 128. 40. Among modern masterworks in ‘original historiography’ Hegel mentions the Mémoirs of the Cardinal de Retz (seventeenth century) and Frederick the Second’s Histoire de mon temps (1746). 41. Jaeschke (1995) 126.

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Allegra de Laurentiis 42. Johannes von Müller, Geschichten der Schweizer, 1780. 43. Jaeschke (1995) 136ff. 44. Ilting (1996) 12-13. 45. See, e.g., De An. 403a29-b9. Searching for a definition of the soul that includes its physical functions as living body, Aristotle argues for the necessity of combining the materialist account of the physicist with the logical account of the dialectician. He chooses the definition of ‘anger’ to illustrate this general point.: ‘Anger, for instance, would be defined by the dialectician as desire for retaliation …, by the physicist as ferment of the blood ….’ Either account is correct, but also one-sided. The true definition is one that ‘takes account of both’.

Bibliography Barnes, J. (ed.) (1984), The Complete Works of Aristotle, vol. 2 (Princeton). Hegel, G.W.F. (1821), Naturrecht und Staatswissenschaft im Grundrisse. Grundlinien der Philosophie des Rechts, in E. Moldenhauer and K.M. Michel (eds) (1970), Hegel Werke in zwanzig Bänden, vol. 7 (Frankfurt). Hegel, G.W.F. (1830), Enzyklopädie der philosophischen Wissenschaften, in E. Moldenhauer and K.M. Michel (eds) (1970), Hegel Werke in zwanzig Bänden, vols 8-10 (Frankfurt). Ilting, K.H., Brehmer, K. and Seelman H.N. (eds) (1996), Hegel. Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Weltgeschichte. Ausgewählte Nachschriften und Manuskripte, vol. 12 (Hamburg). Jaeschke, W. (ed.) (1995), Hegel. Vorlesungsmanuskripte II (1816-1831). Gesammelte Werke herausgegeben von der Nordrhein-Westphälischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, vol. 18 (Hamburg). Jaeschke, W. (2003), Hegel Handbuch (Stuttgart). Wood, A.W. (ed.), Nisbet, H.B. (tr.) (1991), Hegel. Elements of the Philosophy of Right (Cambridge).

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Spengler, the Modern West, and Roman Decline John Farrenkopf The philosopher of world history, Oswald Spengler, is famous for his major work, The Decline of the West, published in two volumes in 1918 and 1922.1 I propose that his goal, initially conceived in 1912, was threefold. First, he aspires to contribute to the understanding of universal history. Second, he wants to shed light on the future of Western civilisation. Third, being proud of the rise of German power and solicitous of his country’s future, he also wishes to enhance the quality of its statecraft in the crisis-ridden years before World War I. He hopes to demonstrate to Germany’s foreign policy elite and educated public how thinking about world history and the present and the future of the West can illuminate the challenging historical, political, and economic environment in which its statesmen operate. For an historically informed statecraft would improve Germany’s prospects at success in power-political competition.2 Spengler focuses on high cultures, or, as more commonly referred to by scholars in the English-speaking intellectual tradition, civilisations. In his methodology he rejects cause-and-effect analysis of historical phenomena, favouring instead historical analogies. Appreciating civilisations as the major building blocks of human history, he inquires into the main civilisations of the past, as well as the only civilisation he regarded during the early twentieth century to be still vital and world-shaping, that of Western Europe and America. Spengler played a key role in overcoming the conventional, Eurocentric perspective of his age for understanding world history, expanding its historiographical horizons to include non-Western civilisations. Despite his philosophising in varying degrees about the history of China, India, Egypt, Islam, and other non-Western civilisations, his reflection inevitably returned to classical antiquity, and especially Rome. Spengler was persuaded that classical antiquity and the West since the Gothic age, or West-European-American civilisation, constituted two distinctly different civilisations. They did not form an historical continuum, as Jacob Burckhardt had maintained.3 According to Spengler, each high culture is animated by its own, distinctive ethos or spirit. Classical antiquity, dubbed ‘Apollonian’,4 is preoccupied

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John Farrenkopf with the here-and-now, the readily apprehended surface, instead of the world hidden to the naked eye as revealed by the microscope or telescope. By way of contrast to the classical ethos, the West since the Gothic age, which Spengler calls ‘Faustian’,5 has a dynamic, transformative spirit, seeking to overcome all obstacles in time and space. A culture devoted to discovery, it is suffused with the will to power. Although high cultures exhibit different spirits or psychological orientations towards reality, they share two similarities: each has, as the principal theatre of its activity, an urban environment, and each traverses an analogous grand cycle of birth, rise, maturation, and decay. Earlier in the cultural phase of the grand cycle, the modest cultural city typifies the urban environment; at the end, the megalopolis. A high culture undergoes two main phases – first, ‘culture’ (Kultur), and subsequently, ‘civilisation’ (Zivilisation).6 Culture is religious, artistic, contemplative, a world of smaller dimensions, while civilisation is irreligious, materialistic, mundane, and absorbed in practical and extensive tasks. In the twentieth century and beyond these are big business, science and technology, and empire-building on a global scale. Spengler’s reputation as an historical pessimist has obscured the affirmative, modernist dimension of his philosophy. He envisions civilisational decline in modern times as a two-stage process – first, that of the decline of the West’s rich artistic traditions of high culture, which, in his view, is, except for the great novel, an accomplished fact, and then, that of civilisation and its yet-to-be-constructed global empire, a process that will befall Western man in the future.7 In the Graeco-Roman world, Athens personifies culture, and Rome, civilisation.8 In the modern West, Paris represents the apex of culture, and London forms the centre of civilisation in its nineteenth- and early twentieth-century phase, with Spengler guardedly optimistic during World War I that it will shift decisively to Berlin.9 Rome is crucial to Spengler for several reasons. First, the record of Graeco-Roman history was more complete than that of any other past civilisation, furnishing him with ample material to ponder.10 Second, as a trained classical scholar, who wrote his dissertation on Heraclitus, he was familiar with the history and culture of antiquity.11 Third, Rome had created a vast and powerful empire, and Spengler, an ardent imperialist, saw the Roman experience as blazing the trail modern Germany should follow.12 Fourth, Rome embodied megalopolitan civilisation in antiquity’s final phases, prefiguring the megalopolis which epitomised modern Western civilisation in the later part of its cycle.13 In his judgement, the study of the rise and fall of the Roman empire yielded insight into the future historical, social, economic, and international political form of the modern world. ‘Romanness … will always offer to us, who are dependent upon comparisons, the key to understanding our own future.’14 Fifth, the fact that an empire and a civilisation as impressive as Rome’s

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15. Spengler, the Modern West, and Roman Decline broke down strongly suggested to Spengler that West European-American civilisation, despite its magnificent qualities, would suffer a similar, depressing fate.15 Thus, the widely-held idea of progress was false. Moreover, since he envisioned the modern West globalising the planet and overpowering all its other moribund civilisations, the eventual collapse of Western civilisation would spell the end of modernity and a new Dark Age. Civilisation is a complex, multi-faceted macrohistorical phenomenon. It encompasses custom, art, literature, law, religion, science and technology, economics, and politics. Within this essay’s limited scope, Spengler’s comparative and contrastive analysis of the decline of the Roman empire and its civilisation and the modern West will be examined by focusing on power politics, economic systems, domestic politics, and social characteristics. The Roman empire provided a framework conducive to the evolution of its affiliated civilisation and its decline and fall entrained its end. The explanations advanced for this sorry outcome have become more sophisticated since the debate was first joined by its inhabitants. The pagans argued that it resulted from the Christianisation of the empire; the ancient gods who had favoured Rome’s phenomenal rise to power had ceased to protect the empire and had punished its citizenry for no longer worshipping them. A Christian counter-explanation was propounded by Salvian. He maintained that the misfortunes which had laid low the empire were the consequence of God’s punishment of the Romans for their sexual misconduct, exploitation of the impoverished, and infatuation with the games.16 Posterity has formulated multifarious explanations for the decline and fall of the Roman empire. Over two hundred causal factors, ranging from bankruptcy, the destruction of the peasantry, luxury and moral idealism, to pacifism, slavery, treachery and the waging of a two-front war, have been hypothesised in the course of the centuries-old debate.17 A plenitude of analyses has been developed by combining these factors with others (typically, one is singled out as the most important). These explanations can be divided according to whether the lengthy process of the decline of Rome was regarded as being irreversible or not. Moreover, some historical minds, including Karl Marx, Max Weber and Theodor Mommsen, considered the internal dynamic of the decay of imperial strength as being of paramount importance, while others, including Leopold von Ranke, Franz Altheim and A.H.M. Jones, stressed the external factor of intensifying barbarian pressure.18 The question what lessons the denizens of the modern Western world should draw from the classic historical example of the decline of the Roman empire has similarly stirred controversy. Many thinkers in Western intellectual history argued that the modern West was not driven by a deterministic historical process to duplicate Rome’s fate. During the Enlightenment, Charles Montesquieu suggested that Western man would avoid civilisational decline if he took that of Rome seriously, while Edward

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John Farrenkopf Gibbon and Johann Gottfried Herder concluded that Rome’s downfall served the didactic purpose of highlighting the reality of Western progress.19 A school of thought diverged from these views, forecasting that the modern West would inevitably decline as Rome had. Giambattista Vico argued in The New Science that Western civilisation would experience a cyclical rise and decline comparable to Rome’s.20 Burckhardt, like his forerunner Ernst Lasaulx, considered the mid-nineteenth century to be an end period, an historical analogue to late antiquity. Henry Adams, inspired by his brother’s Brooks’ The Law of Civilization and Decay, compared late nineteenth-century America with the age of the Gracchi.21 Spengler contributed to the tradition in Western intellectual history that viewed the decline of Roman civilisation as offering insight into the nature of the universal historical process. Indeed, he was arguably the first thinker to compare the decline of Roman civilisation and the modern Western world systematically and in extensive detail.22 The Decline cemented his reputation as a leading figure in the school of thought associated with Vico, Lasaulx, Burckhardt and Henry and Brooks Adams that interpreted the decline of the modern West as being an inevitable process foreshadowed by that of Rome and its empire. Spengler approached Roman history from a decidedly historical-philosophical perspective and not from a conventional empirical and descriptive one. Nonetheless, his analysis benefited from the revolution in classical historical study during the late nineteenth century. With the explosion in the archaeological study of Roman civilisation, the picture of Roman history that had hitherto been derived primarily from classical literary sources was enlarged to incorporate a wealth of information garnered from archaeological investigations.23 Thus the knowledge of the social and economic life of the ancient Romans was expanded in Spengler’s day by this revolution in classical historical study, and we continue to profit from continued progress in this direction. Spengler’s conviction that civilisations underwent a largely autonomous process of development and decay and passed through analogous phases of an ‘inner’ history induced him to overreach himself when he boldly declared that the decline of the Graeco-Roman world and the ongoing decline of the modern West constituted ‘a completely identical event’.24 The following examination of certain aspects of his interpretation of Roman history will enable us to better appreciate what general developments in antiquity he believed corresponded to salient features of the past and projected future historical experience of the West. The prerequisite of the decline of the Roman empire is obviously its formation. Spengler maintains that the spectacular success Rome attained over its power-political rivals in antiquity was not due to the purported special qualities of the Roman people, but instead to the skill of its senatorial and plebeian elite responsible for the affairs of state. He argues that a struggle for hegemony spans the end of vital cultural

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15. Spengler, the Modern West, and Roman Decline development to the early phases of civilisation within each grand cultural cycle. This tumultuous conversion from a multi-state system to an imperium mundi in the Graeco-Roman world was a necessary historical phase that purportedly had its counterpart in past civilisations: Thus regarded, the imperium Romanum no longer makes its appearance as a unique phenomenon, but rather as a normal product of a strict, energetic, megalopolitian, eminently practical mentality and as a typical end stage, which has already appeared several times, but has not till now been identified.25

The ‘climacteric of culture’ – a major turning point in each grand cultural cycle marking the transition from culture to civilisation – inaugurates this struggle for hegemony. In the ancient Mediterranean world, Alexander the Great’s conquests signal the climacteric, the opening phase of what Spengler colourfully termed (drawing upon an analogue from ancient Chinese history) the ‘Era of Warring States’.26 The decisive battle of Actium, which enabled Augustus to recast the Roman empire as the principate, ends the conflict to forge an imperium mundi.27 Spengler maintains that the period spanning the Napoleonic Wars to World War I and beyond formed the modern ‘Era of Warring States’, which would climax in the eventual founding by one Western state of a monumental global empire of peace, order and affluence.28 Spengler echoes Niccolò Machiavelli,29 arguing that the unique constitution of the Roman republic – the ability to channel domestic political tensions into constructive political competition symbolised in the Lex Hortensia, which effectuated a far-reaching political compromise between the patricians and plebs – empowered it to triumph during classical antiquity’s ‘Era of Warring States’ over several rival states for hegemony. In this struggle only the major powers – Rome, Carthage, Macedon, Syria and Egypt – were bona fide competitors.30 The changeover from culture to civilisation initiates in each of the grand cycles of world history an epoch of great historical individuals. In antiquity it stretches from the two Scipios, to Aemilius Paullus, Flaminius, the Catos, the Gracchi, from Marius and Sulla to Pompey, and finally Caesar and Augustus.31 The conflict to establish an imperium mundi becomes unrestrained and increasingly brutal. Mass armies appear, a higher premium is placed upon rapidity of movement, and technology, even within a comparatively technologically backward civilisation as that of classical times, is increasingly applied to military uses. Also conforming to a recurrent pattern, governance in the style of a magnificent tradition, that of the Roman senate in antiquity, increasingly degenerates, giving way to unlimited personal rule by Caesaristic figures.32 Although Spengler extols the consummate skill of Rome’s elite in crafting a foreign policy that built one of the greatest empires in all of world

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John Farrenkopf history, he remains unimpressed by its efforts at imperial maintenance. He curiously criticises certain financial, legal, and administrative features of the organisational style of the Roman empire. Thus, for example, he describes the manner in which public money was managed as ‘remaining up until the final days of antiquity, more or less lawless plundering, in order to procure the means for the moment’.33 With his bold thesis that a deep sense of history was alien to the ethos of the Graeco-Roman world and that its inhabitants were transfixed by the historical present, the immediate, the here-and-now,34 Spengler conveys the impression that the Romans lacked the foresight and ability to organise their empire systematically and skilfully, which might have enabled it to last far longer than it actually did.35 Friedrich Nietzsche, whose philosophy profoundly influenced Spengler, thought otherwise, emphasising that the Romans possessed a ‘genius of organisation and administration, the belief, the will to a societal future’. The Roman empire personified ‘aere perennius’, being ‘the most magnificent organisational form under difficult conditions, which has been achieved up to now’.36 The conventional picture of the organisation of the Roman empire among scholars of ancient history tends to substantiate Nietzsche’s judgement. They consider the Roman elite to have shown considerable expertise in imperial management.37 The question when the long process of the decline of the Roman empire actually ended has stimulated scholarly debate. Gibbon and J.B. Bury maintained that the Germanic invasions of the fourth and fifth centuries did not terminate the Roman empire as it survived in truncated form in the East. Mommsen and Gibbon selected the victory of the Goths at Adrianople in 378 AD, while N.J. Golubzova chose the sack of Rome by Alarich in 410 AD as the terminus. The deposition of the last Roman emperor, Romulus Augustulus, by Odoacer, is in modern historiography the most popular date for denoting the end of the Roman empire. Barthold Georg Niebuhr, Ranke, Lasaulx, Burckhardt, Thomas Hodgkin and Otto Seeck, among others, all attributed epochal significance to 476 AD.38 Spengler does not specify exactly when Roman imperial decline reached its conclusion, a process arguably lacking an identifiable end point.39 However, he quite plausibly argues that the Roman empire ended with its destruction in the West, during the period spanning the battle of Adrianople to 476 AD.40 The question what phase of classical history the period of World War I, when Spengler was writing the Decline, corresponds to, has similarly evoked many answers. Arnold Toynbee believed that World War I and the Peloponnesian War were ‘philosophically contemporary’.41 The Italian publicist Guglielmo Ferrero, the author of Ancient Rome and Modern America, argued that the early twentieth century had its parallel in the early third century AD.42 Spengler maintained that World War I found its counterpart in the Second Punic War.43 According to Spengler, ancient Rome, like modern Germany, was pro-

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15. Spengler, the Modern West, and Roman Decline pelled to increase radically the radius of its power by an expansive urge which every high culture manifests. However, the expansionist surge in Faustian civilisation is supremely powerful thanks to its intensely dynamic and transformative ethos. Rome’s empire, though impressive, was merely regional; that of Germany or the US, as the successor of the declining British empire, will be global. Spengler contrasts what he believed to be the incomparable, expansive energy of modern Western imperialism with that of the Romans: The easily misunderstood Roman expansion … [was] anything but an enlargement of the Fatherland. It confines itself exactly within the territory, which had already been taken possession of by cultural man and now fell to the Romans as booty. There was never any talk of dynastic schemes of world power in the style of the Hohenstaufen or the Habsburgs or of imperialism of a fashion comparable with that of today. The Romans never made the attempt to penetrate into the interior of Africa. They waged their later wars only in order to secure their possessions, without ambition, without the symbolic drive towards expansion, and they abandoned Germania and Mesopotamia without regret.44

Interestingly, Spengler maintains that the spectacular creation of an imperium mundi is often not consciously willed by its historical agents. He argues that one can observe in Roman history this resistance to the imperialistic urge by statesmen, despite their ultimately surrendering to it. Spengler evaluates in this fashion Rome’s conquest of the Hellenistic Eastern powers after its decisive victory over Carthage at Zama. He asserts that the entourage of Scipio Africanus, overcoming strong opposition in Rome, waged the Second Macedonian War with the ultimately unrealisable aim that a victorious Rome could thereby render the East harmless and henceforth leave it to itself.45 However, in reality, the war initiated the long process of Roman imperial expansion in the East. But ‘the expansive tendency is a destiny, something daemonic and monstrous, which seizes the man of the world-city stage, presses him into its service, consumes him, whether he desires to or not, whether he comprehends it or not’.46 With Germany humbled by Versailles and America weakened by depression and isolationism, Spengler expressed some doubt in his final work on history and politics, The Hour of Decision, published in 1933, that one Western state had sufficient power resources and the requisite visionary leadership to forge a modern counterpart to the Roman empire. Britain, though the leading imperial power in 1914, had dropped out of the running in his view; it was in decline and, moreover, it lacked the strength to press its Western rivals into a grand empire and impose a durable peace among the warring powers of its civilisational space as Rome had. The question arises, how long did he expect the imperium mundi of modern Western civilisation to endure, assuming it was ever established, before it

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John Farrenkopf fell victim to sterility from within and external pressure from without? Spengler maintained that while the cultural phase in the history of a grand cultural cycle lasted approximately one thousand years, the longevity of the civilisational phase was unlimited. Indeed, the typical outcome was for a civilisation to become petrified in a condition of historical meaninglessness, to degenerate into Egyptian, Mandarin, or Byzantine changelessness.47 A second fate that a civilisation might experience was that inflicted upon pre-Columbian societies of the New World by the Spanish conquistadores. In this situation, an extraordinary act of ‘accidental’ destruction (not resulting from a civilisation-barbarism dynamic) – a catastrophic bolt from the blue – terminates a civilisation.48 The third outcome, somewhat similar to that undergone by pre-Columbian empires, was that suffered by the Roman empire. Spengler argues that the Graeco-Roman cultural cycle, in contrast to that of other cultures, was abruptly brought to an end by barbarian invasions. He relates how the onslaughts of the Germanic tribes, whose energy had been shifted westwards after the Chinese had repelled the assaults of the Huns in East Asia, made quick work of the Roman empire.49 It experienced a unique fate – ‘and thus the classical is the only example of a civilisation terminated at the peak of its maturity’.50 The barbarian incursions of the third, fourth and fifth centuries AD supposedly prevented Roman civilisation from organically evolving into a petrified civilisation. Spengler, despite his tendency towards historical determinism, does allow for historical contingency in his philosophy. ‘It is a mere accident, that Germanic peoples under the pressure of the Huns occupied the Roman landscape and therewith abruptly halted the development of a “Chinese” end stage of classical civilization.’51 The hypothetical ‘Mandarin’ period of civilisational sterility in Roman history would have witnessed a continuation of power struggles for many more centuries among usurpers for the title of emperor.52 It is striking that Spengler, in contrast to most historical thinkers who have reflected upon the Roman empire, is rather unimpressed by its duration. One could argue that he holds this unconventional view because of his appreciation of the capacity of Egyptian, Chinese and Byzantine civilisations to last longer than Rome had after its imperial apex had passed. Or perhaps, as a perfectionist intellectual, who fantasised as a lad of grandiose empire-building, he believes that superior leadership could have been more successful in securing the empire against external threats. Yet Spengler, while considering the historical experience of the Roman empire and pre-Columbian empires of the New World to be exceptions to the general rule of civilisational longevity, conveyed the impression in his correspondence and the Decline that the civilisational phase of the West would last into only the first few centuries or so of the third millennium AD. Spengler never gave a categorical answer to the question whether or not it was possible for a substantial part of the modern Western imperium

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15. Spengler, the Modern West, and Roman Decline mundi to respond successfully to the challenge of barbarian pressure and then continue to languish in a state of cultural ‘petrification’, comparable to the cases of Mandarinism, Egyptianism and Byzantinism. Indeed, if the decline of the West were to find its master pattern in the historical experience of antiquity, then the survival of a sizeable portion of the Faustian imperium mundi in a fashion analogous to the Byzantine empire would seem to be, prima facie, entirely plausible. Constantine’s resolve to build a New Rome had ultimately resulted in the division of the Roman empire into two parts in 395 AD, after the death of emperor Theodosius I – the Greek cultural area of the East and the Latin cultural region of the West. The eastern half of the empire endured surprisingly well the tribulations of the critical fifth century, which culminated in the collapse of the Roman empire in the West. The emperors of the East succeeded in preserving the territorial integrity of their part of the empire and managed to sustain a relatively effective military, financial and political administration. Thus the eastern half of the Roman empire, the Byzantine empire, survived the crisis of the fifth century and continued to exist for another millennium until the fall of Constantinople in 1453. However, the idea that the Byzantine empire constitutes a bona fide continuation of the Roman empire is controversial. Spengler dismissed the idea of the supposed continuity in Roman imperial history of the Eastern half of the empire as a ‘fiction’.53 For him, classical cultural development had climaxed in Periclean Athens;54 the heights of Roman political and economic power spanned the period from Augustus to Trajan.55 Moreover, he regarded the rise of Islam as being expressive of civilisational vigour and energetic expansion, overshadowing Byzantium, whose grandeur faded after Justinian.56 Spengler searched for the causes of the decline of empires in internal, societal developments. He considers the deterioration of Roman society as being the paramount ‘factor’ precipitating the collapse of its empire. Thus, the internal dynamic of ‘sterility’ far outweighs the external one of barbarian pressure.57 Spengler claimed that the internal decay of the Roman empire and its vulnerability to external threats became critical with Hadrian’s accession.58 The deterioration of Roman imperial strength accelerated in the middle of the age of the Antonines, an Indian Summer which Gibbon portrayed as the high-tide of Roman civilisation.59 Hadrian’s first important act was to abandon as untenable the conquests of his predecessor Trajan beyond the Euphrates, who had subdued Assyria, Mesopotamia and Armenia – a return to the traditional policy of Augustus. Mesopotamia and Assyria were returned to the Parthians and the Armenians were allowed a monarch of their own. Spengler had speculated in the Decline that, beginning around 2200 AD, the West would become increasingly exposed to incursions from young, vigorous peoples, as the degeneration of Western society intensified and the ability of its imperial order to resist was undermined from within.60

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John Farrenkopf According to Spengler, the societal degeneration which would internally subvert the West was foreshadowed by ancient Rome. The elder Cato stands out for having voiced his concern about what he regarded as Roman decadence. Juxtaposing ‘the decadent present with a glorified past’, he cast a disapproving eye upon ‘luxury, depravity, corruption, moral degradation, [and] the emancipation of women’.61 In The Hour of Decision Spengler drew upon the works of Polybius and Sallust in arguing that the desire to enjoy material comforts without earning them and the willingness of politicians to indulge the populace in this regard would internally sap the West as it had ancient Roman society.62 Indeed, more recent scholarship has traced the growth of a kind of expensive ‘welfare state’ in Roman history. As people crowded into the empire’s metropolis, opportunities for gainful employment lagged behind. In response to growing social need, C. Gracchus began in 123 BC a programme of subsidised wheat sales which culminated in the provision of free grain to the impoverished citizenry.63 Moreover, Augustus distributed not only food, water, and shelter to the urban masses, but now and again showered the male citizens of the city with gifts of money and entertained them with public spectacles.64 Spengler maintains that the people, who raise a civilisation to its heights, eventually succumb to depopulation spanning several centuries. ‘The entire pyramid of culturally capable people disappears.’65 Interestingly, recent scholarship indicates, for example, that the Roman senatorial aristocracy failed to reproduce itself due to the deliberate limitation of family size and actual childlessness.66 In this vein, Spengler observes of Rome, And nonetheless the population dwindled rapidly and in droves, despite the desperate marriage and child legislation of Augustus, – whose lex de maritandis ordinibus dismayed Roman society more than the defeat of Varus, – despite the huge numbers of adoptions, the uninterrupted relocation of soldiers of barbarian origin to settle the depopulated countryside, despite the enormous food charities of Nerva and Trajan to bring up the children of impoverished parents.67

Indeed, viewed from today’s perspective, the peoples of European ancestry in the Old and New Worlds have experienced a profound, long-term, downward-sloping trend in birth rates. According to Spengler, depopulation transpires contemporaneously with other processes that sap society’s strength. The populace of a dominant civilisation increasingly succumbs to pacifism, rendering itself powerless against the incursions of the vigorous ‘barbarian hordes’ and the depredations of Caesaristic usurpers.68 ‘The Pax Romana had for the later soldier-emperors and the German warrior chieftains only one practical significance: it made a formless population of a hundred million into the object of the will to power of small bands of warriors.’69 Economics is crucial to imperial strength; thus Spengler also compares the Roman economic system with its modern counterpart. The analogue of

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15. Spengler, the Modern West, and Roman Decline the dynamic, modern economic system of the West with its unique industrial technology is the extensive Roman slave economy.70 All the high cultures, including Graeco-Roman and West-European-American, traverse a grand, economic developmental cycle. Each cycle begins with the dominance of a peasant economy, superseded then by a deepening conflict between town and country, concluding with a pre-eminent world city overseeing a dominant, imperialistic economic system. This global megalopolis exercises its hegemony through financial means. Spengler argues that money assumes paramount importance in virtually every aspect of civilised existence, ultimately debasing society. ‘Civilisation designates the stage of a culture, in which tradition and personality have lost their direct influence and in which every idea must first be reconceptualized in terms of money, in order to be realized.’71 He maintains that speculation, price manipulation, monopolisation, and other destructive economic practices increasingly became common practice in the civilisational phase of every high culture.72 ‘Let us not forget that the imperium Romanum was only an unscrupulous business enterprise and that all the great Romans were speculators.’73 Since every high culture has its distinctive ethos, each one has its own form of monetary value. The monetary system of the Graeco-Roman world, with its Apollonian ethos, was based upon the physical objectification of monetary values in the form of the coin and the slave. By contrast, the Faustian world has a uniquely dynamic, functional form of monetary value.74 In the period of civilisation, money acquires a dictatorial power over civilised existence: Since the days of Hannibal, classical money-thinking had transformed entire cities into coin, whole populations into slaves and therewith into ‘money’, setting everything in motion from all directions towards Rome, in order to function there as power.75

Spengler claims that every civilisation experiences an expansion of the monetary base.76 The Roman economy during the principate and dominate suffered inflation, which became astronomical in terms of silver coinage in the mid-fourth century. Nero had lowered the value of the silver denarius and Septimius Severus had debased it; after 256 AD Roman silver coinage plunged in value. Although it is true that ‘a money economy was never completely effaced during the third and fourth centuries’, barter eventually became widespread in the Roman empire.77 Spengler contrasts the classical economy’s ethos with that of the modern West. The modern capitalist economy, being phenomenally dynamic and expansive, strives to ‘exhaust’ nature, to consume all the earth’s energy resources. Its spirit of profound restlessness is entirely the opposite of the ‘idle, satiated existence of the imperial age of antiquity’.78 Spengler describes two different outcomes in the grand economic cycles

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John Farrenkopf of past civilisations – termed here the ‘Roman’ and the ‘Mandarin’. The Mandarin alternative, characterised by the perpetuation of a relatively stagnant economic system, is the more typical end stage.79 The Roman alternative culminates in the breakdown of an international economic system. As Robert Skidelsky notes, ‘The Mediterranean economy of classical times was coextensive with Roman power and did not survive its collapse.’80 It is an atypical economic outcome. The Roman scenario transpires because the inherent tendency of the economic system to achieve a state of perpetual stagnation is nullified by an overpowering external challenge: At last a rigid and enduring condition develops with a curious mixture of intellectually refined and very primitive characteristics, such as the Greeks found in Egypt and we have come to know in present-day India and China, unless, of course, this condition had dwindled away at pressure from below from a young culture, like the classical in Diocletian’s time.81

Despite his penchant for methodical system-building, Spengler fails to support adequately his claim that high cultures pass through a uniform, grand economic cycle. His argument that the increasingly complex and refined economic activity of a late civilisation tends to evolve into a self-perpetuating stagnation conflicts with his claim that economic activity at this stage of civilisational development can be, alternatively, inherently unstable and not long-lasting.82 Despite this unfortunate and important ambiguity, which Spengler didn’t try to clear up for the benefit of his readers, he leaves little doubt in their minds that he expects the modern global economy to collapse someday instead of stagnate. For the dynamic rise of the world economy since the onset of the industrial revolution is ‘fantastical’, ‘dangerous’, and ‘almost desperate’.83 Money greatly impacts a civilisation’s political life, yet only until the advent of Caesarism. Spengler differentiates his attitude towards democracy; early forms of democracy, fortified by aristocratic political wisdom, he views positively, while late forms of democracy, which come increasingly under the influence of the masses, demagogic personalities and money, are reviled by him. He argues that polities endowed with mature, aristocratically-enriched forms of democracy may excel in conducting a sophisticated foreign policy. He reserves the highest praise for Rome’s mixture of aristocratic rule and democracy in the third century BC and that of Great Britain in the nineteenth century.84 However, democracy inevitably degenerates into mob rule in which money reigns supreme: ‘Democracy is the consummated equivalence of money and political power.’85 The fluid mix of plutocratic and ochlocratic tendencies characteristic of democracy is overcome by Caesarism – the final political form of all civilisations. Caesarism eventually rises to dominance because the aristocratic traditions that originally moulded forms of politics erode, until it loses even a

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15. Spengler, the Modern West, and Roman Decline veneer of aristocratic finesse and degenerates into the plutocratic exploitation of democratic forms. After Spengler abandoned his goal of the democratic reform of the Second Empire in the wake of Germany’s defeat in World War I and the fall of the Hohenzollern monarchy, it appears that he pictures Caesarism gradually eliminating democratic forms of governance in the course of the twentieth century after the watershed of World War I.86 He underestimates the staying power of democracy in the West, though he anticipates the sensational but transitory emergence of fascism. Spengler hopes that Caesarism will enable a modern Western power to hammer together an imperium mundi and defend it for a time against the non-Western world. In this sense, he considers Caesarism to be potentially a positive development. However, Spengler also maintains that Caesarism degenerated in the Roman world after the death of Marcus Aurelius into an internecine struggle for power, severely weakening the empire vis-à-vis the barbarian challenge. While this was generally the case, he overreaches himself when he claims that these later aspirants to rule the Roman empire were solely motivated by lust for power and booty. Stephen Williams persuasively argues that the emperor Diocletian was moved by a sincere desire to restore order to the disintegrating empire. His policies represented a draconian but nonetheless constructive effort to shore up the beleaguered Roman empire.87 Indeed, he was able to restore the traditional imperial borders (save for Dacia and the Agri Decumates) by dint of strenuous military campaigns.88 Greatly influenced by his perception of the growing decadence of the Roman empire under the Caesars, Spengler forecasts the complete decline of Western societies. They will be destroyed demographically and sociologically by the decline in the birth rate, the ‘greying’ of the population, feminism, male liberation from traditional social obligations, hedonism, and the deterioration of the family unit; economically by rampant speculation by unscrupulous financiers, greedy and undisciplined trade unions, and rising non-Western trade competition; and politically by mediocrity in political leadership, demagoguery, plutocratic tendencies, and pacifism. If one Western power were to succeed someday in creating a modern counterpart to the Roman empire, then in light of the process of societal deterioration he anticipates, it too will inevitably succumb to decline and fall. Spengler was a prophet of Caesarism in his own land, a prophecy tragically fulfilled by Adolf Hitler whom he rejected as unfit to rule Germany.89 Yet Spengler fell short as a prophet of glorious empire. For Germany failed to create the final, grand empire of the West that he had prophesied would supplant the declining one of Britain. On the one hand, he had anticipated the possibility that the USA, and not Germany, would be the architect of an imperium mundi. On the other hand, prior to the end of World War I, he had been optimistic that Germany, and not the USA, would triumph as the supreme empire-builder. Moreover, between the 1929 Wall Street crash and his death in 1936, he regarded the prospects

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John Farrenkopf of erecting a global empire of America – a country at that time hamstrung by isolationism and mired in the Great Depression – as having faded. Yet he still thought it possible that the West would somehow manage to bring forth a final, imposing imperial form. The interesting question that remains after reflecting on Spengler’s imaginative inquiry into the power politics, economic systems, domestic politics and social characteristics of Rome and the modern West, is whether or not the USA succeeded in the early post-World War II era in creating the West’s final, grand empire that he had speculated about. Ever since the USA assumed the status of the leading superpower in 1945 and consolidated its influence in Western Europe, East Asia and the Middle East, some scholars have spoken of the Pax Americana and argued that post-1945 America was imperial. Although still a controversial position, it has gained more adherents since the USA invaded Afghanistan – the graveyard of empires – and Iraq and established protectorates there after the watershed of 9/11. If the USA presides, in fact, over a global empire, then one wonders what year is its apex, and will it fall victim to decay and breakdown, and when? These are questions eluding a definitive answer. Just posing and contemplating them suggest, however, that the comparative and contrastive analysis of Rome and the modern West will continue to preoccupy some thinkers in the twenty-first century, as it did Spengler in the twentieth. Notes 1. Farrenkopf (2001) 17-19. 2. Strongly implied in Spengler (1923a) 48-9, 54, 67, (1923b) 537. 3. Burckhardt (1999) 1-3, 12. 4. Spengler (1923a) 235. 5. Ibid. 6. Spengler (1923a) 41. 7. Spengler (1923a) 48-54, (1923b) 110, (1963) 34-5, letter dated 30 January 1915. 8. Spengler (1923a) 35, 41-3, 59, (1923b) 109. 9. Spengler (1923a) 42-9, 193-5, (1923b) 129-30. 10. Spengler (1923b) 44-5, 52. 11. Hughes (1992) 55-7. 12. Spengler (1963) 42-5, letter dated 14 July 1915. 13. Spengler (1923a) 41-52. 14. Spengler (1923a) 35; emphasis in the original. All translations from German into English are the author’s. 15. Spengler (1923a) 48-52, 142-3. 16. Jones (1964) 1025-6. 17. Demandt (1984) 558, 695. 18. Demandt (1984) 277-80, 288-90, 404-5, 471-2, 483-4, 487. 19. Demandt (1980) 27. 20. Vico (1948) 372, 382. 21. Beringause (1955) 130.

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15. Spengler, the Modern West, and Roman Decline 22. Hughes (1992) 7. 23. Walbank (1953) 6-7. 24. Spengler (1923a) 143. 25. Spengler (1923a) 51. 26. Spengler (1923a) Table III: ‘ “Contemporary” Political Epochs’, (1923b) 108, 518-19, 525. 27. Spengler (1923b) 60-1, 527. 28. Spengler (1923a) Table III, ‘ “Contemporary” Political Epochs’, (1923b) 534-7, 594. 29. Machiavelli (1970) 113-15. 30. Spengler (1923b) 508. 31. Spengler (1923b) 521. 32. Spengler (1923b) 522. 33. Spengler (1923b) 473. 34. Spengler (1923a) 85. 35. However, Spengler is inconsistent on this matter. In one passage, he describes the empire as ‘well organised’. Spengler (1923b) 125. 36. Nietzsche (1988) 245-8; emphasis in the original. 37. Christ (1984) 58. 38. For a discussion of the different dates proposed by historians for the end of the Roman empire, see Demandt (1984) 216-24. 39. Christ (1984) 230. 40. Spengler (1923b) 49. 41. Toynbee (1948) 8. 42. Demandt (1984) 412. 43. Spengler (1923a) 150. 44. Spengler (1923a) 431; emphasis in the original. 45. Spengler (1923b) 526. 46. Spengler (1923a) 49. 47. Spengler (1923a) 142-3; Spengler (1923b) 58-9, 130. 48. Spengler (1923b) 51-2. 49. Spengler (1923b) 49. 50. Spengler (1923b) 131. 51. Spengler (1923b) 130. 52. Spengler (1923b) 61. 53. Spengler (1923b) 87. 54. Spengler (1923a) 35, 41-3, 59, (1923b) 109. 55. Spengler (1923a) 143 n. 2, Table III, ‘ “Contemporary” Political Epochs’, (1923b) 125. 56. Spengler (1923b) 49-51. 57. Spengler (1923b) 125. 58. Spengler (1923a) 143 n. 2. 59. Gibbon (1994) 31. 60. Spengler (1923a) Table III, ‘ “Contemporary” Political Epochs’. 61. Christ (1984) 38. 62. Spengler (1933) 59-62. 63. Christ (1984) 43. 64. Garnsey and Saller (1987) 150. 65. Spengler (1923b) 125. 66. Garnsey and Saller (1987) 144. 67. Spengler (1923b) 125-6.

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John Farrenkopf 68. Spengler (1923b) 222-4. 69. Spengler (1923b) 224. 70. Spengler (1923a) 447. 71. Spengler (1923b) 603. 72. Spengler (1923b) 602-3. 73. Spengler (1963) 44, letter dated 14 July 1915. 74. Spengler (1923b) 593-4. 75. Spengler (1923b) 604. 76. Spengler (1923b) 604 n. 3. 77. Walbank (1969) 84. 78. Spengler (1923b) 627. 79. Spengler (1923b) 594. 80. Skidelsky (1976) 153. 81. Spengler (1923b) 594. 82. Ibid. 83. Spengler (1923b) 583. 84. Spengler (1923b) 508-10, 515. 85. Spengler (1923b) 603. 86. Spengler (1923b) 561. 87. Williams (1985) 35, 140-2. 88. Ferrill (1986) 41. 89. Farrenkopf (2001) 236-40.

Bibliography Beringause, A.F. (1955), Brooks Adams: A Biography (New York). Burckhardt, J. (1999), Judgments on History and Historians, tr. H. Zohn (Indianapolis). Christ, K. (1984), The Romans: An Introduction to Their History and Civilisation, tr. C. Holme (Berkeley). Demandt, A. (1980), ‘Spengler und die Spätantike’, in P.C. Ludz (ed.), Spengler heute: Sechs Essays (Munich): 25-48. Demandt, A. (1984), Der Fall Roms: Die Auflösung des römischen Reiches im Urteil der Nachwelt (Munich). Farrenkopf, J. (2001), Prophet of Decline: Spengler on World History and Politics (Baton Rouge). Ferrill, A. (1986), The Fall of the Roman Empire: The Military Explanation (London). Garnsey, P. and Saller, R. (1987), The Roman Empire: Economy, Society and Culture (London and Berkeley). Gibbon, E. (1994), The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire I, (ed.) D. Womsersley (London). Hughes, H.S. (1992), Oswald Spengler: A Critical Estimate (New Brunswick). Jones, A.H.M. (1964), The Later Roman Empire, 284-602: A Social, Economic, and Administrative Survey II (Oxford). Macchiavelli, N. (1970), The Discourses, tr. L. Walker (Harmondsworth). Nietzsche, F. (1988), Der Antichrist in G. Colli and M. Montinari (eds), Kritische Studienausgabe VI (Munich): 165-254. Skidelsky, R.J.A. (1976), ‘Retreat from leadership: the evolution of British economic policy, 1870-1939’, in B.M. Rowland (ed.), Balance of Power or Hegemony: The Interwar Monetary System (New York): 147-92.

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15. Spengler, the Modern West, and Roman Decline Spengler, O. (1963), Briefe, 1913-1936, (ed. A.M. Koktanek) (Munich). Spengler, O. (1923a), Der Untergang des Abendlandes: Umrisse einer Morphologie der Weltgeschichte I, Gestalt und Wirklichkeit (Munich). Spengler, O. (1923b), Der Untergang des Abendlandes: Umrisse einer Morphologie der Weltgeschichte II, Welthistorische Perspektiven (Munich). Spengler, O. (1933), Jahre der Entscheidung I, Deutschland und die weltgeschichtliche Entwicklung (Munich). Toynbee, A.J. (1948), Civilization on Trial (New York). Vico, G. (1948), The New Science of Giambattista Vico, tr. T. Bergin and M. Fisch (Ithaca). Walbank, F.W. (1953), The Decline of the Roman Empire in the West (New York). Walbank, F. W. (1969), The Awful Revolution: The Decline of the Roman Empire in the West (Toronto). Williams, S. (1985), Diocletian and the Roman Recovery (New York).

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Index Abraham, 167, 187n.27 Adam and Eve, 3, 103, 163, 167, 187n.27 Africa, 4 Africanus, Julius, 166, 167 Agatharchides, 12n.11, 43, 52n.21, 76 Agathias, 169 Ages of Man, 179-82 Alexander the Great, 6, 19, 62, 67n.26, 72, 75, 120, 121, 122, 133, 187n.34, 198 Alexandria, 33, 44, 50 Alimentus, Cincius, 103, 106, 107, 110, 111, 157n.2 Alonso-Núñez, J., 2, 15-16, 74 Altheim, F., 223 Ammianus, 171 amnesty, 17-19 anacyclosis, 4, 23, 176-80, 183 Anaxagoras, 137 ‘ancient’ history, 168 Andronicus, 198 Anianus, 198 annals, 9, 36, 102, 105, 118, 148, 155-7, 166, 169, 197 Antigonids, 18, 19 Antioch, 165, 168 Antiochus Epiphanes, 180-1 aphilarguria, 5, 57-65 Aphrahat, 181 Appian, 64, 76, 169 Arabia, 44 Arabic historiography, 10, 189-206 Aristeides, 57-8 Aristotle, 3, 4, 11, 22-4, 35, 37-8, 176, 207, 210, 212, 213 [Aristotle], 20 Arrian, 60, 64 Artaxerxes, 60 Artemidorus, 43, 80, 89, 98n.41 Athenaeus, 52n.21, 72 Athens, 16-18, 121

audience, 32, 111 Augustine, 162, 178-9, 182, 185 Augustus, 50-1, 72, 78-9, 87, 95, 144, 182, 225, 230 Aurelius, Marcus, 186n.3 autopsy, 31 Babylonians, 7, 180, 181, 183, 187n.27 ‘barbarians’, 1,11, 21, 47, 92, 94 Battiads, 60 Belshazzar, 180 Berossus, 103, 104 Bible, 163, 179-81, 192 biography (and history), 65, 192 Bloch, M., 189 Bossuet, J.-B., 184 Britain, 44, 52n.29, 222, 227, 232-3 Buddhism, 179 Burckhardt, J., 221, 226 Byzantine Chronicles, 189-206 Byzantine tradition, 167 Caesar, Julius, 50, 52n.29, 58, 64, 67n.26, 71, 75, 78-9, 118, 134, 140, 144, 216, 225, 232 Caracalla, 182 Carthage, Carthaginians, 43, 92, 121, 123-7, 140, 183, 225, 227 Castor of Rhodes, 167 Cato the Elder, 7, 108-11, 230 Chaldaeans, 166, 167, 169 characterisation, 56-66 Charax, 169 Chios, 19 Christ, 182, 187nn.27&34, 195 Christian historiography, 2, 9, 80, 149, 162-88, 193 chronicle, chronography: see annals Chryserus, 80 Cicero, 33, 105, 118, 132, 134-6, 139-40, 143-4 Clarke, K., 75, 132, 154

239

Index Claudius Ptolemaeus, 79 Clazomenae, 137 coins, 136-45 Cold War, 185 Collingwood, R., 132-3 Colophon, 18 commentaries, Alexandrian, 76 commentaries, Biblical, 164 conflict, 4, 21, 34, 109, 151-3 Constantinople, 72, 165 Corinth, 19, 20, 123-4 Creation, 162, 166, 179, 197 Ctesias, 52n.21 Curtius, Quintus, 64 cyclical view of history, 1, 5, 6, 10, 11, 23, 176-80, 183, 222-34; see also anacyclosis Cyrus, 63 Daniel, Book of, 180-1 Darius of Persia, 20, 63, 110 David, 187n.27 decline, 24-5, 91-5, 125-7, 209, 222, 226, 229 Demetrius Poliorcetes, 18, 110 democracy, 16-26, 185 Democritus, 35 Denkart, 180 destiny, 35 Dexippus, 80, 169 Dînawarî, 196 divine view of history, 10, 74, 162-88, 193-4, 212 Dio, Cassius, 42, 79, 169 Diocletian, 233 Diodorus Siculus, 5, 41-70, 72, 74, 109, 133, 144, 150, 156, 167, 215 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 7, 32, 62, 88, 103, 105, 169 [Dionysius] of Tel-Mahrê, 196 Duris of Samos, 76 dynamis, 17, 87, 96 economics and history, 5, 6, 56-65, 89-91, 230-2 ecpyrosis, 176, 183 education (historiography as), 5, 24, 44, 79 Egyptians, Egypt, 7, 43, 61, 166, 167, 169, 225 Empedocles, 186n.3

empiricism, 3 Engels, F., 16 Ennius, 8-9, 107, 137, 148-61 Epaminondas, 56-7, 58, 59, 60 Ephorus, 12n.11, 33, 34, 37, 43, 47, 57, 74, 76, 82n.22, 102, 109 epieikia, 60, 68n.36 epic, 9, 148-61 Eratosthenes, 80 Eresos (Lesbos), 18 Eretrians, 18 Erythrai, 18 ethnicity, 93, 94, 109 Euhemerus of Messene, 107, 137 eulogy, 56 Eunapius, 80 Eusebius, 163-72, 198, 199 Eustathius, 169 Evagrius, 165, 168, 169 evolution, 1 Fabius Pictor, 103-7, 111, 157n.2 focalisation, 8, 74, 131-47 fortune, 36-7 Foucault, M., 141 foundation stories, 74, 109, 111, 121-3 Frazer, J.G., 16 freedom, 17, 19, 20-1, 207-9 Fukuyama, F., 1, 178, 185 Galba, C. Sulpicius, 80 Gellius, Cn., 7, 105, 107 Gelo, 58 geography and history, 6, 49, 71-101, 196 Germany, 11, 81, 84n.47, 221, 227, 233 Gibbon, E., 224, 226 global history, 12, 81, 207-20, 221-37 globalisation, 4, 32, 81 globe, images of, 136-45 Gombrich, E.H., 1 Gracchi, 126, 118, 225, 230 great men, 78 Hadrian, 229 Hecataeus, 30, 34, 80 Hegel, G.W.F., 10-11, 16, 134, 185, 207-20 Hellanicus, 105 Hellenistic period/rulers, 1, 19, 62, 73, 75, 78, 110, 180

240

Index Hellenistic scholarship, 76, 171, 192 Hemina, L. Cassius, 7, 105, 107 Heracles, Hercules, 94, 104, 106, 119, 122 Heraclitus, 176, 186n.3, 222 Herder, J., 224 Herodian, 169 Herodotus, 3, 20-1, 25-6, 30, 31, 32, 34, 37, 52n.21, 62-3, 109, 153-4, 170, 216 Hesiod, 180, 186 n.12, 199 Hiero, 58 Hieronymos, 67n.19 Higden, R., 184 Hinduism, 177 Hippolytus, 181 historicity (Geschichtlichkeit), 214 historiography ancient, 168 conflict and, 4, 21, 34, 109, 151-3 cyclical view of, 1, 5, 6, 10, 11, 23, 176-80, 183, 222-34; see also anacyclosis divine view of, 10, 74 economics and, 5, 6, 56-65, 89-91 as education, 5, 24, 44 focalisation and, 8, 74, 131-47 geography and, 6, 49, 71-101 as Geschichte, 207-18 as historia, 30-1, 38, 215 ‘kinetic’ models of, 56, 66n.7 linear view of, 5, 10, 21, 49, 162, 183 literary theory and, 131 local, 102, 148, 157n.2, 201n.44 morality and, 66n.6, 93, 211 philosophical, 209, 213-14, 217-18 sacred, 168 spatial universalism, 2, 12n.4, 38, 49, 81, 84n.47, 116-18, 172 ‘static’ models of history, 56, 66n.7 structural view of, 83-4n.46 teleological view of, 10, 212-13 temporal universalism, 2, 12n.4, 116, 172 theological exegesis, and, 163-4, 171 Universal: see Universal History Hobbes, T., 210 Homer, 30, 36, 76, 83n.23, 148, 150-7; see also epic Honorius, 183 human nature, 32

Hydatius, 9, 167 Hyginus, 120 Ibn Khaldun, 1 Immerwahr, H., 3 imperialism, 67n.28, 68n.48; see also Rome, empire of infrastructure, 6, 89-91 inscriptions, 17-19, 25-6, 68n.46, 106, 214 Isidore of Seville, 72, 198 Islamic historiography, 189-206 Isocrates, 61, 68n.38, 76 isonomia, 17 Italy, 4, 6, 47, 78, 87-101 Jacoby, F., 3, 27n.24, 80, 102 Jason of Argos, 80 Jerome, 167, 183, 198 Jews, Judaism, Jewish historiography, 7, 9, 16, 149, 163, 164, 166, 180-1 John Chrysostom, 166 John of Bilcar, 167 Jones, A.H.M., 223 Josephus, 72, 77, 168 Kallias of Sphettos, 17-18 katholou, ta, 15, 23, 35-9 Kephalion, 80 ‘kinetic’ models of history, 56, 66n.7 kingship: see monarchy kinship: see ethnicity Kleon, 68n.46 Kojève, A., 178 Koselleck, R., 27n.12 Kuhn, T., 27n.12 League of Corinth, 19 legend: see mythology Leibniz, G., 212 Leucippus, 35 linear view of history, 5, 10, 21, 49, 162, 183 Livy, 7, 99n.53, 102, 103, 112, 123, 133, 144, 157, 215, 217 local history, 102, 148, 157n.2. 201n.44 Locke, J., 210 Lucian, 35 Luther, 183

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Index Maccabean revolt, 180 Macer, C. Licinius, 105 Machiavelli, N., 225 Macrobius, 152-3 Mahâyuga, 177 Malalas, John, 9, 10, 167, 192, 194, 195-6, 199 Manetho, 103, 104 Mango, C., 194 Marincola, J., 12nn.3-4, 79-80 Marinus of Tyrus, 79 Mark Antony, 64, 78 Marx, K., Marxism, 1, 16, 162, 176, 178, 185, 223 Mas‘ûdî, 196 Mediterranean, 32, 71, 78, 110, 119, 192, 232 Mela, 79 Michael Syrus, 196 mimesis, 39 misarguria, 57 ‘mixed’ constitution, 24, 177 modernism, 10, 209 Momigliano, A., 2, 12n.12, 16, 74, 105, 134, 138, 187n.41, 194 Mommsen, T., 41, 183, 223, 226 monarchy, 21-4, 110, 136, 191 Montesquieu, C., 223 morality (and history), 66n.6, 93, 211 Moses, 168 Muhammad, 189, 192 mythology, 7, 49, 56, 74, 102, 103, 106, 119 Nebuchadnezzar, 180 Neoplatonism, 179 Nepos, Cornelius, 108, 109, 111 Nicolaus of Damascus, 72, 73, 74, 76, 109 Nicostratus of Trapezunt, 80 Niebuhr, B.G., 41, 109, 217, 226 Nietzsche, F., 226 Noah, 180, 187n.27 Norse mythology, 177 Numa, 104 oaths, 18, 19, 27n.18 Ober, J., 16 Odysseus, 34 Oenopides of Chios, 52n.21 oikoumene, 8, 15, 74, 87, 133, 143-4

oligarchy, 19-26 optimism, 183 oral tradition, 197 orbis: see globe, images of Orosius, 9, 80, 164, 168, 171-2, 176, 182-5, 198 Otto of Friesing, 184 Ovid, 5, 50 Parthia, 75 Pericles, 20, 63, 195, 216, 229 Perseus, 59 Persia, 3, 20-1, 181, 189, 193 philarguria, 5, 57-65 Philip II of Macedon, 60, 61, 67n.33, 68n.58 Philip of Side, 9, 166, 168, 172 Philippus of Pergamon, 80 Philo, 167 Philoponus, John, 198 philosophical historiography, 209, 213-14, 217-18 Philostratus, 80 physis, 214 Pittacus, 57, 59 Plato, 3, 22, 23, 34, 176, 177, 186n.3 Platonism, 166, 179 pleonexia, 57 Pliny the Elder, 97n.23, 107, 219n.32 Plotinius, 179 Plumb, J., 188n.50 Plutarch, 60, 65, 72, 77 polis, poleis, 3, 4, 17-26, 87, 92, 104, 212-13 Pollio, Asinius, 75 Polybius, 3, 4, 5, 6, 23-6, 30-40, 41-2, 44-51, 64, 72, 89, 109, 111, 132, 150, 156, 169, 177, 215, 217 Pompeius Trogus: see Trogus Pompey (Cn. Pompeius), 8, 50, 71, 76, 135, 144-5, 225 Pope, A., 184 Porphyry, 198 Posidonius, 6, 12n.11, 73, 77, 80, 89, 98n.41, 109 Procopius, 169, 171, 195 progress, idea of, 1, 22, 207 prosperity, 6, 89-91 Providence, 35, 74, 184 Ptolemy, Claudius, 198 Punic Wars, 4, 11, 15, 35, 108

242

Index Pythagoras, 104 Quadratus, C. Asinius, 80 Quellenforschung, 61, 66n.2, 77 Quintilian, 33 Qur’ân, 190-1 race: see ethnicity Ragnarok, 177 rationality, 211-12 rebirth, 177, 179 Remphis, 61 Revelation, Book of, 181 revolution, 16-26, 213 rhetoric and history, 136; see also Cicero Ricoeur, P., 39 Rome city of, 89, 91, 133, 150 anacylosis of, 176 Augustan, 41, 50-1, 53n.50, 72, 74, 76 centre of the world, 131-45, 150, 181 Christianity, adoption of, 182, 223 decline of, 24, 226, 229 emperors of, 193 empire in the east, 165 empire of, 2, 3, 4, 50-1, 62, 64, 71, 78, 80, 87, 95, 108-9, 111, 133, 136-45 foundation of, 118-23 and Italy, 47, 87-96 sack of, 184 Second Punic War, 4, 11 Spengler on, 222-34 views of, 34, 39 Romulus, 104, 119, 122, 133, 155 Rousseau, J.-J., 213 Rufinus, 165 Sacks, K., 15, 56, 132 ‘sacred’ history, 168 salvation of mankind, 165, 170, 190 Salvians, 223 samsara, 179 Schiller, F., 211 science, 38 Scipiones, 125-6, 225, 227 Scruton, R., 183 Seneca, 186n.3 Severus, Sulpicius, 163

Sitalkes, 59 Social War, 138, 141 Socrates of Athens, 214 Socrates of Constantinople, 165, 166, 168 Solon, 27n.25 Sozomen, 165, 168 space (universal), 2, 12n.4, 38, 49, 81, 84n.47, 116-18, 172 Spain, 167, 182 specific, the, 37 Spengler, O., 1, 11, 177, 221-37 stasis, 16-26, 27n.15 statesmanship, 56-65 ‘static’ models of history, 56, 66n.7 Stephanus of Byzantium, 72 Stoicism, 5, 66n.5, 74, 166, 176, 207 Strabo, 6, 57, 71-101 structural view of universal history, 83-4n.46 suggrapheus, 31 Sulla, 71, 118, 120, 143, 225 sumploke, 25, 35, 38 sunopsis, 35-6 synecdoche, 45, 132-45 Syracuse, 62 Tabarî, 194, 196 Tacitus, 157, 176, 186n.12 teleological view of history, 10 Theodoretus, 164, 165, 168 Theodosius, 185, 229 Theognis, 20 Theophrastus, 76 Theopompus, 26, 33, 60, 67n.33, 76, 104 Thucydides, 3, 4, 17, 21, 25-6, 30, 31, 32, 38, 62, 109, 170, 177, 186n.11, 198, 199, 216 Tiberius, 71-2, 117, 120, 125 Timaeus, 15, 33, 34, 40n.8, 43, 48, 52n.21, 56, 79, 105, 109 Timagenes of Alexandria, 73, 77, 109 timocracy, 22 Toynbee, A., 1, 226 tragedy, 36-7 Trajan, 81, 229 Trogus, Pompeius, 6, 12n.11, 74, 75, 77, 110, 134, 143, 144 Twelve Tables, the, 104 tyrannicides (Athenian), 17

243

Index tyranny, 18-28, 53n.52

von Ranke, 223, 226

unification of Germany, 84n.47 of Italy, 87-96 Universal History, definitions of, 1-2, 15-16, 56, 81, 102-3, 116, 145, 158n.17, 162, 170, 207-18, 221-34 USA, 11, 224, 227, 233-4 utility of history, 45; see also education

wanderers, 119 war: see conflict Weber, M., 223 Weltgeist, 207 ‘Whig’ view of history, 1 World Fairs, 140 World War I, 11, 186n.8, 221-2, 225-6, 233

Valerius Maximus, 186n.12 Varro, 88, 120 Velleius Paterculus, 8, 102, 111, 116-30 Vergil, 51, 88, 120, 152 Vico, G., 213, 224 Victorinus, M., 106 Voltaire, 184-5

Xenophon, 62, 63, 65, 215, 216 Ya‘qûbî, 196 ‘year-by-year’ history: see annals Zacharias, 165 Zeitgeist, 11 Zoroastrianism, 180

244