The Children of Herodotus: Greek and Roman Historiography and Related Genres 1443800155, 9781443800150

Citation preview

The Children of Herodotus: Greek and Roman Historiography and Related Genres

Edited by

Jakub PigoĔ

Cambridge Scholars Publishing

The Children of Herodotus: Greek and Roman Historiography and Related Genres, Edited by Jakub PigoĔ This book first published 2008 Cambridge Scholars Publishing 12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2008 by Jakub PigoĔ and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-0015-5, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-0015-0

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One ................................................................................................ 1 The Recitation of Herodotus Stephen Evans Chapter Two ............................................................................................. 17 Phoebo vicinus Padaeus: Reflections on the Impact of Herodotean Ethnography Klaus Karttunen Chapter Three ........................................................................................... 26 The Black Legend of Cambyses in Herodotus Agnieszka Wojciechowska Chapter Four ............................................................................................. 34 Friends or Foes? Herodotus in Thucydides’ Preface Marek WĊcowski Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 58 “Hope Is Not a Strategy”: Homer’s Hector and Thucydides’ Nicias Lynn Kozak Chapter Six ............................................................................................... 69 Viewing, Power and Interpretation in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia Rosie Harman Chapter Seven ........................................................................................... 92 Aeneas Tacticus Between History and Sophistry: The Emergence of the Military Handbook Bogdan Burliga Chapter Eight .......................................................................................... 102 Writing Local History: Archemachus and his Euboika Sáawomir Sprawski

vi

Table of Contents

Chapter Nine ........................................................................................... 119 Source or Sources of Diodorus’ Account of Indian satƯ/Suttee (Diod. Sic. 19.33-34.6)? Przemysáaw Szczurek Chapter Ten ............................................................................................ 144 Universal History and Cultural Geography of the Oikoumene in Herodotus’ Historiai and Strabo’s Geographika Johannes Engels Chapter Eleven ....................................................................................... 162 A Marginal Vision of Empire: Philo and Josephus on the Jews’ Integration into Imperial Society Avi Avidov Chapter Twelve ...................................................................................... 181 Philistus and Alexander’s Empire (Plutarch, Vita Alexandri 8.3) Nicholas Victor Sekunda Chapter Thirteen ..................................................................................... 187 The Messenians and their Foolish Courage in Pausanias’ Book 4 Lydia Langerwerf Chapter Fourteen .................................................................................... 206 L’image des Barcides chez les historiographes latins de la République: naissance d’une tradition Martine Chassignet Chapter Fifteen ....................................................................................... 219 Principes Semper Graeciae: Pompeius Trogus/Justinus and the Aetolian Politics of History Jacek Rzepka Chapter Sixteen ...................................................................................... 231 Curtius Rufus, the Macedonian Mutiny at Opis and Alexander’s Iranian Policy in 324 BC Marek Jan Olbrycht

The Children of Herodotus

vii

Chapter Seventeen .................................................................................. 253 The Truth About Tyranny: Tacitus and the Historian’s Responsibility in Early Imperial Rome Kurt A. Raaflaub Chapter Eighteen .................................................................................... 271 Reconsiderations on the Intention and Structure of Tacitus’ Annals Franz Römer Chapter Nineteen .................................................................................... 287 The Passive Voice of the Hero: Some Peculiarities of Tacitus’ Portrayal of Germanicus in Annals 1.31-49 Jakub PigoĔ Chapter Twenty ...................................................................................... 304 A Greater than Caesar? Rivalry with Caesar in Tacitus’ Agricola Andrew T. Fear Chapter Twenty One ............................................................................... 317 Brevitas as a Stylistic Feature in Roman Historiography Agnieszka Dziuba Chapter Twenty Two .............................................................................. 329 The Stepchildren of Herodotus: The Transformation of History into Fiction in Late Antiquity Bruce Duncan MacQueen Contributors ............................................................................................ 349 Abbreviations ......................................................................................... 355 Bibliography............................................................................................ 358 Index of Ancient Personal Names .......................................................... 401

CHAPTER ONE THE RECITATION OF HERODOTUS STEPHEN EVANS

For fifty years I have listened to sermons preached by preachers in their pulpit.1 To this day I vividly remember Good Friday 1959 when my Vicar, Rev. Stephen Skemp, said that he would now read a poem that would sum up his feelings about the agony of Christ hanging on the Cross. Then he added, “Oh dear! I seem to have left the poem at home.” After that his sermon broke down. One must to bear in mind that in those days the Good Friday service lasted three hours from twelve o’clock noon to 3 pm and this poem would have been the basis of a 40-minute sermon. What emerged from this was that he had not prepared his sermon but had relied on the text of the poem from which he could comment and improvise. But without the text, he was lost. For fifty years I have heard preachers reading out sermons, delivering sermons, reciting sermons, making up sermons, muttering sermons, and apologizing for their scattered thoughts. Again all of us in this room have heard academics delivering lectures, sometimes with their nose in the page, sometimes facing, looking at or glaring at their audience. I propose to you that we will never know how good or how bad a lecturer or potential preacher Herodotus was, but in this paper I will try to piece together the internal and external evidence we have for his lecturing and 1

I gave an earlier version of this talk in Birmingham on 14th April 2007 at the Classical Association Annual Conference where there was a two-day panel on Herodotus. After the talk I was overwhelmed with questions such as “Where would Herodotus give his lectures? Would he have used notes or jottings to back up his memory? How long would such a lecture be?” I am grateful for the stimulation provided by those questioners and now attempt to address my title and give a historical background to this conundrum.

2

Chapter One

writing, pre-publishing, publishing and post-publishing stages of his enquiries, his historie, rather than his history.2 It is a symptom of the vibrancy of Herodotean studies that well known scholars come up with utterly contrasting conclusions on his recital or reading of his works or his lecturing from the finished work or from episodes of the whole. At the one extreme, inflexible unitarians, such as Schöll, Immerwahr and Rösling, argue that Herodotus and Thucydides belong to the same literary culture with both aiming at a permanent possession and monument through their writings, arguing that the internal evidence of Herodotus’ Histories can only indicate unbroken and consistent logical unity from start to finish without the possibility of breaking the work up into sections. Analysts, on the other hand, such as Jacoby, are convinced that the work is composed of sections which individually or in combination were designed to be delivered orally in front of an audience and whose performance has in turn helped to shape the text we now have.3 They produced a developmental hypothesis whereby they determined the existence of separate narratives and they indicate the likelihood of shifting interests over the presumed years of composition and editing. I would add an oral source- and performanceschool which sees Herodotus swimming in oral sources and living in a “talkative” performance environment, even if statistics for literacy spike between 10% and 15% in rural Attica alone in the 5th century BC. Scholars, such as Munson or Stadter, vow that even the word graphein refers to spoken output, that the text betrays oral culture and sources and was strictly intended for performance throughout Herodotus’ life in palaestra, symposium, festival, private houses or even on army campaigns or in soldiers’ barracks. I hope to prove that these three approaches are “not incompatible with each other since they serve different ends” (Fornara 1971b, 5). 2

Evans 1991, 90, 99f.; Raaflaub 2002, 152f.; Thomas 2002, 257-60. Marincola (1997b, 1) supports Stadter’s view that Herodotus did not read from a written text and that his text as we have it represents a particular address to a specific audience and may not have been that used when he spoke before other audiences. This view is opposed by Harrison (2000, 3 n. 7) and Johnson (1994, 252). See Alcidamas, On Those Who Write Written Speeches, for the most articulate, if polemical, near contemporary discussion of the relation of performance and written texts, memorised or not. Note the warning from Waters (1985, 27): “we should not expect sermons from Herodotus, for historians need not preach!” 3 The situation is well summed by Lateiner (1989, introd., esp. 4f.) and expatiated on by de Jong (2002, 245-66) in an entire chapter.

The Recitation of Herodotus

3

I begin with an anecdote about our son Ville who when he was three years old always went to sleep to the accompaniment of Herodotus. He found Herodotus charming, amusing and diverting and he was always climbing up the bookcase to get hold of the Histories. The trick is to explain this attraction of Herodotus’ prose and “turn it into scholarship” (Slings 2000, 53). Scholarly attention has long been focussed on the expression apodexis in the first sentence of Herodotus’ Histories.4 There is controversy over its implications for the structure and narrative of the Histories and secondly for the performance of the work. On the one hand, the first-person presence in the text, the expression of personal opinion, the overt disagreement with others, are similar to what we see in the works dealing with medicine and philosophy.5 This resonates with Collins’ perception of “capping” in earlier epic, tragedy and comedy (Collins 2004).6 On the other hand Herodotus’ text has been seen as an oral product and as the telling of a story as opposed to an academic lecture since there are recognizable oral strategies in the language of Herodotus that must also be taken into account. He has a predilection for fuzzy syntax and resorts to anaphora which is a typical “chunking” strategy that speakers use in order to arrange their thoughts as they formulate them. Herodotus’ Histories consist of shorter histories and of summaries of events that are peripheral to his main concern. This has led some critics to compare his shorter histories to short stories, such as those written by Chekhov, Kipling, Somerset Maughan, Henry James or Edgar Allen Poe, or to the multi-volumed and serialized fiction of Dickens.7 These shorter histories are often recounted in rich detail and decorated with verbatim reports of numerous conversations, often told in Herodotus’ own person 4

Bakker 2002, 3-32; Griffiths 2006; Johnson 1994, 252; Nagy 1990; Thomas 2002, 7 n. 14. It is translated by Gould (1989, 17) as “performance (literally ‘display’) of the enquiries,” by Latiner (1989, 7) as “demonstration of his research” and by Nagy (1990, 217) as “public presentation.” 5 West (1985, 294) postulates that the use of the first person could well be an empty literary convention with no connection to the author’s autobiography. 6 Thomas 2002, 235-48, with the often cited statistic from Dewald who has counted 1087 first persons in the Histories (Dewald 1987, 150 n. 10; 159-63). See further discussion and references in Thomas on first person as the critic. 7 Shaw 1983, 7; Flory 1980, 17 n. 21: “Dickens’ long serialised narratives would not have ended up as whole novels if the author had not sought to satisfy the cravings of an established reading public for ‘three-decker’ books. Herodotus could count on no such audience.”

4

Chapter One

and at other times reported on someone else’s authority.8 There is considerable debate as to whether these shorter stories or shorter histories could have once been the basis for lectures delivered on his travels to various places. This theory has two versions, either that the Histories provided the material for the lectures, or that the lectures formed the basis for the text of the Histories (earlier views in Jacoby 1913a, esp. 330 and 379f., and Myres 1953, 20-31). One particularly moot point is whether the activities of Greek historians can be compared to those of sophists and philosophers who were itinerant lecturers. Nagy would go so far as to rank Homeric rhapsodes (aoidoi) in the same category as itinerant historians (logioi or logographoi), with Homer as the supreme aoidos and Herodotus as the ultimate logios.9 Friedman picks up the concept of the itinerant worker (demiourgos) from Odyssey 17.382-6 and links the rhapsode and historian to Thomas’ concept of the itinerant physician or scientist. I would add the Egyptian preachers or priests to this list. These professions are all rolled into one in Herodotus’ self-presentation in the narrative (Friedman 2006, 169; Thomas 2000, 249-69). Some critics have envisaged the stories or episodes as being linked to one another in a structure similar to “beads on a string,” with the implicit idea that such stringing reflects the author’s proclivity to digression (Bakker 2006, 93; Immerwahr 1966, 47 and 49). Aristotle called this early (paratactic) prose lexis eiromene, the strung-on way of speaking, in contrast to lexis katestrammene, composed or periodic units, hypotactic sentence with a beginning, middle and an end that give a sense of finitude and closure where less important elements are subordinated to the more important idea. Immerwahr (1966) is the most famous analyst of Herodotus’ paratactic style. When a digression ends and there is a structural necessity of returning to the main line of the story, we get “ring composition” whereby a paratactic unit comes to a close in referring back to its beginning. Immerwahr distinguished paratactic ǣǚǘ and antithetic ǥǖǦ and ǝǖ as two types of linkage. Bakker (2006, 94) borrows Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ term ʹǦ ǥǘ͑ ǬǮǦǭǕǧǞǢ for Herodotus’ putting together of 8

Here I try to avoid the overused word logos, the “buzzword of buzzwords,” as Pelling puts it (1997, 1) or “notoriously polyvalent term” in Boedeker’s words (2000, 108). Sometimes it seems to refer to the whole work and the manner of its presentation as in Hdt. 2.123.1: “it underlies my whole logos that I write the things said by various people to my hearing.” With logos in this sense, Herodotus comes close to talking explictly about generic features of his work (Boedeker ibid.). 9 Nagy 1987, 184: “The history of Herodotus the logios is in effect subsuming, not just continuing, the epic of Homer the aoidos.” In the same volume, Lang (1987, 203f.) criticizes his use of the word logios. Nagy (1990, 221-24) restates his case.

The Recitation of Herodotus

5

various histories. Syntaxis here represents a general characterization of Herodotus’ style. Bakker believes that syntaxis cuts through the contrast between parataxis and hypotaxis mentioned above. The shorter stories that make up the Histories are neither beads on a string nor strictly hierarchically ordered. They are put together in syntaxis perhaps involving a shift in time and space. Herodotus had no visual means of organising his text with subheadings, indentations or footnotes on the printed page. He had to integrate all his stories explaining the conflict between Greek and barbarians into one continuous history. Herodotus then joins these heterogeneous stories by his author’s voice, his historian’s orienting voice, his narrator’s voice. This gives the work, according to Bakker, its “performative” or “recitative” quality. The text is structured by the needs of a listening audience. According to this interpretation, the text itself is seen as an apodexis—an enactment or performance of his researches and investigations. The world of the apodexis and epidexis in its wider and earlier sense may help give substance to the picture of Herodotean performance and help interpret some elements of his style (see also n. 4). Herodotus’ delivery of lectures is well known if sometimes doubted.10 Though the precise testimony that he gave lectures tends to become fuller in later authors, it would be implausible to think that Herodotus of all writers of this period did not give public lectures or oral performances of some kind.11 It is significant that later writers could simply assume he delivered lectures. But modern scholars have been reticent about quite 10 Gould 1989, 7f.; Thomas 2000, 257. Jacoby admitted (1913a, 242): “Eigentliche ‘Zeugnisse’ haben wir natürlich nicht und können sie nicht haben,” yet added that lecture tours were typical of that period. The Brill volume (Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002) contains one chapter against lecturing (Rösler) and three chapters for it (Bakker, Slings and Raaflaub). E.g. Slings 2002, 63: “And I do think we should take seriously the reports that Herodotus read his work before an audience even if oral strategies are toto caelo different from strategies that may have been used by a ‘performer’ who proceeded aurally.” 11 Luc. Her. 1 (on Herodotus performing at the Olympic Games); cf. Pohlenz 1937, 208; Powell 1939, 32f.; critical discussion in Johnson 1994; Gould 2002, 16f.: “Only one thing is relatively clear about Herodotus’ original audience: that it was an audience rather than a readership. We have almost certainly to imagine Herodotus’ reading aloud his text, in whole or part, to an audience gathered to hear him perform. Herodotus is composing his huge narrative for a world in which the dissemination of literature is still essentially oral, as it still was for Thucydides in the next generation.” Gould further argues (2002, 137 n. 19): “We are dealing with a culture with a quite different experience from our own of extended performance (of Hom. Il. and Od., for example), and it is dangerous to offer arguments of probability based on our own experience in such things.”

6

Chapter One

how they envisage these performances. Many scholars for example tend to accept Herodotus’ lectures without scrutinizing the exact implications. Any idea that the written text exactly replicates a performance neglects what we know about the fluidity and immediacy of performance. The oral prehistory of Greek prose has been relatively neglected, although the works of Aly early last century and of others like J.A.S. Evans, Honko, Lang, Murray, Siikala, Stadter, Thomas and Vansina on oral traditions and Herodotus in the last two decades or so have indicated there is more work to be done.12 In studying the beginnings of historical literature in the Greek world, our focus must be first on the development of the epic tradition and its fixation in written texts and more recently on the culture that lies behind the creation and performance of lyric poetry, elegy and history. Our vision of Herodotus has been transformed by the publication and analysis of the new Simonides poems, Honko’s and Siikala’s anthropological revisions of the meaning of tradition and of the social function played by a people’s notion of the past. As scholars used to books, we perhaps find it difficult to imagine the cultural world and the intellectual activity of people to whom books represented a very small part of their way of knowing the world and a relatively new way to communicate with others or to preserve one’s knowledge. Finland is renowned for research on oral traditions, on for example the Kalevala, research pioneered by Lauri Honko and carried on by Anna-Leena Siikala (Honko 1998 and 2000; Siikala 2000). Honko saw the advent of a new paradigm in oral epic and oral prose research with an emphasis on multiple documentation using video, audio and still camera. Homeric scholars, such as John Foley and Minna Skafte Jensen, have worked closely with Honko and adapted his findings in Homeric studies. Honko took extended field trips to Northern Finland, Russian Karelia, Tanzania, China and India. In December 1990, together with his Finnish-Indian team, he recorded on video and audiotape a total of 15,683 lines of the epic performed by the singer and possession priest Gopala Naika. In 1998 this epic, only five lines shorter than the Iliad, was published in Tulu and English in two volumes, and a third volume Textualizing the Siri Epics, is an introduction to the methodology of the textualisation process of oral epics and oral history. It is no exaggeration to say that the Finnish school of folklore has completely outdated and expanded earlier work on oral epics and history. If Gopala Naika can 12

Evans 1991; Honko 1998 and 2000; Lang 1984; Murray 1987; Thomas 2002; Siikala 2000; Stadter 1997; Vansina 1985.

The Recitation of Herodotus

7

remember eight days of narration, then Herodotus could have done the same. Philip Stadter (1997) has compared Herodotus to the tale-tellers from the Appalachian mountains of North Carolina, where Council Harmon, David Hicks’ great-grandson, had an exceptional ability to recount tales, known to us as e.g. “Jack and the Beanstalk” and “Jack the Giantkiller.” Stadter notes that Appalachian speakers always adjusted their dialect both for comprehension and to appear more educated when performing for those outside their community. Ray Hicks, a descendant of David Hicks, alternates between the dialect “clumb” and the standard “climbed.” Some of the alternation of dialect forms in Herodotus, even in the written form may reflect this phenomenon. The audiences in Athens, Sparta, Corinth or Olympia, would be struck by the dialect of an Ionian speaker or writer. Stadter could imagine Herodotus dressing up as an Ionian or in full purple costume like Arion in full costume when in mainland Greece or wearing earrings and carrying a parasol as illustrated in Anacreontic vases, depicting Ionian dress. He could envisage mimicry in dialogue so that the different voices of Candaules, Gyges and Candaules’ wife, respectively overbearing and thoughtless, shocked and frightened, firm and in control, or of Solon and Croesus, would be essential parts of the performance. Stadter believes that the written text of Herodotus still bears marks of oral performance in which the speaker clarifies, dramatises and interprets with his voice and body.13 Stadter thus represents an extreme form of the performative school. 13 Stadter even suggests venues: (1) The symposium as a venue for poetry and prose, cf. Aristophanes, Socrates, and Alcibiades in Pl. Symp. (2) The palaestra. Plato reports how Socrates on his return from Potidaea went to the palaestra of Taureus and was immediately questioned about the battle (Charm. 153a-d). (3) Private houses. Sophists were invited by Callias to perform in his house, according to Pl. Prot. In the Hip. mai., Hippias says that in two days he will give his narrative epideixis of Nestor’s advice to Neoptolemus, at the didaskaleion of Pheidostratus, where he had been invited by Eudicus (286a-b). (4) Festivals. The newly discovered historical elegy by Simonides most probably was composed for a festival at Plataea. Gatherings like the Eleutheria at Plataea, the Panathenaea at Athens, or the great pan-Hellenic festivals would have been natural occasions for prose narrative and sophists’ performances as well. In Plato (Hip. mai. 363d), Hippias states that he regularly presented himself at the Olympic festival. Many of Herodotus’ logoi would lend themselves to presentation in a public gathering. (5) On campaign, with the army or the fleet. Herodotus may have accompanied the fleet to Egypt in the 450s, or Pericles’ expedition to the Black Sea in the 430s.

8

Chapter One

It is a platitude to say that Herodotus stands at the watershed between oral and literate phases of Greek culture.14 Many idiosyncrasies of his style suggest that he stands in a tradition of telling stories and that the written language in his time was only in its infancy. This is however debatable as others maintain that the written language was already fully fledged by Herodotus’ later life. Harris (1989) has coined the term “craftman’s literacy” for societies where the majority of people could barely write or read their name. Salmenkivi (2007b, 58f.) considers Harris to have overreacted against the romantic notion that reading and writing was widespread in classical Greece and Rome. Harris admits himself that even if only 10% of the population in Archaic Greece had poor reading- and writing-skills, that would nevertheless represent a remarkable achievement of educational dissemination. The lack of any personal correspondence in the form of letters preserved up to the present day again does not disprove literacy since we only have letters from Hellenistic and Roman Egypt where weather conditions were favourable. The fact is that if 10-15% of the agrarian population could read and write, then a considerable proportion of Athenians would be able to read much more widely. The Father of History, as Boedeker has it, is embroiled in paternity suits. He is both hailed as the single parent of a new genre and considered but one of many contributors to a variety of prose subgenres (Boedeker 2000, 97). He is charged with falsely claiming to report investigations into history and ethnography and yet is defended as the first serious researcher interested primarily in discovering facts about past human experience. He is portrayed as a transmitter of traditional cultural values conveyed in stories about the past but also described as struggling to master unwieldy traditions and to give them a stable form. As a native of Halicarnassus, as Pelling would have it, he stands on the front-line of the Greek engagement with the Other, geographically and culturally between East and West; part of what is being fought over in the history he narrates (Pelling 1997, 2). Rosalind Thomas considers that the proem or what Griffiths calls the “prospectus paragraph” and the opening chapters of Herodotus’ Histories seem to set out quite deliberately the Homeric precedent and the Homeric and mythical background only to overlay them with the new language of scientific research and intellectual enquiry—historie, apodexis and the language of knowledge (Griffiths 2006, 130 and above n. 5). This is a daring mixture of Homeric reference and hints of the current fashionable language of intellectual activity. This is not however to deny the clear 14

See for instance Thomas 1989, 1992 and 2002; Slings 2002; Mackay 1999; Watson 2001.

The Recitation of Herodotus

9

Homeric echoes even in the form of Homeric structure like the catalogues of troops that follow in the rest of the Histories. The nature of Herodotus’ enquiry is thus set out with a hint of antithesis. This combination of the Homeric and the new is characteristic of the sophists who seem to have seen themselves as the direct successors of Homer, performing at the same festivals as the rhapsodes and even wearing the same purple robes.15 The combination then in Herodotus’ Histories of identifiably Homeric precedents and influence and the newer language of contemporary enquiry would seem far from diminishing the importance of either but to be characteristic precisely of a period in which the poets are giving way as foremost teachers to new generations of experts, “preachers,” persuaders, and the prose display piece for oral performance. Rösler counters these argument in addressing the question of the Histories and writing.16 He attempts to demonstrate that Herodotus started writing late in life and that several indicators, such as chronology, organisation of the material and commitment to legein ta legomena, show that Herodotus committed his thoughts to writing because he felt the need to give his knowledge an existence independent of his own and to preserve it for posterity. There he notes that Thucydides’ work is no longer addressed to an audience listening to a recitation, it is directed towards a future reader as “a possession for ever,” ǣǭ͟ǥǚ ǞƜǫ ǚǢƜǞǘ. According to Rösler this entails a crucial consequence in that the length of his Peloponnesian War is no longer dictated by the traditional constraints of a logos. Previously it had been an implicit rule that a written prose text, a syngraphe, was geared to the length of an oral logos. Had he actually been able to finish his work, it would have been somewhat longer than Herodotus’ Histories. As early as 1943 Harder had established the significance of the development of writing in the formation of Thucydides’ and Herodotus’ histories. In 1952 Turner further sketched in the details. Herodotus himself tells us of the Greeks’ adoption of the Phoenicians’ alphabet (Hdt. 5.58). According to Rösler, this led both writers to create a text of a length regulated by content and nothing but content, a text intended from the outset to reach readers beyond their time and age. Thucydides expected (1.1) that the Peloponnesian war would be great and therefore more worthy of record than all previous wars. So he began taking notes as soon as the war broke out. Less clear is the connection between the outbreak of war and Herodotus’ decision to commit his 15

Johnson (1994, 252) emphasizes that the proem was not written with performance in mind. 16 Rösling 2002, 79-116; Raaflaub 2002, 149-86; Thomas, see n. 4 above and 2006, 60-75; Bakker 2002, 3-32 and 2006, 92-102.

10

Chapter One

history to writing. According to Rösler, Herodotus composed his Histories relatively late in life. It is reasonable to assume that he had been previously active as a logographos though there is actually no strict evidence for this. Lecture tours were nevertheless typical of that period. This is confirmed by Thucydides himself when he distances himself from the logographoi.17 We may also in a wider context point to the lecturing activities of the sophists. Thucydides actually contrasts the quality of his own historiography with texts intended for oral delivery, such as logographoi compose. Oral delivery is angled not so much towards telling the truth as towards pleasing the audience and is targeted at the immediate effect on the audience, ǣǭ͟ǥǕ ǭǞ ǞƜǫ ǚǢƜǞ̓ ǥ͐ǤǤǨǦ ˇ ǚǜǷǦǢǬǥǚ ǞƜǫ ǭ̕ ǩǚǪǚǰǪ͟ǥǚ ǚƜǣǨǶǞǢǦ ǧǶǜǣǞǢǭǚǢ (Thuc. 1.22.4). The ephemeral character of logographic texts is highlighted by the verbal contrast ǩǚǪǚǰǪ͟ǥǚ – ǣǭ͟ǥǚ. At Herodotus’ later stage of life in the colony of Thurii in Magna Graecia, he probably put lecturing behind him or might well have concluded that lecture tours would be difficult, if not impossible, in wartime conditions. Here in Wrocáaw, which suffered as much as Coventry, Dresden or Rovaniemi from the Second World War bombing, it is perhaps worth emphasizing this fact. The wars with Persia were his topic but the Peloponnesian war was one factor that made the peripatetic lecturer’s career virtually impossible or at least more difficult to continue. However that may be, Herodotus certainly experienced the early years of the Peloponnesian War and much of the intellectual ferment of the Periclean and immediate post-Periclean years. We should expect these experiences to have left their mark in his work (Raaflaub 2002, 152f.). So if lecturing tours were out of the question in wartime this could well have led him to a more fundamental reflection connected to his own passing years.18 As an oral historian, Herodotus had accumulated an exceptionally extensive knowledge, one which he alone possessed. He drew on his knowledge for his lectures. His knowledge had been built up by historie (inquiry), autopsy and interviews, largely during his numerous travels, often under difficult circumstances. Most of his knowledge was stored only in his memory. It might be an anachronism to picture Herodotus using written notes. He was entirely capable of relying on his memory as can be seen in the account of the pyramid of Cheops (Hdt. 2.125): “there is an inscription,” he says, “recording in Egyptian characters 17

See Wiseman 1997 for a modern parallel to logographoi. Stadter postulates variation in lecture delivery to different audiences. This is countered by Harrison (2000, 2 n. 7) and Johnson (1995, 252). See n. 2 above. 18

The Recitation of Herodotus

11

how much has been spent on radishes, onions and garlic for the health of the workers.” He adds: “And as I well remember, the interpreter who read out the hieroglyphics told me that 1600 silver talents had been spent.” Rösling’s view is that the development from orality to literacy had reached the point at which a work like Herodotus’ histories could appear. He is not only the pater historiae but at the same time he (not Thucydides) gives birth to an entirely new medium: the massive text written for readers in the future. The recitation of the entire Histories would take up fifty hours (Schöll 1855, 419; Flory 1980; Johnson 1994, 250f.). Schöll, Rösling and Johnson would consider such a recitation impossible though actually in India or Africa it would be possible, as we know from modern studies in oral epics and oral history.19 They also consider it equally improbable that the Histories were a collection of separate narratives for use in oral recitations.20 This leads on then to internal arguments from the overall design of the whole work where the work of Immerwahr is absolutely crucial and as always, we are all indebted to Jacoby for his perceptive comments in 1913. Jacoby introduced the idea of a scissors and paste job (“Arbeit mit der Schere”) where Herodotus tried to utilize everything that he had previously presented in lectures (“alles zu verwenden, was er bisher in Vorträgen geboten hatte”) and as far as possible to re-use his stock of lectures in their existing form (“den Bestand an Vorträgen möglichst in der vorhandenen Form zu verwerten”). There is an ancient parallel for the scissors and paste procedure in Plato’s Phaedrus (278d), when Socrates caricatures the syngrapheus as someone who over a long time turns the text over and over, sticks bits together and separates them again (ʭǦDz ǣǕǭDz ǬǭǪǖǯDzǦ ǞƜǦ ǰǪǵǦ·, ǩǪ̕ǫ ʭǤǤǠǤǚ ǣoǤǤΉǦ ǭǞ ǣǚ̓ ʩǯǚǢǪΉǦ). Dorandi (1991) emphatically opposes the thought that Herodotus, as an oral historian, would ever have given readings exclusively from manuscripts. A closer parallel can perhaps be found in the Platonic Hippias’ account of his appearance at Olympia (Hip. mi. 363c-d): “when I go to Olympia for the festive assembly of the Greeks, whenever the Olympic Games takes place, I go from my homeland Elis to the sanctuary, and make an appearance there and give a talk as requested by one, from those that I have prepared for the show, or answer a question put by another…” 19

Notably the Siri epic in India, researched and videoed by Lauri Honko (1998). His work has received insufficient attention. Amongst earlier researchers: Finnegan 1992 and Vansina 1985. 20 But see Lateiner 1989, 234 n. 15; Evans 1991, 89f. and ch. 3; Thomas 2002, ch. 8.

12

Chapter One

If one deviates from Jacoby’s hypothesis and postulates that the entire Histories was actually put into writing in Thurii, this would fit in with Lattimore’s observations concerning Herodotus’ “progresssive style.” He points out that errors and incomplete references which Herodotus notices as he works on his text are corrected or completed at the very point which he just happens to have reached. In other words, they remain in the text, the text is not reworked over a long time (Lattimore 1958, 20). Along with the quite rare instances of unfulfilled announcements (e.g. Assyrioi logoi) this indicates a process of continuous writing pressing towards a conclusion.21 The written text of the Histories contains only traces which can with due caution be used to reconstruct the oral Herodotus, according to Rösler. Johnson (1994, 230) puts it plainer: “Did Herodotus write his history with oral performance in mind? Such has been the almost universal assumption. The composition of the Histories should be seen as a late break with his past as an oral teller of tales. The entire material is organised along a main road (˦ǝǵǫ), i.e. the conflict between Greeks and barbarians.” De Jong analyses the narrative unity and the specific units involved in Herodotus’ histories (de Jong 2002, 245-66). She stresses at the outset that ancient literary taste shows a greater tolerance and appreciation of the episodic, the ecphrastic and the digressional. A central notion which recurs in ancient discussions of Herodotus is ǩǨǢǣǢǤǘǚ or variation. It is this variation that allows the author to insert a great deal of digressional material. The first to defend Herodotus after Jacoby was Aly whose interest in the folktale elements in Herodotus led him to suggest that the first five books are a frame narrative (Rahmenerzählung), a form that Herodotus derived from oriental, folktale literature (Aly 1921). He even put forward the provocative suggestion that the framed narratives (Jacoby’s “disruptive digressions”) were more important than the frame itself. Pohlenz in 1937 identified a unifying subject, the confrontation between Greeks and barbarians, and actually suggested that Herodotus selects his material and that the digressions explain the main story and are not inserted at random, but at points where the main story needs them, i.e. when a new person or location has to be introduced. The second turning point after Pohlenz is Immerwahr (1966). He detects both a subject (the history of Persian power and aggressiveness in a well-defined period in which aggression affected the Greeks) and a structure (the Histories consists of a series of logoi, narrative units which 21

Hdt. 1.106.2 and 184. See Evans 1991, 89 n. 1 with refs there.

The Recitation of Herodotus

13

are usually demarcated by ring-composition, which vary in length and which may themselves consist of smaller logoi). In Immerwahr’s analysis, the paratactic style has gained in power; it is not the product of an inquisitive but unstructured mind but rather a sophisticated literary and historiographical instrument.22 Immerwahr (1966, 306) saw the work as a single logos that has the form of a chain and embodies the single conception of the rise and fall of Asiatic power as the enemy and attacker of the Greek. De Jong cites and latches onto an insight from Waters (1985) who stressed that the Histories are a narrative in which case the digressions become flashbacks just as in the structure of the Odyssey, not Exkurse as in Jacoby. De Jong (2002, 266) concludes that in the hands of Herodotus, the age-old story-teller’s device of the flashback or analepsis has become a powerful instrument of historical narration. Several critics accept the idea of the unity of the written version of the Histories but still spot oral devices within the text. Mabel Lang expresses the matter very well: “Almost any reader of Herodotus’ Histories can be happily drawn along by the narrative flow without worrying much about where he is going. But every once in a while even the most casual reader will stop and ask, ‘How did we get from there to here?’” Lang (1984, 1) finds the answer in modern examples of oral narrative that are close to the kind of material found in Herodotus’ sources and by which his own narrative style must have been affected. Slings (2002, 53f.) wants to analyse academically the superficial impression of story-telling that lies behind Herodotus’ text. He uses discourse analysis of oral use of modern languages to compare with the quasi-spoken language preserved from Ancient Greek found in Herodotus. As a result, in my opinion, he brilliantly analyses the internal evidence for oral presentation of the Histories. First the analysis from Lang. She speaks of arrows in the narrative that show the direction in which the story will move, and speaks of carrots by which the narrative is led in the desired direction. To quote: “Recognizing both the largely oral nature of Herodotus’ sources and as a result of his lectures, the likely oral manner of his composition, let us examine ways in which an oral narrative style may have influenced the history (that is 22

Immerwahr 1966, 312: “The study of how Herodotus organises his material must be the main basis in answering many other questions which may be put to the work, such as its general purpose, the audience for which it was written, its sources, its reliability as a source, or the historiographic and philosophic principles embodied in it.” In a recent book, Greenwood and Irwin (2007, 43-6) have analysed how Herodotus links Books 4 and 5 and how seemingly insignificant logoi play a crucial role in this linking.

14

Chapter One

historicity) of Herodotus’ work” (Lang 1984, 5). She maintains that the student of Homer and the techniques of oral composition will spot inherited techniques of narrative style both producing the way in which the material was viewed and affecting the individual items and their relationships. These oral techniques are arrows or carrots or topic sentences that by giving direction and impetus make possible the inclusion of digressive material without causing either composer or audience to lose track. She believes that many of the cases of ring-composition should perhaps better be seen as a kind of spiralling forward, which de Jong in turn calls “prolepsis” or “flashforward.” She also lists flat spaces, that is intervals when the illusion of time passing is achieved by the insertion of filler material (e.g. 1.81-4). Another technique is that of hooks to connect marginally related passages, ranging from the ǥǖǦ-ǝǖ linking to planting in an earlier passage of a person or place so that his or her or its later and crucial appearance does not require a distracting explanation. Lang also draws attention to Herodotus’ use of verbs of learning, such as ǥǚǦǡǕǦDz or ǩǮǦǡǕǦǨǥǚȚ (‘to learn’ or ‘perceive’) in participial form or in a subordinate clause, to effect a transition from one state or action to another. Fifty examples of transition occur in Book 1 involving the verbs ǩǮǦǡǕǦǨǥǚȚ, ʩǣǨǶDz (‘to perceive, hear’), and a few examples with ǜǢǜǦǷǬǣDz, Ǩ˛ǝǚ, ˦ǪǕDz, ǞƜǩǘǬǭǚǥǚǢ, (‘to recognize, know, see, understand’), as well as phrase like “it was reported that.” These are regular features of oral style. She then goes on to analyse speeches and small chunks of dialogue. Direct discourse and the dramatisation of personal interaction and confrontation are typical oral features. Slings on the other hand talks about “downslip” which is how we ourselves break up sentences into simpler units and start again midsentence to pick up the thread (Slings 2002, 53-6). He admits that we cannot be native speakers of ancient Greek but that it is our duty as interpreters of Greek texts to come as close to them as possible by observing what goes on in natural language use in living languages. Slings analyses the story of Gyges and Candaules (Hdt. 1.8), splits it up into chunks and comments on them. He draws attention to repetition and to the use of the particle ǜǕǪ, which Herodotus uses more often than any other Greek author.23 Slings’ argument is very technical but in simple language he convincingly shows that Herodotus’ style is audience-oriented and makes great use of repetition which is a crucial condition for 23

Lang (1984, 154 n. 27) also notes the ubiquity of the ǜǕǪ (some 1479 instances in about 800 pages) which she sees as Herodotus’ readiness to explain. It also seems likely that this readiness is a result or in anticipation of audience reactions.

The Recitation of Herodotus

15

understanding a story about a brand-new discourse topic and a story with so many other discourse topics as well. Herodotus’ style, he argues, is such that he wishes to be readily understood by listeners as well as by readers. Thomas and Raaflaub, writing almost simultaneously, however, have revolutionized our thinking about Herodotus and the sophists. They look at some of the characteristics of Herodotus’ polemical style, his penchant for criticizing others and the manner in which he goes about it; in particular his liking of the language of demonstration and proof, a demonstration in particular which in other contexts would be seen as the epitome of the epideictic style, his language of truth or more precisely “correctness,” the energetic and striking presence of his authorial views expressed in the first person. It is noticeable that these features tend to occur in clusters, along with the claims to have proofs. Herodotus’ claims to be able to prove his point also occur in the first person. They occur overwhelmingly in the geographical and ethnographical descriptions or at other points of controversy; for some reason it is his geographical and ethnographical enquiries rather than the sections of historical narrative where Herodotus seems more likely to slip into this kind of style. These characteristics seem to belong to the polemical style, the discourse of intellectual debate, often literally debate in public, in the latter part of the fifth century. Their views, and those of e.g. Slings, are in direct opposition to those of Rösler who denies spoken or oral elements in the pages of the Histories. Few historians, indeed few writers of any era, have been subjected to such widely divergent evaluations as Herodotus of Halicarnassus. A lot of the discussion (including the controversy between Nagy and Thomas) suffers from a fundamental and persistent ambiguity in the use of the term “oral” in that it refers both to the “mentality” or “conception” of a discourse (“oral” versus “literate”) and to its mode of presentation (“oral” versus “written”). The whole work—9 books or 28 scrolls—may well not have been designed for reading out loud or for recitation in public at one sitting.24 In his Budé editions of Herodotus, Legrand actually divided the Histories up into recitations but this has not been recognised as a true reflection of the author’s intention.25 I do however envisage with J.A.S. 24

See n. 19 above. This is the view of Flory (1980, 12-28) who argues that the length and coherence of Herodotus’ text make it impossible that he intended it to be recited either as a whole or in excerpt, and that therefore Herodotus’ audience was “a relatively small and elite audience of readers.” 25 Legrand 1955-1968; Flory 1980, 18 n. 21. If Cagnazzi’s (1975, 385-423) divisions or something like it is correct, this division arose only from the author’s practical need to begin a new roll. Griffiths (2006, 141) is sceptical about

16

Chapter One

Evans, Finnegan, Honko, Murray, Siikala and Vansina a Greece of the 5th century BC where both aoidoi were performing the Iliad, Odyssey and the epic cycle and separately logioi or logographoi where reciting local history as happens today in Africa or in India. Festivals for sports, dancing and culture, the gymnasia, symposia, private houses or army barracks would provide a forum for these recitals. For Herodotus these recitals of “snippets” of his work, to borrow Raaflaub’s term (2002, 163 n. 46) would belong to the earlier stage in his life, but after his trips to Egypt, the Greek islands, Mesopotamia and Susa inside the Persian Empire. With 300 years of written culture following Homer, the time became ripe as the Peloponnesian war broke out for Herodotus to create a more permanent history, which for him included anthropology, ethnology and geography— something which surely he had envisaged years and years earlier.26

Cagnazzi’s attempts, but he accepts the existence of smaller recitation-units and notes how Herodotus starts and ends a performance with a striking story. 26 I wish to stress that though my name is Evans, I am no relation to Sir Arthur Evans or to J.A.S. Evans who has written on the oral tradition in Herodotus.

CHAPTER TWO PHOEBO VICINUS PADAEUS: REFLECTIONS ON THE IMPACT OF HERODOTEAN ETHNOGRAPHY KLAUS KARTTUNEN

On several occasions I have discussed the interpretation and problems of the ethnographic ideas and descriptions of Herodotus (e.g. in Karttunen 1989 and 2002). The Wrocáaw meeting gave me the welcome occasion to consider the fate of his ideas later in the classical world. The “Father of History,” as he was exaggeratedly styled by Cicero (Leg. 1.5), was also an important pioneer of classical ethnography. This was an essential part of his method of composing his history. After an introductory account of the early conflicts between Europe and Asia—as he himself defined it (1.1-5)—he proceeded to an extensive study of the more immediate backgrounds of the Persian wars. This involved a full account of the gradual development and growth of the Persian Empire into the massive—but still vulnerable—military mammoth met by the Spartans and Athenians in the 5th century. With many1 of the new conquests he found it useful for his purpose to give an account of the country conquered, of its geography and nature and of the history and customs of its inhabitants. This was useful not only for this particular phase of history, but also for the whole work: many of these conquered peoples later figured in the armies of Darius and Xerxes. Thus we have very full and valuable (though often also problematic) accounts of Mesopotamia (1.178-200), Egypt (the entire Book 2) and Thrace (5.3-10). However, from my point of view the accounts of the real eschatiai, the countries situated at the very 1

Unfortunately, not of every one. We sadly miss e.g. an account of the “Upper Asia” conquered by Cyrus (Hdt. 1.177, cf. Karttunen 1989, 33).

18

Chapter Two

rims of the inhabited world (oikoumene), are more interesting. They include Aethiopia2 (3.17-25), India (3.98-106), Arabia (3.107-13, cf. 3.8f.), and the remote parts of Scythia (4.25-36) and Libya (4.181-96). In a few scattered notes he confessed his ignorance of the European eschatiai (3.115f., also briefly in 4.45; 2.33 and 5.9f.). Herodotus the Historian was well known and much read and eagerly discussed over many centuries. Sometimes the criticism was too harsh (one readily remembers Plutarch), but his continuing importance cannot be questioned. In a way common in ancient historiography, he was often expressly criticized just to show the independence of an author who would silently use him in many other passages (thus e.g. by Aristotle). Herodotus himself used this method with Hecataeus, although his dependence on the elder logograph has occasionally been exaggerated. For the history of the Persian wars he was and has remained the leading authority in spite of frequent criticism,3 and his methodical and stylistic influence was immense. With Herodotus the Ethnographer the situation was somewhat different. After Alexander’s conquests and the spread of Hellenism, the Greek knowledge of the world widely surpassed the rather narrow scope of Herodotus. Now there were eye-witness accounts even for many of the eschatiai—such as Sogdiana and North-West India—while Egypt and Mesopotamia were already parts of the familiar world. For the fame of Herodotus, this meant a switch from what was considered a more or less reliable description of various countries into a source of ethnographic curiosities. I shall now consider this development in the light of a few examples.4 Alexander had probably no need to resort to Herodotus in order to get information about the Persian Empire, which was familiar enough in his times, but when he reached the Hindukush and proceeded to Sogdiana and 2

In the classical context I prefer the form Aethiopia in order to avoid a too obvious connection with modern Ethiopia. 3 See e.g. Murray 1972. Josephus, C. Ap. 1.16 said that all were attacking Herodotus for lying. On Herodotus and Hecataeus, see Karttunen 1989, 69ff. The humanists of the Renaissance often took this kind of criticism quite literally, and it was left to Henricus Stephanus to restore the fame of Herodotus in his apology. On the history of the later reception and study of Hdt., see Rollinger in Bichler and Rollinger 2000, 109ff. 4 Certain caution is needed in comparisons. With less knowledge of ancient India, one could easily see the account of burned widows (satƯ) in Alexander’s histories as a reminiscence of a similar account in Thrace (cf. Karttunen 2002, 474).

Reflections on the Impact of Herodotean Ethnography

19

India, the situation changed. The fragments of the works written by his companions indicate that Herodotus was read, indeed, and verification was sought for some of the curious details he told. Some were also included afterwards, when the accounts of the campaign were written, such as in the Onesicritean episode of the meeting with the Amazones.5 The golddigging ants of Herodotus6 reappear in Nearchus (FGrHist 133 F 8), who boldly claimed to have seen their skins, which were brought to the camp of Alexander, with his own eyes. We can follow the history of the gold-digging ants a little further.7 Megasthenes (FGrHist 715 F 23) probably commented on them because they already were part of the literature on Alexander’s campaigns. He located them in the country of Derdae, long ago identified with the Daradas of Sanskrit sources. Their country, modern Dardistan, had indeed been producing gold since hoary antiquity, but the methods were probably more conventional than those described by Herodotus. Certainly ants were not involved. Gold-digging ants had a long life in later literature: Callimachus fr. 202 may have some source other than Herodotus as he calls these ants winged.8 Strabo 15.1.37 is perhaps derived from the histories of Alexander, while Strabo 15.1.44 and Arrian Ind. 15 contain the abovementioned fragments of Nearchus and Megasthenes. Mela’s account (3.7), too, is given in the context of other marvels mentioned in the histories of Alexander.9 Dio Chrysostomus (Or. 35.18-24) composed an Indian utopia derived from information culled from Herodotus, Ctesias and Alexander’s historians, and in this Indian ants larger than foxes appear in the last two passages. They do burrow gold sand, as in Herodotus, but Dio omits the curious way of securing the gold with the help of camels. Propertius (3.13.5) knew that “Inda cavis aurum mittit formica metallis.” Pliny (NH 5

Onesicritus, FGrHist 134 T 8 and F 1 (in Plutarch), also Cleitarchus, FGrHist 137 F 15f. et al., cf. Hdt. 4.110-7. 6 Hdt. 3.102-5; for the question of their identity, see Karttunen 1989, 171ff. with a discussion of many earlier studies. 7 See also Puskás 1978. For Megasthenes, see Stein 1932, 237f. 8 Cf. e.g. Sophocles fr. 29 Radt (26 Nauck). Both Sophocles and Callimachus probably refer to Aethiopia instead of the India of Herodotus. An attempt at a natural explanation for the ferocious giant ants was apparently made by Agatharchides (FGrHist 86 F 70ab), claiming that in Aethiopia lions are called ants. In Africa the ants were also located by Solinus 30.23. 9 Giant serpents, cotton and giant reeds. Cotton and giant reeds were also known to Hdt. (3.106 and 98), but Mela’s combination rather indicates a later source. But also Herodotus was used by Mela soon after this in 3.7, discussed below.

20

Chapter Two

11.111) has horned ants digging gold. Lucian (Gallus 16 and Saturnalia 24) briefly mentions the gold-digging ants, both passages perhaps going back directly to Herodotus, as we shall soon note other Herodotean reminiscences in his works (see also Karttunen 2004). Aelian (NA 3.4) curiously connects these ants with the Issedones (below). Finally, they appear in Tzetzes (Epist. 83) and Isidorus (Etym. 16.15.7: “India ubi formicae eruunt aurum”), and thus were carried into the Medieval tradition (Gregor 1964, 64f.). It seems quite clear that Nearchus used Herodotus, perhaps even had his book with him during the campaign itself. A returning theme is his comparison of India with Egypt, and here Herodotus served as the main source.10 His account of the cotton dress of the Indians (FGrHist 133 F 11) is perhaps related to the short account of Herodotus (3.106), and his description of the Gedrosian desert (F 1) has parallels in the Herodotean accounts of Arabia and Aethiopia. It is quite possible that the name given to the fish-eaters of the Gedrosian Coast— Ichthyophagi—was taken from Herodotus, who had them by the Red Sea (3.9, but note also 3.98 on Indians who eat raw fish). We meet again both kinds of Ichthyophagi in Agatharchides (FGrHist 86 F 31ab).11 In a general way, Megasthenes could also belong to the Herodotean ethnographic tradition through Hecataeus of Abdera and his book on Egypt. It has been suggested that this work, in many ways dependent on Herodotus, perhaps served as the model for Megasthenes when he wrote his own book on India.12 But there also seems to be more Herodotean material in Megasthenes. Bosworth (1996, 121) suggested that he formed after Herodotus his description of the wide conquests of Sesostris (Hdt. 2.103, also used by Hecataeus of Abdera) and Idanthyrsus (4.76; 4.120; 4.126f.).13 In F 21 Megasthenes described a winged snake of India. As it is 10

Nearchus, FGrHist 133 F 17 (in Strabo 15.1.16), comparing the Indus to the Nile and naming Herodotus as his source. See Herodotus on the Nile in 2.5 and 10. Cf. Murray 1972, 205. 11 Longo 1987 has some interesting notes about the Ichthyophagi, but he fails to notice Hdt. 3.9 and gives the tradition a double origin with Nearchus and Agatharchides. 12 On Hecataeus, see Murray 1970, on his relation to Megasthenes, Murray 1972, 207f. and more elaborately Zambrini 1982-85. However, Bosworth 1996 disagrees with Murray and Zambrini, dating Megasthenes’ diplomatic mission to around 320-318 and the publication of the Indica to around 310. This makes him too early to be influenced by Hecataeus. 13 However, as was rightly noted by Bosworth, Hdt. did not make this adversary of Darius a world conqueror. I suspect that the much earlier Scythic conquest

Reflections on the Impact of Herodotean Ethnography

21

unknown both in Indian nature and mythology, it is perhaps an offspring of the winged snake of Arabia of Herodotus (2.75 and 3.107f.). Barbarous peoples killing and even eating their aged parents reappear often in Herodotus. They include the Indian Callatians (3.38) and Padaeans (3.99), the Massagetae in North-Eastern Iran (1.216) and the Issedones living in farthest Scythia (4.26). Common man-eaters were the Scythian Androphagoi in 4.106, again met in Pliny (NH 7.11). Cannibalism has fascinated the human mind throughout history, usually as the most repulsive custom and the most controversial to the ways of ordered society. There are some real cases of documented ceremonial anthropophagy, but many accounts were just invented or at least exaggerated. Quite often cannibalism has been ascribed to enemies, to distant barbarians and to other suspicious groups (such as the Jews in Medieval Europe), usually without any ground. For Herodotus, this was also the most extreme case of the relativity of morals, which was one of his favourite ideas. It was also reflected in later literature.14 In Megasthenes (FGrHist 715 F 27b) we find a cannibal race living in the Indian Caucasus (see below). In Strabo (11.11.8) the Derbices of the Caucasus (Hindukush) kill and eat everyone over 70, but as the name Derbices was used by Ctesias, the passage is only secondarily connected with Herodotus. However, the fragments of Ctesias do not mention them as cannibals. Just before this the same passage of Strabo mentions a barbarous tribe who used to lament every newborn babe, thinking about all the sorrows it will meet in life. Strabo mentions Euripides as a source, but the idea is actually found in Herodotus’ account of the Thracian Trausoi (5.4; cf. Stein 1932, 238f.). Tibullus (4.1.145, quoted in my title) mentioned the Herodotean Padaeans in the farthest East. Pliny (NH 6.55) mentioned the anthropophagous Indian Casiri living close to Scythia. Strabo also mentioned cannibal habits in connection with Hibernia (˝̐ǪǦǠ); the local people were said to devour their dead fathers (4.5.4; in Mela 3.6 they are just barbarians). The Issedones or Essedones15 figure in later lists of Scythian peoples, often in South Russia (e.g. Pliny NH 4.88 and 6.21), in the north of Iran (Pliny 6.50, with Massagetae) or even in Central Asia (Ptolemy 6.15f., mentioned in Hdt. 1.103ff. has become somehow connected with the name of Idanthyrsus. 14 The morals of anthropophagy were discussed by Cynics (see Rankin 1969). Pliny (NH 7.9) pointed out that human sacrifice comes close to eating people. 15 They were apparently mentioned before Herodotus by Alcman (in Steph. Byz.), Aristeas of Proconnesus (see Bolton 1962) and Hecataeus (FGrHist 1 F 193 from the same passage of Stephanus).

22

Chapter Two

with the town Issedon). Aelian (NA 3.4) knew them as the neighbours of the gold-digging ants, but unfortunately the rest of the passage is lost. This tradition also continued to the Middle Ages.16 With Issedones go the one-eyed Arimaspoi, who steal gold from griffins (Hdt. 3.116 and 4.27). The story probably originated with the “shamanistic” epic of Aristeas of Proconnesus, although griffins as fabulous birds have a long prehistory in ancient Near Eastern art, e.g. in Egypt and Mesopotamia. An independent version of the griffins was given by Ctesias,17 and sometimes it is difficult to say with the later accounts of griffins whether they were derived from Herodotus or Ctesias. Pliny (NH 7.10), at least, names both Herodotus and Aristeas as his sources. After the account of Isidorus (Etym. 14.3.7: “[India...] ibi sunt et montes aurei, quos adire propter dracones et gryphes et immensorum hominum monstra impossibile est”) the griffins continued their popularity in Medieval literature.18 Another typical form of extreme barbarism in the eyes of the Greeks was to have sex in public. Often this motif goes together with cannibalism. Herodotus briefly mentioned public sex in 1.203 for a people living in the Caucasus Mountains, west of Caspian, and again in 3.101 for an Indian tribe (see also 4.180 on Libyan Auses). In Alexander’s time Macedonian geographical speculation extended the name of Caucasus to comprise the Hindukush Mountains in modern Afghanistan. Consequently, Megasthenes (FGrHist 715 F 27b) located the people practising sex in public in this Indian Caucasus (the very same tribe as the cannibals mentioned above). Strabo’s Hibernians, too, had sex in public and— another sexual taboo—even with their mothers and sisters (Strabo 4.5.4). A parallel to griffins and the method used by Arimaspeans for obtaining gold from them is the account of the “Rukh” bird of Arabia (as it was later called) and the method of obtaining cinnamon (Hdt. 3.111). 16 Gregor 1964, 35 notes interesting Medieval developments of the motif. In the Epistle of Prester John the Indian cannibals are identified with Gog and Magog, while Vincent of Beauvais (Vincentius Bellovacensis, Speculum historiale 31.11) claims that the Tartars who were slain by Prester John afterwards attacked these cannibals. 17 FGrHist 688 F 45.26 and 45h, see Karttunen 1989, 177ff. Unfortunately I could not get James S. Romm’s article “Dragons and Gold at the Edges of the Earth: A Folktale Developed by Herodotus.” Wonders and Tales 1 (1987): 45-55. 18 See Gregor 1964, 63f. for examples and references. The late ǜ recension of Pseudo-Callisthenes (2.41) and Archipresbyter Leo’s Latin version ascribed to Alexander an aerial venture in a car drawn by griffins (Gregor 1964, 26). One-eyed Arimaspi were also mentioned by Ammianus (23.6.13).

Reflections on the Impact of Herodotean Ethnography

23

There is another version of this in Aristotle (Hist. an. 8 [9].13.616a), and both were later repeated by Pliny (NH 12.85 and 10.97 respectively). In both, the birds carried cinnamon pieces from an unknown country or an inaccessible valley (only in Pliny) and used them to build their nests, either in high mountains (Herodotus) or in very tall trees (Aristotle). In Herodotus, the cinnamon collectors left large pieces of raw meat under the mountains. When the greedy birds carried them all to their nests, the nests could not carry the weight, but fell down. In Aristotle they shot (leaden according to Pliny) arrows to drop the nests from the trees. In Medieval literature—European and Arabic—griffins and rukhs were often confused, and similar ruses were used to get jewels from their nests.19 Here we may also note that the common belief in the Arabian origin of cassia and cinnamon in classical antiquity and the Middle Ages is much due to Herodotus.20 In post-Herodotean ethnography and thaumasiology marvels tended to concentrate in India. The self-rejuvenating Phoenix bird properly belonged to Egyptian lore and had been familiar to the Greeks at least since Herodotus (2.73). In the Hellenistic period a new idea formed that the bird actually lived in India, the home of all mythical and fabulous animals, and came to Egypt only every 500th year in order to die and be reborn from its pyre.21 The idea was common enough for Ausonius to call it simply the Gangetic bird (Gangeticus ales). The confusion between India and Aethiopia probably started long before Herodotus and lasted until the 16th century. The original form of this confusion was the Homeric idea of the two tribes of the Aethiopians, those of the rising sun in the east and those of the setting sun in the west.22 In the world of a flat earth it was only logical to suppose that black people,

19

There are examples e.g. in the Arabian Nights and Marco Polo (in India). I intend to discuss these traditions together with some Indian parallels in a separate paper. 20 See Karttunen 1989, 20ff. and 1997, 148f.; for Medieval sources, see Gregor 1964, 73. 21 Phoenix in India: Aristid. Or. 2.426; Dionysius, Ixeutica 1.32; Lucian, Nav. 44; Philostr. Epist. 8 and VA 3.49; Physiologus 7; Auson. Epist. 24.9f. and Griph. 137; Pliny, NH 10.5 (in Panchaea); Sid. Apoll. 9.326f. and 22.50f. See also Karttunen 1997, 210. 22 Hom. Od. 1.22-5. See Lesky 1959; Karttunen 1989; 134ff.; Mayerson 1993; Schneider 2004. Note that Herodotus himself was capable of keeping both kinds separate.

24

Chapter Two

apparently scorched by the nearby sun, were living where the sun was closest to the earth.23 After Homer, when the Greeks had finally heard of India, the Eastern Aethiopians were located within the confines of India (Hdt. 3.94, cf. 7.70), but later they tended to move still farther eastwards. Both Mela (3.7) and Ptolemy (7.3.3) have them living in South-East Asia. Without naming the Aethiopians, India is described as the land of the sunrise and of black people also in Dionysius Periegetes (1107ff.). The western Aethiopians, however, had early moved to the south, when it was noted that black people actually lived there, but they were also often confused with those from the east, and thus the Aethiopian wonders were carried to India. The motif of the dead encased in glass occurs in Herodotus (3.24) in Aethiopia. Lucian (De luctu 21) has moved this motif to India. Another Aethiopian wonder, the table of the sun, with the general description of the Macrobii (Hdt. 3.17-24), was given by Mela (3.9) and after him by Solinus (30.10) as still in Aethiopia. In Late Antiquity, however, the table was apparently confused with the tree of the sun in the Alexander Romance and even with the tree of wisdom of Paradise and thus moved to India. In Isidorus (Etym. 11.3.26) the Macrobii are an Indian people.24 There is one further example from India. In Mela (3.7) we find Indian “vegetarians,” fish-eaters, cannibals and the Indians who go to the desert to await death. All hail from a similar account in Herodotus (3.98-101). These “vegetarians” do not eat meat, but they are no vegetarian ascetics and, as mentioned above, they have sex in public. From Mela the passage was borrowed by Solinus (52.21-3). To sum up, we see that the ethnic material—marvels of the eschatiai— culled by later authors from Herodotus turned up on three different levels. In the first place, we have the historians of Alexander and also Megasthenes (who perhaps derived his information from them). They were still not too distant from Herodotus in time and studied his work in order to learn something about the distant and strange countries they were actually attacking or visiting. From them the Herodotean motifs—mainly the gold-digging ants—were taken by later authors dealing with Alexander’s expedition and its observations, thus e.g. Strabo and Arrian, perhaps also Mela. 23

Later on, there were other theories about the reason for black skin, e.g. Onesicritus, FGrHist 134 F 22 in Strabo 15.1.24. 24 On the table of the sun, see Lesky 1959, 27ff.; on Medieval sources, see Gregor 1964, 31f.

Reflections on the Impact of Herodotean Ethnography

25

Secondly, writers of ethnography, natural history and marvels were always fond of exotic curiosities and, especially with the archaic mode of the Roman imperial period, did not think Herodotus to be too antiquated as a source.25 Thus we find Herodotean material in Strabo, Pliny and Aelian, and in the encyclopaedic works of Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages such as Isidorus and Tzetzes. Thirdly, Herodotus was widely read even in Roman times. Many of his accounts became topoi and were readily used by poets (Callimachus, Propertius, Tibullus) and authors of lighter literature (Lucian). As curiosities, they fascinated the audience and at the same time suitably revealed the learning of the authors. We may also note the rampant confusion of geography. With the Issedones and Arimaspoi even Herodotus himself seems uncertain whether they belong to Northern Europe (3.116) or Central Asia (4.26f.). Later on, his Caucasians were moved to the Hindukush and his Eastern Aethiopians from Gedrosia to Southeast Asia. Arabian snakes and phoenix birds were found in India as well as the Aethiopian way of burial, while Strabo seems to have moved some reminiscences of Herodotean barbarians to Ireland. The impact of Herodotus sometimes took strange directions, but it was always felt.

25

Why should they? There still was a scholar in the 18th century who seriously thought that the gold-digging ants were actually living somewhere in the thenunknown Central Asia.

CHAPTER THREE THE BLACK LEGEND OF CAMBYSES IN HERODOTUS AGNIESZKA WOJCIECHOWSKA

We read in Herodotus’ Histories: “Cyrus’ son Cambyses was leading an army of his subjects, Ionian and Aeolian Greeks among them, against this Amasis.”1 According to Herodotus, Cambyses invaded Egypt because of Amasis’ daughter. The Great King followed the advice of an Egyptian eye-doctor, sent by Amasis to Persia, and asked for her hand. The eyedoctor angry for this assignment far away from his home and family wanted to get revenge on the king of Egypt, so he volunteered this piece of advice to Cambyses. He knew that if Amasis obliged, his daughter would be unhappy and if he did not, the king of Persia would grow angry with him. Amasis did not send his daughter to Persia, because he knew that she would be a concubine and not wife of Cambyses. Instead he dispatched Nitetis a daughter of Apries and when Cambyses discovered the truth he marched his troops to Egypt (Hdt. 3.1-5). This is the beginning of the story of Cambyses presented by Herodotus. By the time of the Persian expedition Amasis was dead and his son Psamtek (Psammenitus) III was waiting for Cambyses by the Pelusian mouth of the Nile (Hdt. 3.10). Cambyses, led by a Greek mercenary Phanes of Halicarnassus at odds with his former Egyptian paymaster, crossed the desert thanks to the Bedouins who provided his army with water carried by camels.2 The final battle took place in 525 BC at Pelusium where Psamtek III was defeated and captured. This marked the 1

Hdt. 3.1.1, trans. by A.D. Godley (Loeb), adapted. All translations from Herodotus in this chapter are taken from the Loeb edition. 2 Hdt. 3.4; 3.7; 3.9; Bresciani 1985, 502; Vasunia 2003, 26; Wojciechowska 2004, 46.

The Black Legend of Cambyses in Herodotus

27

end of the native Egyptian XXVI (Saite) dynasty and the beginning of XXVII Persian dynasty in Egypt.3 In comparison with previous kings of Egypt Cambyses’ behaviour in this country was marked by violation of Egyptian law and tradition, by barbarity and madness (Vasunia 2003, 85). Herodotus says: “I hold it then in every way proved that Cambyses was very mad; else he would never have set himself to deride religion and custom” (Hdt. 3.38.1). This chapter will show that the picture of Cambyses drawn by Herodotus is not utterly reliable. At the beginning of his reign Cambyses spared Psamtek III, while trying to humiliate him by making him watch his daughter dressed as a slave and, together with other well-born Egyptian maidens, carrying buckets of water in front of their fathers. The maidens were followed by two thousand Egyptian youth (including Psamtek’s son), led to death with ropes on their necks and bridles in their mouths. After them walked an old and noble Egyptian, now reduced to poverty and begging for help. On this sight Psamtek turned to tears. Now Cambyses asked him why he felt sorry for an old Egyptian and not for his daughter or son. Psamtek answered that his own sorrow was too great to weep, but when his friend became destitute in his old age, he was worthy of tears. Cambyses wanted to save Psamtek’s son but it was too late, since he had already been executed. Psamtek was at first allowed to live in peace in Egypt, but since he conspired against Cambyses he was forced to commit suicide by drinking bull’s blood (Hdt. 3.14f.). It was just the beginning. Soon after Cambyses moved from Memphis to Sais and entered the palace of Amasis, he ordered to take away his body, “to scourge it and pull out the hair and pierce it with goads, and to desecrate it in every way” and then had it burnt (Hdt. 3.16). One of the cruelest things done by Cambyses was killing of the bull Apis. Upon his return from the unsuccessful expedition to Ethiopia Cambyses noticed priests of Memphis full of joy, celebrating the birth of the bull Apis. Cambyses thought that they were happy because of his defeat, he did not accept the explanation of the real cause of the celebration, and ordered Apis to be led to him. Then Cambyses wounded the bull with his dagger in the thigh and then laughingly said that Egyptian gods were not genuine because they could be wounded and killed. Also the priests were slaughtered and Apis left in the temple to die (Hdt. 3.27-9). This was not the last case of cruelty attributed by Herodotus to Cambyses. After disposing of Apis he turned to the Persians. His first 3

Hdt. 3.10-3; Lloyd 1985, 383.

28

Chapter Three

victim was his brother Smerdis killed because of a dream in which Cambyses saw Smerdis sitting on his throne and touching heaven with his head (Hdt. 3.30). Next Cambyses’ sister and wife lost her life in somewhat unclear circumstances related in two alternative stories. One is about Cambyses and his sister watching a fight between a lion cub and a puppy. The puppy, on the verge of loosing the fight, received assistance from another puppy and thus the lion cub was defeated. Seeing this the woman cried and when asked why, she explained that this reminded her of her brother Smerdis to whom no one came to help. Another version has it that during a feast she took a lettuce and plucked off the leaves, comparing the lettuce to the house of Cyrus now left almost empty. Cambyses flew in rage, hit her, causing miscarriage and death (Hdt. 3.32). After that he killed a son of a Prexaspes, the man in charge of bringing messages to the king and the father of a royal cup-bearer. Once Cambyses asked him what people thought of him, and Prexaspes answered that they praised him, but they were saying that he drank too much. At these words the king took a bow and fired an arrow right in the middle of heart of Prexaspes’ son and then he ordered to open his body to check that the arrow struck in the middle of the heart (Hdt. 3.34f.). This was to be the proof of Cambyses’ perfect health in spite of rumours of his drinking habit. Herodotus refers also in lesser detail other examples of the king’s unstable behaviour, for example opening old graves, watching dead bodies in Memphis, entering the temple of the Cabiri where only priests could enter, burning statues and making fun of them (Hdt. 3.37). All of these stories read as an account of growing insanity of Cambyses. The question arises, however, as to veracity of this portrait of the mad king of Persia. We have to look at Cambyses through other sources than Herodotus and through what we know about Persian customs and traditions. There is nothing immediately suspicious in the story of the death of Psamtek’s III. The case of Amasis is different. To the Persians fire was a sacred element called Atar. Fire took their offerings to the gods and at one point altars and temples of fire were constructed.4 Burning a mummy, that is the dead body of Amasis, would not only run against the deepest Egyptian beliefs but it would also pollute the sacred fire (Hdt. 3.16). And this was of course utterly unacceptable to the Iranians. In Egyptian beliefs burning dead body meant depriving the affected person of afterlife. Although the Amasis story of Herodotus cannot be verified in absolute terms, these circumstances cast some doubt on it. It may,

4

Olmstead 1974, 48; Wojciechowska 2004, 47.

The Black Legend of Cambyses in Herodotus

29

however, reflect Cambyses’ enmity towards Amasis whose name was at that time erased from cartouches (Bresciani 1985, 504). In the Histories of Herodotus the most cruel and shocking thing done by the Persian king was his killing of the bull Apis, yet the Egyptian sources give us a completely different picture of Cambyses’ attitude to Apis. A stele from Serapeum, where Apis bulls were buried, dated to the sixth year of the reign of Cambyses is extant.5 It attests a grandiose funeral of Apis who had been born in the twenty seventh year of the reign of Amasis. The bull was mummified and put into the beautiful and richly decorated sarcophagus. Inscriptions tell us that it was an offering from the king who ordered that his father Apis-Osiris should be entombed with due honours.6 The next bull Apis was born during the reign of Cambyses and died in the fourth year of Darius I.7 Most scholars taking into consideration stelae from Serapeum presume that Apis was born in the sixth year of Cambyses’ reign.8 We have a clear proof that in the time of Cambyses the bull Apis was revered with great honours.9 Thus in Egyptian sources Cambyses is a good ruler of usual Egyptian sort and not a mad despot disrespectful of Egyptian customs. A story of the bull Apis and a foreign ruler is significant, because, besides the case reported by Herodotus, it appears twice in later history of Egypt. The first one concerns the times of the Second Persian Domination in Egypt (343-332 BC) during the reign of Artaxerxes III (358-338 BC), the founder of XXXI dynasty who, just as Cambyses, was noted as a cruel ruler. Again in Greek sources, for instance in Plutarch and Aelian, we read about a mad Persian king. According to Plutarch, Artaxerxes III decided to give a feast with his friends and the main dish was the bull Apis. He further ordered Egyptians to worship a donkey instead of a bull. To make things even worse he reportedly had other sacred animals killed too: the

5

Stele from Serapeum, Apis’ epitaph: Posener 1936, Text 3, 30-5. The same year of Apis’ death given by Cuyler Young 1985, 51, who explains that it happened when Cambyses was in the Upper Nubia. See also Lloyd 2002, 383; Devauchelle 1995, 69; Wojciechowska 2004, 49. 6 Stele from Serapeum, the sarcophagus’ inscription: Posener 1936, Text 4, 35f. Bresciani 1985, 504; Lloyd 2002, 383; Cuyler Young 1985, 51; Wojciechowska 2004, 49. 7 Stele from Serapeum, Apis’ epitaph: Posener 1936, Text 5, 35-41. Bresciani 1985, 504. 8 Stele from Serapeum, Apis’ epitaph: Posener 1936, Text 5, 35-41. Grimal 2004, 378; Ray 1988, 260; Cuyler Young 1985, 51; Wojciechowska 2004, 49f. 9 Ray 1988, 260; Bresciani 1985, 504; Wojciechowska 2004, 49f.

30

Chapter Three

bull Mnevis and the goat from Mendes.10 This story is completely untrue; Artaxerxses III could not kill the bull Apis because it is known to have died two years later, in the second year of Khababash (336 BC). A sarcophagus of this Apis was found in Serapeum.11 The third ruler connected with the bull Apis was Alexander the Great who conquered Egypt in 332 BC but, unlike his successors, he sacrificed offerings among others to the bull Apis and to the bull Buchis and he forbade his Macedonian soldiers to enter the necropolis of sacred animals in Saqqara.12 Alexander most probably was aware of Persians’ reputation tarnished due to the violation of one of the most important Egyptian cults, that of the bull Apis. It appears that Herodotus created a literary topos of a mad king slaughtering a sacred animal, later adopted to the story of another cruel and mad ruler, as Artaxerxes III is often presented. The story of Alexander, true as it is, plays to the same basic idea of respect for/outrage against a foreign animal cult as a gauge of a king’s general moral value and sanity (Nawotka 2007, 296). Egyptian sources show Cambyses as a Persian king who wants to become a true pharaoh. Cambyses employed a certain Udjahorresne who was a doctor and high official under the Saite dynasty13 and a fleet commander of Psamtek III.14 In his stele Udjahorresne had everything written what had happened during the reign of Cambyses and he claimed that all royal titles were made by him.15 It is obvious that Udjahorresne did not have such a power as to give royal titles to a new king, but by providing a proper wording for Cambyses’ titles he could make him closer to his Egyptian subjects and more acceptable as a ruler. J.D. Ray thinks that Udjahorresne’s act was comparable to coronation which gave Cambyses an opportunity to be akin to the Egyptians, to their culture and tradition (Ray 1985, 256). Good evidence is provided by the Apis stele which shows Cambyses wearing traditional Egyptian attire and kneeling in honour of Apis; the stele is accompanied by an inscription made for Apis as an offering from the new pharaoh Cambyses.16 His full royal title was 10 Plut. De Is. et Os. 355C; 363F; Ael. NA 10.28; Ael. VH 6.8; Bresciani 1985, 526; Vasunia 2003, 267; Wojciechowska 2004, 53. 11 Apis’ sarcophagus: Spalinger 1978, 143; Lloyd 1985, 345; Kienitz 1953, 232, 418; Wojciechowska 2004, 53. 12 Arr. An. 3.1; Nawotka 2007, 295f.; Wojciechowska 2004, 53f. 13 Statue of Udjahorresne: Posener 1936, Text 1, 1-29. Bresciani 1985, 503. 14 Statue of Udjahorresne: Posener 1936, Text 1, 1-29. Ray 1985, 256. 15 Posener 1936, 7; Bresciani 1985, 503; Grimal 2004, 366-8. 16 Stele from Serapeum, Apis epitaph: Posener 1936, Pl. III. Cuyler Young 1985, 51.

The Black Legend of Cambyses in Herodotus

31

“Horus, Semtawy, king of Upper and Lower Egypt, Mesut-Re, son of Re, Cambyses, living enduringly.”17 Stelae displayed in public places could not contain blatantly false information. For the Egyptians their pharaoh and religion were closely connected, so this stele shows that the priests wanted to approximate Cambyses to their religious milieu (Ray 1985, 261). The pharaoh was a representative of gods and especially of Maat who personified the fundamental order of the universe, without which everything would die. Almost all Egyptian gods wear royal attire and the king is embodiment of all powers, symbolized by gods (NiwiĔski 1990, 86). There was a close connection between the name of a king and the name of a god. The king while living on earth as a human was a descendant and heir of many gods, for example of Re, in the New Kingdom called Amon-Re, or as a living Horus the pharaoh was a descendant of Aton and a successor of Osiris. He belonged to the divine universe and was an intermediary between the gods and the humans. The pharaoh was not only a symbol of Egypt, but he also stood at the head of all priests and religious institutions, being the only one initiate high priest. Royal and divine names connected and depicted in one inscription were to show indissoluble connection between the gods and Egypt, not only in religious matter, but also in the sphere of economy and politics (NiwiĔski 1990, 116). Assuming all royal titles intertwined with gods’ names, Cambyses became a native pharaoh for the people of Egypt. He was prepared to cooperate with and to support Egyptians or at least their ruling élite (Lloyd 2000, 383). Another important issue of the reign of Cambyses is the position of Egyptian temples. A demotic papyrus of the third century BC18 refers to raising funds from temples by Cambyses to reimburse costs of his invasion on Egypt. Temples’ profits established before the Persian conquest were reduced,19 but still it was allowed to worship the gods there. Cambyses reduced by about half the number of animals used for rituals and priests could offer birds only if they raised them. Almost all temples had to abide by this law, except for three: the temple of Ptah in Memphis, the temple of the Nile in Heliopolis and the temple Wenkhem north of Memphis.20 Udjahorresne gives an account of Cambyses as a protector of the Egyptian religion. Foreigners (probably the Greeks) came to Egypt and 17 Stele from Serapeum, Apis epitaph: Posener 1936, Text 5, 36-41. Olmstead 1974, 102. 18 Demotic Chronicle: Bresciani 1985, 505f. 19 Demotic Chronicle: Bresciani 1985, 506; Ray 1985, 260; Manning 2003, 41. 20 Demotic Chronicle: Bresciani 1985, 506; Ray 1985, 260.

32

Chapter Three

established their quarters in the sanctuary of Neith in Sais in Egypt to spread disorder. Then Cambyses came and banished them from the country destroying their quarters as well. He ordered purification of the temple of Neith, restored its profits and now the priests could perform ceremonies and processions. The Persian king himself revered the goddess from Sais.21 Apart from taking care of the cult a good native pharaoh was also expected to construct new temples and repair those already in existence. And indeed, thanks to his inscriptions found in the local quarry, Cambyses is known to have sent expeditions to Wadi Hammamat where kings of Egypt from the Old Kingdom on used to quarry stone for temple construction. The precise location of construction and/or repair works commissioned by Cambyses is unknown, yet there is little doubt that he followed the Egyptian tradition also in respect of temple building projects.22 All of these shows Cambyses as a ruler who introduced some changes to temples’ politics and rights, but at the same time he took care to preserve the Egyptian tradition. That is why we have to be careful reading a Jewish document of 408 BC which claims that Cambyses destroyed all temples. Egyptian documents of the time of Cambyses clearly disprove that. One has to agree with A. Gardiner that this document testifies primarily to the adverse reputation of Cambyses in the eyes of Egyptian priests, caused by reduced temple privileges in his times and growing with time.23 As we see, the image of Cambyses is quite different in Greek and in Egyptian sources. The bad reputation of the Persian king created by Herodotus survived for many years and was accepted by later Greek authors. The Histories are constructed around four Persian rulers: Cyrus, Cambyses, Darius and Xerxes, all talented men who wanted to conquer the world (Dewald 2006, 157). Stories about Cambyses, read without considering Egyptian sources, show a king mired in madness, cruelty and barbarity. Herodotus painted this picture on the grounds of the presumption that only a madman would mock things sacred to the others (Scullion 2006, 201). Herodotus, by his own account, drew his knowledge of Egypt from conversations with Egyptian priests. This must have been the source of the utterly bad reputation of Cambyses, as the priestly cast certainly hated the man who reduced temples’ profits and privileges. 21 Statue of Udjahorresne: Posener 1936, Text 1, 1-29. Bresciani 1985, 505; Vasunia 2001, 130. 22 Inscriptions from Wadi Hammamat: Gyles 1959, 39, 54; Grimal 2004, 378; Gundlach 1986, 1109. 23 Papyrus no. 30: Cowley 1967, 108-19. Gardiner 1961, 364.

The Black Legend of Cambyses in Herodotus

33

However unbalanced this view was, this is what was in all probability passed to non-Egyptian observers, be it Herodotus or Yedoniah, known from the 408 BC papyrus.24

24

Cuyler Young 1985, 51.

CHAPTER FOUR FRIENDS OR FOES? HERODOTUS IN THUCYDIDES’ PREFACE MAREK WĉCOWSKI

My aim in this chapter is to offer a brief tentative answer to two interconnected and rather simple questions, disquieting nonetheless, I think, a big part of scholars who deal with Herodotus and Thucydides.1 We all feel pretty confident that the latter draws extensively on the former. But it is difficult to point our fingers on any particular issue involved in this relationship, save for some very general aspects of Thucydides’ thought and literary technique and for some passages wherein an indifferent and indeed unfair criticism against his predecessor can (arguably) be found. Whence my first question: what were the nature and the degree of Thucydides’ indebtedness to Herodotus? Now, the students of Greek historiography who think that this intellectual debt was indeed substantial must face a second question. To put it briefly: why was Thucydides so intolerant of Herodotus, who was most probably so important to him? An additional question may be appended to this set of

I am particularly indebted to Benedetto Bravo, Robert L. Fowler, Kurt A. Raaflaub, Stephanie West, and Aleksander Wolicki for their critical insights and comments; needless to say, I am the sole responsible for all the mistakes that remain. I would also like to express my gratitude to the organizers of the Wrocáaw “Children of Herodotus” conference, not only for this inspiring intellectual venue and for their hospitality, but also for their humane indulgence for the lateness of the present contribution. 1 Of the immense bibliography on the relationship between Herodotus and Thucydides, see in particular Jacoby 1913a, 505f. and Hornblower 1996, 122-37 (Annex A: “Thucydides’ Use of Herodotus”); cf. also Pelling 1991 and esp. Tsakmakis 1995. I have not found Rogkotis 2006 very useful for my present purpose.

Friends or Foes? Herodotus in Thucydides’ Preface

35

problems already at this stage of my enquiry: why is Thucydides’ severe polemics against Herodotus so implicit? The name of Herodotus never being mentioned in such a polemical context, unlike, famously, that of Hellanicus of Lesbos (in Thuc. 1.97.2).2 These questions seem appropriate to the book devoted to “the children of Herodotus.” In answering them, the ancient biographical tradition is of limited use unless we are content with a pseudo-psychological diagnosis (cf. already [Marcellinus] Vita Thuc. 54) that Thucydides might have suffered from the “Love-and-Hate” syndrome in his difficult relationship with the Father of History. What is at stake when we raise these questions is actually the problem of how different to one another would both historians look in the eyes of their contemporary readers (including themselves)—and not of their disciples, imitators and critics in later Greek and indeed European historiography (including ourselves). Ultimately, such an enterprise amounts at attempting provisionally to bridge one of the greatest divides in the history our discipline, namely that between the “Herodotean” and the “Thucydidean” model in ancient historical writing. It must be said right away that this is hardly a virgin territory: there have been quite a few scholars who tried to minimise the distance separating, in our post-Thucydidean perspective, our both historians. To simplify a little, what they did was trying to make Herodotus look more “modern” than it is usually assumed or to make Thucydides sound more “archaic” than we ordinarily think. Alternatively, and in a more traditional vein, one could also try to put the problem of the relationship between our both writers in evolutionary terms, positing a gradual development of an adolescent Tucidide erodoteo towards a self-conscious (and antiHerodotean) Thucydides of the (bulk of the) Peloponnesian War. There was some element of arbitrary thinking involved in all these approaches that drew too much on general assessments of the first Greek historians.3 Only quite recently, we witness a fresh slant in classical scholarship focusing this time on the contemporaneous intellectual context of Herodotus and Thucydides.4 It would be worthwhile, I think, to supplement

2

Cf. below, p. 48 with n. 39. This is not to deny, of course, that these approaches, divergent as they are, produced many highly valuable studies. To mention only a few: Canfora 1982; Hunter 1982; Stahl 1983. Cf. already Cornford 1907. 4 Cf. esp. Raaflaub 1987b and 2002b; Fowler 1996; Thomas 2000; Corcella 2006; Rood 2006; Schepens 2007, esp. 42-8. But cf. already Hunter 1982. 3

36

Chapter Four

this approach by a detailed parallel analysis of how and what they both tell us about their respective projects.5 * It has been observed long ago that the opening sentences of Thucydides’ prologue echo, in many ways, the incipit of Herodotus.6 True, what survived of early Greek prose writing is too poor to call for farreaching generalizations;7 but it seems clear that our two extant prologues have much in common. Let me briefly restate the issue here. Simon Hornblower observes that Thucydides’ “reference to the ‘war between the Peloponnesians and the Athenians, how they fought against each other’ (i. 1. 1) seems…clumsier in its context than the equivalent phrase at the very beginning of Herodotus, a phrase which is thus presupposed.”8 I must admit I am not sure of this clumsiness, but as Stephanie West points out to me (per litteras, 15 January, 2008) these words, hardly adding anything but focusing our attention on his strict view of his subject, might invite “comparison with Herodotus’ immensely hospitable outline of his project.” For the present purpose it is important to note that besides (a) this phrase [scil. ǭ̕Ǧ ǩ̖ǤǞǥǨǦ] ˾ǫ ʹǩǨǤ̐ǥǠǬǚǦ ǩǪ̕ǫ ʩǤǤ̒ǤǨǮǫ (in any case reminiscent of Herodotus: ǝǢ’ ˈǦ ǚ˕ǭ̔ǠǦ ʹǩǨǤ̐ǥǠǬǚǦ ʩǤǤ̒ǤǨǢǬǢ, “for what reason did they fought against each other”), in Thucydides’ incipit we find some other verbal echoes and indeed some other fundamental ideas echoing the first sentence of Herodotus.9 Both historians introduce (b) the notion of greatness of their subject matters ([ǩ̖ǤǞǥǨǦ]…ǥ̐ǜǚǦ…ǣǚ̓ ʩǧǢǨǤǨǜ̚ǭǚǭǨǦ ǭΉǦ ǩǪǨǜǞǜǞǦǠǥ̐ǦDzǦ, “[the war that was going to be] great and more worthy of recording than all the previous ones”; cf. ʽǪǜǚ ǥǞǜ̎Ǥǚ ǭǞ ǣǚ̓ ǡDzǮǥǚǬǭ̎, “great and wondrous achievements”, in Herodotus) stated, what is more, in a very peculiar way. Namely, they both define this greatness by (c) stressing the all-inclusive character of their respective 5

In what follows, I will base on the results of an earlier paper of mine on the form and thought in the prologue of Herodotus (WĊcowski 2004a), but I do not necessarily assume for my readers any acquaintance with this previous study. 6 See e.g. Jacoby 1913a, 505f. What I deliberately leave outside the scope of this paper is the issue of the relationship between Thuc. 1.1-23 and Hdt. 7.19-21, the so-called “second preface” of Herodotus. 7 In general, cf. Fehling 1975. For a thorough interpretation of Thucydides’ prologue, see e.g. Erbse 1970. 8 Hornblower 1996, 125. 9 See also Moles 1993, 99.

Friends or Foes? Herodotus in Thucydides’ Preface

37

narratives, encompassing both the Greeks and the barbarians (…ǭǨͭǫ ˄ǤǤǠǬǢǦ…ǣǚ̓ ǥ̐ǪǞǢ ǭǢǦ̓ ǭΉǦ ǛǚǪǛ̎ǪDzǦ [“the greatest disturbance for the Greeks and for a part of the barbarian world”]; cf. [ʽǪǜǚ] ǭ̍ ǥ̏Ǧ ˄ǤǤǠǬǢ, ǭ̍ ǝ̏ ǛǚǪǛ̎ǪǨǢǬǢ ʩǩǨǝǞǰǡ̐Ǧǭǚ [“achievements produced both by Greeks and barbarians”] in Herodotus). What they do by that is in fact bringing in (d) a novel idea of “humankind” as the ultimate source of the importance of a historian’s narrative (…˾ǫ ǝ̏ Ǟ˕ǩǞͭǦ ʹǩ̓ ǩǤǞͭǬǭǨǦ ʩǦǡǪ̚ǩDzǦ [“…so to say, for the majority of humankind”] in Thucydides; cf. IJ̍ [note the article!] ǜǞǦ̖ǥǞǦǚ ʹǧ ʩǦǡǪ̚ǩDzǦ, “the human events”, in Herodotus). When passing to the demonstration of his superior historical skills, Thucydides famously emphasizes (e) the difficulty of getting a precise knowledge of past events “because of their remoteness in time” (…ǬǚǯΉǫ …Ǟ˲ǪǞͭǦ ǝǢ̍ ǰǪ̖ǦǨǮ ǩǤ͟ǡǨǫ ʩǝ̘Ǧǚǭǚ ˋǦ; trans. by R. Warner, adapted); yet, he says he would be perfectly able to conjecture the (relative) insignificance of the past based on the available evidence (ǭǞǣǥ̒ǪǢǚ). His mastery in the field of remote history will further be evidenced in the so-called “archaeology” (1.2-19). No doubt, Thucydides comes to terms here with Herodotus’ self-proclaimed task of recording (e) past human deeds that would have otherwise been effaced by time (ǭΊ ǰǪ̖Ǧ· ʹǧ̔ǭǠǤǚ…), but also with Herodotus’ ˖ǬǭǨǪ̔Ǡǫ ʩǩ̖ǝǞǧǢǫ ˊǝǞ, “the display of the inquiry,” as such. Needless to say, the whole incipit looks like a deliberate and detailed answer by Thucydides to the opening claims of his predecessor. Furthermore, some incongruities of Thucydides’ claims (such as “the majority of humankind” as arguably involved in the Peloponnesian War) may witness to the depth of his indebtedness to Herodotus. Hence, I think it is worthwhile to read the incipit of Thucydides not only as reflecting some traditional competitive attitude of the writer towards his predecessors (one of the obvious strategies intended to grab the attention of the public),10 but also as a deliberate polemic against Herodotus. On the other hand, it is revealing to observe, which elements of Herodotus’ proem have been passed into silence in Thucydides’ authorial self-presentation. Two of Herodotus’ keywords are conspicuously absent: the epic-laden adjective ʩǣǤǞ͐ (extremely rare in prose-writing) and the adjective ǡDzǮǥǚǬǭ̎, so important for Herodotus’ narrative. Conceivably, the underlying notions, namely that of “renown,” ǣǤ̐Ǩǫ, and that of “marvellous,” ǡǚǮǥǚǬǭ̖Ǧ, seemed to Thucydides old-fashioned and unsuitable for a serious historical enquiry; as we shall see shortly, he will elaborate on the two ideas at the end of his prologue, in 1.20. 10

For this issue, cf. recently Corcella 2006, esp. 53-6.

38

Chapter Four

However, this is not only a matter of close verbal correspondences between the two prologues. Immediately after having mentioned his name and his war, as if in the same breath, Thucydides briefly appends two ideas that will be substantiated at length in the course of the “archaeology”: (a) “beginning my account at the very outbreak of the war…” (ʩǪǧ̎ǥǞǦǨǫ Ǟ˱ǡ̗ǫ ǣǚǡǢǬǭǚǥ̐ǦǨǮ ǣǭǤ.) and (b) “believing it was going to be great…” (ʹǤǩ̔Ǭǚǫ ǥ̐ǜǚǦ ǭǞ ʽǬǞǬǡǚǢ ǣǭǤ.). I would argue that both developments bring a polemical message. What is implied here is a criticism (1) of those among Thucydides’ predecessors who were unable to watch their respective wars closely all along their course as well as (2) of those who lacked the unfailing judgement enabling Thucydides to foresee the future scope and the exceptional importance of the Peloponnesian War. The first shortcoming made some of his predecessors rely on unreliable hearsays, the second made some of them focus on what in fact did not deserve the attention of a serious writer. This set of ideas will of course be voiced explicitly at the end of Thucydides’ prologue (1.20-3), but in a nutshell it is foreshadowed as early as in the very first sentence of his book. Now, the only serious candidate who fulfils both conditions, i.e. who combined both (arguable) handicaps was Herodotus. Not surprisingly, the “flaws” explicitly stigmatized by Thucydides at the end of his prologue refer the reader to the work of Herodotus.11 If so, the sheer position of the first Herodotean references in Thucydides (including the aforementioned verbal echoes) is highly revealing. In fact, they appear long before the unprepared reader could understand Thucydides’ intentions based on the material gathered in the “archaeology” and on the authorial methodological claims. At the very beginning of his work, when first asserting its superior qualities and first imposing his authority on the reader, Thucydides assumes a public for which Herodotus seems an obvious point of reference of a grand historiographical work.12 *

11

Cf. the voting prerogatives of the Spartan kings and the problem of the famous Pitanate lochos (1.20.3) as well as the disputable greatness of the Persian Wars (1.23.1). The mention of the Athenian tyrants (for the traditions regarding the liberation of Athens from the Pisistratid tyranny, cf. in general Thomas 1989, 23882) is a more complicated issue for the present state of this passage (1.20.2) may be due to a late interpolator, as B. Bravo warns me. Cf. also below, pp. 40f. 12 Whether such a public really existed these days or not cannot detain us here, but I do believe it was more that a virtual reader conceived in Thucydides’ mind.

Friends or Foes? Herodotus in Thucydides’ Preface

39

As it has been observed long ago, the whole prologue of Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War (1.1.1-23.6) assumes the form of a large-scale ring composition,13 the nutshell ideas of the incipit (1.1.1-3) being substantiated in the “archaeology” and then restated, developed and sometimes generalized at the end of the proem (1.19-23). But before looking at the end of it in order to see the outcome and the meaning of Thucydides’ argument, let me first take a look at what stands in the middle. As John L. Moles once observed, prefaces of both Herodotus and Thucydides share a “sandwich” structure, as he puts it, “consisting of initial preface, narrative of past events, resumed preface.”14 According to Moles, Thucydides’ “sandwiched” “narrative of earlier periods,” i.e. the “archaeology,” “is concerned to depreciate Homeric subject matter and the historical accuracy of Homer” (1993, 100) and this would be “a further imitation of Herodotus” and his Persian (and Phoenician) stories by the oriental Ǥ̖ǜǢǨǢ, or “wise men.” Furthermore, in narratological terms, putting the “filling” in both “sandwiches” is in fact making a “false move” of the narrative, “a move apparently away from the announced topic, the war,” as Carolyn Dewald has it.15 For both Herodotus and Thucydides, this is also an epideixis, subtly advertising their subject matter, their analytical and/or literary skills and dismissing earlier competitors in the respective fields. Of course, there are numerous marked differences between Herodotus’ and Thucydides’ “sandwiches,” consisting not only of the more humane and good-humoured attitude of the former as compared with his austere and stern successor. I could not agree more with this view, but there is much more to this. As I have tried to show in my analysis of the oriental Ǥ̖ǜǢǨǢ stories about the mutual kidnappings of (mythical) women in Herodotus’ preface, this amusingly ironic section of the Histories has also a serious goal, namely to criticize implicitly a very peculiar type of causality that must have been popular in post-Homeric epics.16 In Herodotus, great wars break out not because of women, but for political and indeed psychological reasons, most often because of greed or desire for “having more” (ǩǤǞǨǦǞǧ̔Ǡ): more power, more wealth, more land or more subjects. Individual and highly “personalized” episodes do occur in his Histories, but form just 13

See already Hammond 1952. Incidentally, in that, he clearly followed Herodotus (recently, cf. WĊcowski 2004a, esp. 146-8), but not only him, for this structure is also present e.g. in the opening sections of the Iliad. 14 Moles 1993, 98. 15 Dewald 1999, 236. 16 WĊcowski 2004a, 149-55.

40

Chapter Four

links in the chain of serious events leading to monumental crises such as the Persian Wars. In his preface, the way he deals with the popular and naïve explanation of great conflicts is ironic, dismissive, but far from domineering. His good-humoured digression is light-heartedly abandoned on his way to a more serious history; his sophistic display-piece, which at the same time shows his mastery in the field of erudite mythography and genealogy, is easily dropped back. After all, the whole section is confined to two or three pages of our modern editions. The serious message remains implicit and none of Herodotus’ predecessors and contemporaries is criticized specifically; it is rather a certain intellectual tendency that was amusingly repudiated. Thucydides’ initial digression is several times longer. It is also more severe in tone, more serious, and closely linked with the argumentative lines of his prologue. In fact it illustrates and evidences the methodological claims of the historian and does it in a fairly explicit manner. It looks as if Thucydides, unlike his predecessor, did not like to waste his time, the “archaeology” being an utilitarian and functional preparatory section of his work with only a minor element (brilliant though it is) of disinterested antiquarianism. Of course, it is also a display of the author’s skills in the realm of archaiologia, including interpretation of ancient poetry, i.e. in the field deliberately left outside the scope of Thucydides’ work.17 As if he explicitly said: look what I can do, even in this utmost difficult sphere, wherein only dim traces of evidence are available. This methodological line of the “archaeology” culminates in the “resumed prologue,” i.e. in the famous methodological chapters 1.20f. Here, Herodotus is unambiguously, although anonymously, defied by Thucydides. First, as one of those who, within the field of more distant history, give false information about the past even to those who happen to live in the cities concerned, as it allegedly is in the case of the Athenians who rely on Herodotus for their wrong stories about the Pisistratidae (1.20.2; cf. esp. Hdt. 5.55).18 Secondly, Thucydides mentions two of his (arguable) errors regarding “what does not belong to dimly remembered past” but to the contemporary history: the voting prerogatives of the Spartan kings and the very existence of the Pitanate lochos in Sparta (1.20.3; cf. respectively Hdt. 6.57.5 and 9.53.2). The coda of the section is very striking indeed: “thus, finding out the truth is not a matter of concern 17

Two among the outstanding experts in the realm of archaiologia, more or less contemporaneous with Thucydides, deserve special attention: Hellanicus of Lesbos (FGrHist 4) and Hippias of Elis (see esp. FGrHist 6 T 3). For the latter, cf. my forthcoming commentary in BNJ. 18 But cf. above, n. 11.

Friends or Foes? Herodotus in Thucydides’ Preface

41

for the most people, but they rather turn to what is at hand” (1.20.3 ad fin.). It is not easy to say whether Herodotus is counted among “the majority,” Ǩ˖ ǩǨǤǤǨ̔, that does not care for striving for the truth, ˆ ǟ̒ǭǠǬǢǫ ǭ͟ǫ ʩǤǠǡǞ̔ǚǫ, or whether he serves here just as the (or one of the) author(s) of ǭ̍ ʺǭǨͭǥǚ, “the most easily available stuff.” One way or another, he and primarily he seems to be targeted here.19 So far so good, and I think almost everybody is prepared to accept this aspect of Thucydides’ polemics against Herodotus. Things become more complex and equivocal when another line of the “archaeology” comes to the fore. In his incipit, Thucydides announces his intention to demonstrate that his war was in fact much greater that any one before. This claim, as substantiated in the “archaeology,” has long been stigmatized by modern scholars as a bold rhetorical exaggeration. Let us think about the casuistic argument in favour of the relative insignificance of the Persian Wars (1.23.1): true, it was the biggest “feat,” or ʽǪǜǨǦ, of the past, but incomparable with the Peloponnesian War because the former conflict was decided in just four battles—two of them naval and two on land. It is hard indeed to imagine another way of arguing for the superiority of the Peloponnesian over the Persian Wars. Or take Thucydides’ “proof” for the relative insignificance of the Trojan War (1.11): true, it lasted for ten long years; it would have been settled faster, but the Greeks were too weak and, what is more, Hellas was too poor (cf. the notion of ʩǰǪǠǥǚǭ̔ǚ throughout the chapter) to wage a solid full-scale siege of Troy. Ergo, the Trojan War must have been rather unimportant just because of its length. What a neat paradox, isn’t it!20 By contrast, and this used to be taken by modern critics as a prime example of Thucydides’ rhetorical amplificatio,21 his positive arguments in favour of the primacy of his war strike a note of utmost pathos. The superiority of the Peloponnesian War is evidenced not only by the sheer length of the conflict, but also by the “sufferings” throughout its course, unprecedented in earlier Greek history (1.23.1-4), including natural phenomena such as earthquakes, eclipses of the sun, droughts, famines and the Athenian plague (23.3). For our modern taste, this is too much. But to understand it properly, I think we need, first, to comprehend the notion of “greatness” as developed throughout the preface and next to grasp the nature of Thucydides’ overall argument there. 19

If the latter is the case, this sentence might throw some interesting light on the issue of the popularity of Herodotus those days. 20 Cf. in detail Luraghi 2000. 21 See e.g. Woodman 1988, esp. 28-32.

42

Chapter Four

Now, some modern scholars used to take the whole “archaeology” as following a positive process, namely the gradual progress of power and preparedness in Greece and culminating in the pre-war and polarised Greek world.22 In fact, however, what Thucydides tells us in this section is not so much the story of some material advance of the Hellas in positive terms. It is rather a negative perspective that dominates the picture. Every stage of the process is rendered in very peculiar terms; what the narrator does at almost every juncture of his argument is enumerating and analysing, as he puts it (1.16.1), “obstacles to growth,” ǣDzǤ̘ǥǚǭǚ ǥ̑ ǚ˱ǧǠǡ͟ǦǚǢ (cf. {1.1.6?}; 1.12.1). It was only after the Persian Wars, when both future enemies, Sparta and Athens, consolidated their alliances and their own power, that the Greek world reached the peak of its development (1.19 ad fin.). From this standpoint, the main body of the digression forms a sophisticated diptych with the so-called Pentekontaetia (1.89.1-118.2),23 which is in fact the mirror image of the “archaeology.” This time, the keynotion of the excursus, as well as its openly stated subject, is the positive “growth,” ǚ˵ǧǠǬǢǫ, of the Athenian power. Incidentally, that is why this, rather impressionistic, narrative culminates in the Samian War and actually disregards even quite important events that took place between this war and the beginnings of the Peloponnesian War (1.116.1-117.3). Our historian most probably thinks that it was then, in the morrow of the Samian victory of 439 BC, that Athens reached the summit of its power and preparedness.24 By no means was he going to recount the story of the fifty years between the Persian and the Peloponnesian Wars. It is fundamental to note that this very perspective, the—so to say— “growth-oriented” vision of Greek history, has been announced as early as the first sentence of his work. His decision to watch closely and ultimately to narrate the Peloponnesian War was born at the very beginning of this conflict, when he realized that both sides “had entered the war at the very peak of all their powers” (ǭǞǣǥǚǢǪ̖ǥǞǦǨǫ ˪ǭǢ ʩǣǥ̎ǟǨǦǭ̐ǫ ǭǞ ̱ǬǚǦ ʹǫ ǚ˱ǭ̕Ǧ ʩǥǯ̖ǭǞǪǨǢ ǩǚǪǚǬǣǞǮ͠ ǭ͠ ǩ̎Ǭ͝ ǣǭǤ.). The ensuing sentence had long been enigmatic,25 before Joachim Latacz rightly, to my mind, took the phrase ǣ̔ǦǠǬǢǫ ǜ̍Ǫ ǚ˶ǭǠ ǥǞǜ̔ǬǭǠ ǣǭǤ. (“for it was indeed the 22

For a well-balanced view, see already Romilly 1966; cf. Hunter 1982, 17-49 and Meier 1990, ch. 10. 23 For the Pentekontaetia in general, see recently Stadter 1993. 24 I think this judgement was to a large extent based on the message of the funeral speech delivered at this occasion by Pericles and on Pericles’ vision of the Athenian empire in general. Cf. below, p. 44 with nn. 29 and 30. 25 See already Schwartz 1929, 178f. and Classen and Steup 1919, ad loc.; for earlier scholarship, cf. Latacz 1994, 400f.

Friends or Foes? Herodotus in Thucydides’ Preface

43

biggest motion etc.”) as referring to a “pre-war motion” (“eine Vorkriegsbewegung”).26 In fact, in keeping with his usual tendency, Thucydides introduces here a quasi-medical abstractum, the term ǣ̔ǦǠǬǢǫ, to render the impressive process of “growth” leading to the ʩǣǥ̒, or “peak,” of both parties and to the ǣǪ̔ǬǢǫ, or “turning point,” of their rivalry. The “greatest ǩǚǪǚǬǣǞǮ̒” of the Athenians is depicted in detail as late as the outset of Book 2 (2.9),27 and the sections that fall in between are organised to a large extent by this “growth-and-peak” pattern. Both the “archaeology” and the Pentekontaetia culminate at the point when Athens reach the summit of her (and her allies’) ǩǚǪǚǬǣǞǮ̒ (1.19 ad fin.), the peak of her ʩǪǰ̒ and her power, including her ǦǚǮǭǢǣ̖Ǧ, or “naval forces” (cf. 1.89.1 init.; 97.2 ad fin.; 99.3; 118.2).28 What is more, the whole process leading to the war is explicitly explained in the prologue when the narrator states the “truest cause,” or ʩǤǠǡǞǬǭ̎ǭǠ ǩǪ̖ǯǚǬǢǫ, of the conflict in these very terms: the real source of the war was the fear of the Spartans facing the irresistible growth of the Athenians (1.23.6). In the crucial debate in Sparta, when the Athenian imperialism was put on trial by the Peloponnesians, the Corinthian “prosecutor” depicts this “growth,” partly in psychological terms, and accuses Sparta of not having reacted timely to stop it (1.69.4). Responding to that, the Spartan ephor Sthenelaïdas encourages immediate voting for war, so as to prevent further Athenian “growth” (86.5) and the vote is in fact determined by the fear of this “growth” (1.88 ad fin.). Next, the Pentekontaetia begins (89.1): Ǩ˕ ǜ̍Ǫ ʱǡǠǦǚͭǨǢ ǭǪ̖ǩ· ǭǨǢΊǝǞ ˋǤǡǨǦ ʹǩ̓ ǭ̍ ǩǪ̎ǜǥǚǭǚ ʹǦ Ǩ˜ǫ Ǡ˱ǧ̒ǡǠǬǚǦ, “for here is how the Athenians have reached the position enabling them to grow.” But even this is not the whole story. The “growth-and-peak” pattern goes as far as the Funeral Speech, where Pericles, after having explicitly dismissed the rhetorical elevation of the Athenian past ǚ˵ǧǠǬǢǫ (2.36.4), turns to his grand picture of the ǩǨǤǢǭǞ̔ǚ and the ǭǪ̖ǩǨǢ that made the unprecedented ʩǣǥ̒ of Athens possible. Then, famously, comes the Plague with its social and moral dissolution and, consequently, with its ideological disillusion. In his last speech, Pericles views the Athenian “growth” from the other side of the hilltop, so to say. The “peak” of the Athenian power is away, the troubles come, and the reward the Athenians can count for is the posthumous glory of their city. As he puts it himself, 26

Latacz 1994, 422. Cf. also Latacz 1994, 424-6. 28 In general, cf. Kallet-Marx 1993. 27

44

Chapter Four

“it is part of the nature of all things to decline” (2.64.3: ǩ̎Ǧǭǚ ǜ̍Ǫ ǩ̐ǯǮǣǞ ǣǚ̓ ʹǤǚǬǬǨͼǬǡǚǢ). Now, as I tried to show elsewhere, this “growth-oriented” vision of the Peloponnesian War, its preliminaries, and its first phase, was deeply rooted in the ideology of the Periclean Athens. Thucydides’ Pericles uses the slogan of ǚ˵ǧǞǢǦ ǭ̑Ǧ ǩ̖ǤǢǦ, or “enhancing the country”, several times, but we know it also from Sophocles, Aristophanes, Euripides, Xenophon, and some fourth-century writers rethinking the Athenian empire and its ideology, including Plato and Isocrates.29 And I hope to demonstrate at some other occasion that the historical Pericles, in another epitaphios logos of his, honouring the heroes of the war against Samos, proudly declared that it was time to “abandon the toils” (ǩ̖ǦDzǦ ǩǚǮǬ̖ǥǞǡǚ) because the “apex,” or ʩǣǥ̒, of the Athenian power had been reached. Incidentally, for a Greek this must have been a shocking idea, but thinkable in the generation, so brilliantly analysed by Christian Meier, that believed in unlimited possibilities offered by this exceptional epoch to human mind, courage, and inventiveness.30 Of course, this “growth-and-peak” pattern was deeply rooted in earlier Greek thought (just think about Solon and archaic Greek wisdom in general). But Thucydides’ decision to organise in this very way not only the preliminaries of his war, but his whole account up to the, to put it in Aristotelian terms, ǩǞǪǢǩ̐ǭǞǢǚ, or sudden reversal of the plot, namely to the description of the Plague—all this is highly revealing. The Periclean “ʩǣǥ̒-ideology” was no doubt crucial for Thucydides’ interpretation of the logic of the Peloponnesian War and of the fate of Athens in general. However, he was not the first to interpret the preliminaries of a war and indeed the whole history of Athens in these very terms. It was Herodotus who organised his monumental narrative of the “cause of hostilities between Greeks and barbarians” in two parallel developments he systematically, although at times implicitly or periphrastically, dubs “growth,” or ǚ˵ǧǠǬǢǫ. On the one hand, the irresistible (to a certain point) march of the Persian tyranny crushing one oriental kingdom after another. On the other, the difficult, uneven, and capricious development of Greece, incarnated in Sparta’s “good political order,” or Ǟ˱ǦǨǥ̔Ǡ, and in her

29 In my unpublished Ph.D. Diss. Hérodote, Thucydide et un aspect de l’idéologie athénienne du Vème siècle (Paris, École des hautes études en sciences sociales, 2000); for the time being, see my Polish paper (with a summary in English) WĊcowski 2004b. 30 Meier 1990, ch. 10.

Friends or Foes? Herodotus in Thucydides’ Preface

45

hegemony over the Peloponnesus and in the first triumphs of the Athenian ˕ǬǠǜǨǪ̔Ǡ, or democracy.31 Furthermore, Herodotus ends his story at Sestos, where the Athenians begin to substitute Persians as the would-be cruel “tyrants of the Hellas” (9.114-21).32 The point is that throughout his work Herodotus gives enough hints and clues for his public to extrapolate the future course of events, growing hostilities between the former anti-Persian allies, and ultimately the fratricidal war between Athens and Sparta.33 But the most important thing is that this implicit message of Herodotus stems above all from, and is foreshadowed by, the idea of the parallel ǚ˵ǧǠǬǢǫ of the two cities in the course of their history before the Persian Wars. This two-fold line of the narrative subtly structures the whole work of Herodotus,34 investing it with a contemporary meaning. To put it briefly, the two lines of parallel “growths” of Athens and Sparta go beyond the boundaries of Herodotus’ book, on a collision course with one another, towards the crush that was well known to the historian and to his public from their life-time experience. No doubt, Herodotus must have been very proud of this extrapolated contemporary meaning encoded in his narrative about the glorious Greek past. Well, it is by no means a coincidence that in the Pentekontaetia Thucydides picks up the Greek and in particular the Athenian history exactly where Herodotus once dropped it behind, namely at Sestos (1.89.2).35 Furthermore, he goes on recounting the Fifty Years period precisely in terms of (the Herodotean) ǚ˵ǧǠǬǢǫ. The goal of this excursus is to continue, but even more to outclass, Herodotus. And we are not far from this in the “archaeology” neither. Here again the Herodotean principle of ǚ˵ǧǠǬǢǫ is used, but in a negative manner. Herodotus is bettered, so to say, through the systematic, at times pedantic, but always ingenious and erudite exposé of the “obstacles to growth.” In a word, Herodotus is defeated on his home turf and using his own weapon. With all this in our minds, let me briefly return to the incipit of Thucydides’ work. As I tried to argue before, in the two initial participial clauses (“beginning at the very outbreak of the war” and “expecting that it 31

For this interpretation, see briefly WĊcowski 1996. For this political catchword (and idea), cf. esp. Raaflaub 1979 and Tuplin 1985. 33 As regards the political message in Herodotus, see already the pioneering work by Strasburger 1955; cf. Fornara 1971, 46-58 and 79-91; recently, see e.g. Raaflaub 1987b and 2002b, esp. 164-83; Stadter 1992; Moles 1996 and 2002; WĊcowski 1996; Fowler 2003. 34 Cf. already Bornitz 1968, passim. 35 Cf. also below, n. 53. 32

46

Chapter Four

would be great etc.”) we find a polemical hint at Herodotus. The third one (ǭǞǣǥǚǢǪ̖ǥǞǦǨǫ ˪ǭǢ ʩǣǥ̎ǟǨǦǭ̐ǫ ǭǞ ̱ǬǚǦ ǣǭǤ.), on the one hand, explains how did the narrator come to believe, at the very outset of the war, in its future greatness; on the other, it forms a starting point of the subsequent argument in favour of the idea of the relative insignificance of the previous conflicts. But among other things it also introduces the “ǚ˵ǧǠǬǢǫ-andʩǣǥ̒” pattern, which draws from, and elaborates on, the organising idea of Herodotus. Thus, in the opening statement of his work, Thucydides proudly declares he will focus on the true “summit” and on the highest concentration of power thus far, unlike those who, having well grasped the nature of the pregnant political “growth,” turned their backs on what really mattered and dealt instead with some distant history. In the phrase to which the participial clause in question is subordinate, Thucydides makes a deadly stroke against Herodotus: the superlative ʩǧǢǨǤǨǜ̚ǭǚǭǨǫ (lit. “the most worthy of writing”), clearly corresponds with the idea of the “peak” of power and preparedness, of the ʩǣǥ̒ prepared by the ǚ˵ǧǠǬǢǫ analysed and foreshadowed by Herodotus.36 Let us not forget that Herodotus was still active, even at the height of his career during the first decade of the Peloponnesian War. Hence, Thucydides’ charges against the Halicarnassian must have been all the more severe: “Herodotus should have known better!” As we shall see shortly, this tentative reading of what is implied in Thucydides’ incipit will be corroborated by my interpretation of the final chapters of the prologue (1.21-3). But already at this stage of my argument, I would posit that his polemic with Herodotus assumes so monumental and so intensive a form just because he did understand and did adopt Herodotus’ view of earlier and contemporary Greek history. In the eyes of his successor, however, the “teacher” got it all wrong when choosing his subject. In sum, the (implied) charge is that he badly realized in practice his most perspicacious insight. 36

One more thing must be said about the way Thucydides used the Herodotean notion of auxesis. What was implicit, allusive and required “extrapolating” in Herodotus, is now explicit and duly restated time and again. The sheer number of straightforward references to this idea in Thucydides makes it very tempting to infer that he severely disagreed with this peculiar literary technique of Herodotus who offered to his public a “coded message” beneath, and going far beyond, his narrative. Is this disagreement tangible in the opposition between the useless “ornament” and “pleasure” (ǭ̕ ǩǪǨǬǚǜDzǜ̖ǭǞǪǨǦ ǭ͠ ʩǣǪǨ̎ǬǞǢ ˇ ʩǤǠǡ̐ǬǭǞǪǨǦ, 21.1) allegedly offered to the readers by his predecessors and the “nonentertaining” (cf. ʩǭǞǪǩ̐ǬǭǞǪǨǦ and ǭ̕ ǥ̑ ǥǮǡΉǝǞǫ) “usefulness” (cf. ˽ǯ̐ǤǢǥǚ, 22.4) of his own work? I think so.

Friends or Foes? Herodotus in Thucydides’ Preface

47

* There are some fundamental difficulties in our interpretation of the three crucial chapters of the Peloponnesian War: 1.21-3. Most importantly, the logic and the argumentative lines of this section are far from evident. What is the battlefield of Thucydides’ attack against the “poets” and the ǤǨǜǨǜǪ̎ǯǨǢ (21.1)? Is it his whole historiographical project, i.e. his entire work, or just the distant history (ǭ̍ ǩǚǤǚǢ̎ or ǭ̍ ʩǪǰǚͭǚ), deliberately left outside the scope of this work? If the latter was the case (and such an interpretation might at first seem preferable given the logic of his preceding argument) the weight of the comparison, and contrast, between the two classes of his predecessors on the one hand and his own achievement on the other would be negligible. Yet, Thucydides dwells on this contrast when presenting his methodological principles regarding, strikingly, the contemporary history (22.3f.). And here, again, it is not clear how could he make such a comparison at all, for he juxtaposes two incomparable things. On the one hand, his predecessors’ unreliability not as far as the actual course of the Trojan or Persian Wars is concerned (he just takes Homer’s numbers for granted!), but as to the relative significance, i.e. as to the general judgement, of the wars of the past. On the other, the best possible method he used himself in order to establish the true course of events, ʽǪǜǚ, and to render speeches. And all this gives way to the famous statement regarding the practical utility of his account (22.4) and, moreover, to the aforementioned rhetorical amplificatio, wherein diverse “sufferings” are accumulated (23.1-3). I cannot help getting the impression that Thucydides’ argument was a cumulative one and there is no point in dissecting it into atomic logical units or classes of argumentation. Greatness of war(s), historical method, utility of an historical account—all this goes together. In a similar vein, ǩǨǢǠǭǚ̔, ǤǨǜǨǜǪ̎ǯǨǢ, and Thucydides go hand in hand along the same path, although his war, his method, and the utility of his work are better by far. Now, the question is who the ǩǨǢǠǭǚ̔ and the ǤǨǜǨǜǪ̎ǯǨǢ are. Traditionally, scholars used to understand both terms as rendering mainly, if not exclusively, Homer and Herodotus, but this interpretation has been challenged in recent decades. On the one hand, some of “Herodotus’ contemporaries,” i.e. sixth- and fifth-century prose writers dealing with the past, could stand for as possible candidates for Thucydides’ ǤǨǜǨǜǪ̎ǯǨǢ. On the other hand, not only other epic poets beside Homer, but also

48

Chapter Four

elegiac poets singing glory of quite recent historical events, as Simonides in his Plataean Elegy did,37 could be taken into account. I believe there are good reasons to stick to the traditional interpretation, most of all in view of the overall impact of the aforementioned cumulative argument. It would not be easy to find another prose writer who would have produced a large-scale narrative of a military conflict of the past.38 Local historians more or less briefly dealing with wars in the history of a given city (Hellanicus’ Atthis?) or land (diverse Persika, Lydiaka etc.) cannot count in this category. We can be sure of this, given the (dismissive) manner Thucydides mentions Hellanicus of Lesbos (1.97.2).39 For the very same reason, epideictic oratory of “archaeological” interests is out of the question, too. The same can be said of the so-called “historical elegy,” and of the commemorative elegy, as well as of playwrights such as Phrynichus with his Sack of Miletus or Aeschylus with his Persians. It is massive narratives about massive wars, and not particular battles (or series of battles) that seem to comply to the logic of Thucydides’ argument thus far. As for the so-called “Epic Cycle,” it is true that throughout his “archaeology” the narrator gathers his material from all available sources, including nonHomeric epic poems. However, whenever he needs a solid point of reference and/or goes for a detailed polemic with previous accounts about great wars, he turns to Homer at once (1.3.3; 1.9.4; 1.10.3-5; cf. also 1.11 passim). The authority, not necessarily to rely upon, but certainly to come 37 See esp. Boedeker 1995 and 1996. Cf. in general Bowie 2001. Here, one could also mention the “historical” plays by Phrynichus and Aeschylus. 38 I am aware of the risk of overstating my case here and in particular of leaving Dionysius of Miletus, with his Events after Darius and his Historical Cycle (FGrHist 687 T 1 and T 2, for his contemporaneity with Hecataeus of Miletus; the latter work might have in fact belonged to Dionysius of Samos), beyond the scope of this enquiry. As Robert Fowler suggests (per litt.): “one could argue...that the cumulative understanding…would go well with an understanding of logographoi as a kind of composite picture, in which Hdt. looms large but for this or that particular aspect of the composite might not in fact be the most apposite example...(this is one of the places where, if a name is needed, Dionysios could be a candidate).” However, I am not optimistic about the early date (based only on the Suda entry on Hecataeus) for Dionysius (in general, cf. von Fritz 1967, vol. 2, 78 [n. 97]). Of course, such authors of Hellenika as Charon of Lampsacus (FGrHist 262) and (probably) Damastes of Sigeion (FGrHist 5) seem to have preceded Thucydides, but I assume they were not responsible for narratives comparable to Herodotus’ one in its grandiosity and philosophical outlook (cf. below, esp. p. 55). Cf. also below, n. 41. 39 In general, cf. Lendle 1964 and Smart 1986.

Friends or Foes? Herodotus in Thucydides’ Preface

49

to terms with, is Homer. And the same is true of Herodotus, in the aforementioned pedantic polemic in ch. 1.20, although, again, he is by no means the main source of Thucydides’ information in the “archaeology.” It is also clear from the way he concludes this step of his reasoning that the target of his criticism, and the competitors he has chosen for himself, are authors of the authoritative, indeed monumental, accounts of great wars of the past (1.21.2): whenever the current war is over, even those who used to think of it as of the greatest one of all, turn again to ǭ̍ ʩǪǰǚͭǚ.40 In a word, then, in my opinion ǩǨǢǠǭǚ̔ stand above all for “Homer,” just as ǤǨǜǨǜǪ̎ǯǨǢ stand for “Herodotus” in 1.21.1.41 The question is how should we understand it within the framework of Thucydides’ prologue and what does it mean for his historiographical project as such. The most obvious interpretation would associate the polemics against his both great predecessors and rivals with Thucydides’ methodology and with his tools to deal with the past and contemporary evidence, impressively deployed in detail in 1.22.1-3.42 His rivals lack these tools and in general do not care for the truth; they exaggerate and embellish their accounts to make them pleasant to the public instead of reliable. I think that the idea of ǭ̕ ǥǮǡΉǝǞǫ, “myth-like” (21.1; 22.4), covers, among other things, the realm of ǣǤ̐Ǩǫ, “renown,” and ǡǚǮǥǚǬǭ̖Ǧ, “marvellous,” the two aspects of Herodotus’ prologue conspicuously absent from the incipit in Thucydides, and—in his eyes—it can be applied both to Homer and to Herodotus as representatives of a quite similar intellectual attitude. However, as I already mentioned, this is a cumulative argument that counts for him; hence, the historical method including the distance in time—both issues amounting to the idea of “uncertainty” (ǭ̕ ʭǩǢǬǭǨǦ) of previous treatments of great wars—is not enough. We should take into consideration other elements of the reasoning, namely the greatness of war and the utility of the account. And this brings us in the end to the ʩǜ̚ǦǢǬǥǚ vs. ǣǭ͟ǥǚ issue and to the awkwardly exaggerated vision of the Peloponnesian War in the closing chapter of the prologue. 40

We are perhaps entitled to link this idea with ǭ̍ ʺǭǨͭǥǚ, “the most easily available stuff” (1.20.3 ad fin.) mentioned earlier, as the main source of information for those interested in the recent and the more remote past. Cf. above, pp. 40f. with n. 19. 41 This is of course not to deny that, for Thucydides, Homer and Herodotus represent just how inferior to his own achievement poetry and, say, earlier historiography are. The point is that he (implicitly) chooses the two authors as those deserving (for the reasons studied below) his attention and his criticism. 42 Recently, see the illuminating comments in Rood 2006.

50

Chapter Four

Thucydides’ “argument from sufferings” (1.23.1-3), so to say, has long been disquieting the scholars. In the seventies and the eighties of the previous century, it became one of the capital “proofs” that he was in fact not a true historian, but an “artful reporter” at best.43 Now, as Hermann Strasburger demonstrated long ago in his magisterial study of Homer and historiography, the ǩǚǡ̒ǥǚǭǚ we find here belong to the epic heritage of Thucydides.44 On the other hand, when trying to prove the superiority of his project, he also feels obliged to match and better Herodotus, who— within the same ‘epic’ paradigm—also measured in terms of “more intensive sufferings” (cf. 6.98.2: ǩǤ̐Dz ǣǚǣ̎) the peculiar status of the period he narrated, but also foreshadowed, in his account (the times of Darius, Xerxes and Artaxerxes). But the question is how did Thucydides (and his public) understand the meaning of the ǩǚǡ̒ǥǚǭǚ section. There can be no doubt that it was supposed somehow to contribute to the definition of the importance of his subject and his work in general. However, it forms but a supplementary argument—never touched upon in the “archaeology,” which is striking indeed—only after having “proven” the superiority of the Peloponnesian War. In a word, it is not directly nor logically linked with the foregoing demonstration of this “greatness.” If so, the rhetorical amplificatio of the war needs to be understood within the context of Thucydides’ cumulative argument. The concluding section of the last paragraph of ch. 22 is perhaps the best-known phrase in Thucydides and one of the most notorious in Greek prose in general. It is the famous opposition between, to put it for a while in traditional terms, a “work done to last forever” (ǣǭ͟ǥǚ ʹǫ ǚ˕Ǟ̔) and a “display piece designed to meet the taste of an immediate public” (ʩǜ̚ǦǢǬǥǚ ʹǫ ǭ̕ ǩǚǪǚǰǪ͟ǥǚ ʩǣǨ̘ǞǢǦ, trans. by R. Warner, adapted). Now, in modern scholarship these words have generated a bunch of misunderstandings, especially when scholars began to press their own philosophical and anthropological theories on Thucydides.45 A widely accepted and more traditional reading takes ǣǭ͟ǥǚ ʹǫ ǚ˕Ǟ̔ as referring to the author’s turn towards the posterity and to his disdain for the contemporary audience.46 This is no less anachronistic, because based on our modern literary aesthetics.

43

Cf. above, n. 21. Strasburger 1972. 45 Witness the utterly anachronistic, but once very popular, “Great Divide” opposition between the written (cf. ǣǭ͟ǥǚ) and oral (cf. ʩǜ̚ǦǢǬǥǚ) modes of communication as allegedly present in 1.22.4. 46 Cf. e.g. Malitz 1982. 44

Friends or Foes? Herodotus in Thucydides’ Preface

51

In 1990 Otto Lendle brilliantly observed that it is superfluous to interpret our sentence otherwise than in terms of the simple opposition between, on the one hand, the short-lived pleasure one gets at truth’s expense and, on the other, the lasting advantage at the expense of pleasure. If we impute to Thucydides the notion of unspecified posterity, both ideas lose their logical correlation because the former one would refer to the exceptional intellectual gains of a virtual member of some indefinite audience in future, whereas the latter one would pertain to the pleasure of any conceivable member of the real contemporary public of some ad hoc performances. As a matter of fact, both elements of the opposition elicit two alternative possibilities open to the writer and to his contemporary audience. Thus, we should render the ǣǭ͟ǥǚ ʹǫ ǚ˕Ǟ̔ more or less as “the durable possession for the rest of life” of any sensible reader of Thucydides.47 His superiority is based on far superior standards of his inquiry and his excellent analytical tools. This is all he says. That his great predecessors are targeted here is obvious, but since here too some other candidates for those responsible for ʩǜDzǦ̔Ǭǥǚǭǚ have been proposed,48 my own answer must wait until the whole Thucydides’ argument is clarified. Recent debates surrounding the meaning of the ǣǭ͟ǥǚ ʹǫ ǚ˕Ǟ̔-phrase have made us less sensitive to the fact that the real clue of the sentence and the culmination of the whole Thucydidean argument we have been analysing thus far reads as follows (1.22.4; trans. by Ch.F. Smith): “…whoever shall wish to have a clear view both of the events which have happened and of those which will some day, in all human probability, happen again in the same or a similar way—for these to adjudge my history profitable will be enough for me.” In a paper on the meaning of Herodotus’ prologue, I elaborated on the key-position of the idea of ǭ̍ ǜǞǦ̖ǥǞǦǚ ʹǧ ʩǦǡǪ̚ǩDzǦ at the very beginning of Herodotus’ incipit as well as the coda position of the notion of ˆ ʩǦǡǪDzǩǠ̔Ǡ Ǟ˱ǝǚǢǥǨǦ̔Ǡ at the end of the prologue (1.5.4). What I tried to show was that Herodotus’ ambition to present himself as a ǬǨǯ̖ǫ, or “sage,” was grounded in his self-proclaimed knowledge of the instability of human affairs, based on his research, ˖ǬǭǨǪ̔Ǡ, into human past in all its variety, but especially on his 47

Lendle 1990. Cf. recently Thomas 2000, esp. 267: “It [scil. 1.22.4] should perhaps be understood more widely [scil. more widely than as “a narrow jab at Herodotus alone, or at the sophistic epideixis in its extreme form alone,” ibid.] as a rejection of the agonistic, confrontational and rhetorical mode of intellectual discourse and argument that became popular in the latter part of the fifth century and which Plato also rejected” (cf. in general Thomas 2000, 249-69).

48

52

Chapter Four

enquiry into the (relatively) recent history of a monumental military conflict: Persian Wars and their antecedents. He also proved his superiority by dismissing the mythical war par excellence, i.e. the Trojan War in the amusing digression about the kidnappings of mythical women. By that, Herodotus imposed his authority on the reader and opposed his wisdom to other genres of wisdom literature and to other Greek “sages.” To put it briefly (let me quote the aforementioned paper), he suggested “that the ‘truth about man,’ and thus the ‘paradigmatic’ value of wisdom literature (be it poetry, philosophy, medicine, history etc.), can only be achieved if founded on the firm ground of ‘historical’ times accessible to diverse tools of ‘inquiry,’ namely in his narrative of a great recent war and its close antecedents.”49 If we turn now to Thucydides’ prologue, it is very striking that his idea of the utility of his work as a safe ground for political conjecture in future (ǣǚǭ̍ ǭ̕ ʩǦǡǪ̚ǩǢǦǨǦ, “human nature being what it is”) was put in the corresponding section of his preface; Herodotus also puts his comments on ˆ ʩǦǡǪDzǩǠ̔Ǡ Ǟ˱ǝǚǢǥǨǦ̔Ǡ at the end of the proem. Thucydides could not refer his reader to his predecessor more explicitly. What he did in his “archaeology,” continued and concluded by his polemic in 1.20f., and by his methodological chapter 22, was to clear the ground for his own authoritative statements, namely to get rid of his predecessors in much the same way as Herodotus did in his Ǥ̖ǜǢǨǢ-digression. If we put together the whole introductory argument of his prologue, it becomes clear, I think, that Thucydides shares Herodotus’ conviction of the paradigmatic value of great wars: it is then that human nature can best be perceived. The bigger the war, the better and more representative, to put it anachronistically, the “sample” we get of human condition and of human ǯ̘ǬǢǫ. He also endorses Herodotus’ opinion that what we need to grasp it is reliable information about such a conflict based on good analytical tools.50 Responding to Herodotus, he only radically sharpens his standards. His method will be much more efficient as such, but also applied to a more apprehensible subject, or to the only cognizable one, namely to contemporary events. This is the only way to meet his high standards of ǭ̕ 49

WĊcowski 2004a, 158. Thucydides also thinks, as Herodotus did, that one of the most obvious tests of the efficiency of the historian’s analytical tools and of the historical knowledge as such is the capacity to disclose the mechanisms of historical causation. Starting in 1.23.5f., and throughout the rest of Book 1, he produces a multidimensional and clearly anti-Herodotean vision of the causes, origins, and antecedents leading to his war. 50

Friends or Foes? Herodotus in Thucydides’ Preface

53

Ǭǚǯ̐ǫ, or “certainty,” of our knowledge and hence of our historical explanation. By a happy stroke of luck, this subject happens to be not only the best researchable, but also the greatest one, and hence the most representative, of all. The slightly uneasy logic of the prologue is due to the fact that his two main ideas—ǭ̕ Ǭǚǯ̐ǫ and, say, ǭ̕ ǥ̐ǜǞǡǨǫ (or “greatness” [of the war])—are interwoven and repeatedly intersect in the course of his argument. That is why his overall argument is cumulative. Witness the uneasy logic of the “archaeology,” but also his amplificatio of the war (1.23.1-3). In the latter case, the “sufferings” not so much demonstrate the greatness of his war. They rather belong to a complementary register of Thucydides’ reasoning; the ǩǚǡ̒ǥǚǭǚ are to be linked, I would argue, with the status of this “greatest war” as the best possible “sample” of the human nature and of the human condition. For ǩǚǡ̒ǥǚǭǚ, ʭǤǜǞǚ, or ǣǚǣ̎ form a nutshell of the human condition, as shown against the background of great wars, ever since Homer, and do it still in Herodotus. We can still deem this section exaggerated, but it is by no means a direct “proof” of the scope and sheer dimensions of the Peloponnesian War; it is a part of a larger set of ideas. The case of Thucydides’ polemical strategy should be interpreted along these very lines. From the perspective of the true sense, and utility, of his work, it becomes understandable why those targeted in his prologue are personally, although anonymously, Homer and Herodotus. I would argue that he considers them his predecessors and rivals in the field of paradigmatic accounts of great wars. He views both of them as authoritative writers striving in their works for a truth about the human condition. For him, they are both unable to provide their (and his) public with the truth, but still worth debating with. Homer comes out of this polemic (relatively) unhurt, since the main target is Herodotus. Given the scope of Thucydides’ debt to Herodotus as evidenced by the preface and by the organisation of the opening parts of the Peloponnesian War, the latter fully deserves to be regarded as the “teacher” of the former. However, it is shocking indeed how unfair Thucydides can be. It is not only the matter of some minor details stigmatized in ch. 20. Throughout the “archaeology” and more explicitly in his parallel criticism of the “poets” and “logographers,” he ostentatiously measures both categories by the same stick. Both groups devote themselves to the remote past and hence produce only myth-like accounts (cf. ǭ̕ ǥǮǡΉǝǞǫ), excessively embellish their works disregarding the truth altogether. Thucydides totally ignores Herodotus’ historical method when pointing to the “hearsays” the latter (allegedly) relies on and further shamelessly publicize among his

54

Chapter Four

poor public.51 The most striking is the fact that by criticizing Herodotus and Homer side by side Thucydides intentionally disregards one of the most important and most spectacular accomplishments of the earlier historical writing, namely the qualitative difference between what is adopted ǣǚǭ̍ ǭ̍ ǤǞǜ̖ǥǞǦǚ (or from ʩǣǨǚ̔), usually consisting in particular of the evidence of the “good old poetry,” and what is known (cf., in Herodotus, ǭΉǦ ˆǥǞͭǫ ˙ǝǥǞǦ) based on one’s research into the matter (as, for instance, in Hdt. 7.20.2). This is by no means a coincidence since establishing this dichotomy was one of the main goals of Herodotus’ preface (see esp. 1.5.3).52 For Thucydides, any cognition but that gained through a personal observation of events or through impartial crossquestioning of actual witnesses is mere hearsay as opposed to (his) “accuracy” (ʩǣǪ̔ǛǞǢǚ), the only solid basis of knowledge (1.22.2). From this standpoint, both Homer’s and Herodotus’ endeavours, notwithstanding their ambition to provide deep insights into the human condition, deserve to be called ʩǜDzǦ̔Ǭǥǚǭǚ ʹǫ ǭ̕ ǩǚǪǚǰǪ͟ǥǚ ʩǣǨ̘ǞǢǦ. The only “durable possession” for the Greek public, or ǣǭ͟ǥǚ ʹǫ ǚ˕Ǟ̔, is Thucydides’ own work. * Thucydides’ polemic with Herodotus as deployed in the preface, although in fact highly “personalized,” is kept in anonymous terms— which forms a striking contrast with the reference by name to Hellanicus (1.97.2), precisely, I believe, because the latter issue was a minor one and the latter author’s achievements were intellectually negligible from the standpoint of Thucydides’ overall project.53 The anonymity of the criticism, both openly stated and implied, may be due to a more serious and ultimately even respectful attitude towards his rivals and predecessors, already “classic” in the field. I believe the intensity of this polemic can only be accounted for in view of a massive “common denominator,” so to say, linking Thucydides and Herodotus, of a deep intellectual proximity as felt, reconsidered, and 51

And Thucydides does this following very closely in his “archaeology” (as well as in his “archaeology” in Book 6) Herodotus’ language and technique, including the “markers of Herodotus’ voice,” as Fowler 1996, 76f. (with n. 106) puts it. 52 Cf., famously, Hdt. 2.99.1. 53 Cf. also the brilliant passing remark by Gomme 1954, 116: “he [Thuc.] paid him [Hdt.] the compliment that later historians were to pay to himself of beginning where he left off, not attempting to do again what he had once done, whereas he must do again what Hellanikos had attempted.”

Friends or Foes? Herodotus in Thucydides’ Preface

55

conceptualised by the former. What they both monumentally share is their notion of historiography. The ultimate goal of a historical work is to provide the reader, based on a thorough enquiry, with a well-grounded insight into the human condition and human nature. In that, emerging historiography consciously embarks on a rivalry against other genres (wisdom poetry, medicine, philosophy etc.) likewise supposed to offer “wisdom” to their audiences. For both Herodotus and Thucydides, in order to impart a certain vision to the public, a historical work does not resort to openly stated generalisations or programmatic philosophical statements, but rather assumes a meaningful structure as far as the organization of the whole account, or its large sections, is concerned.54 Witness the notion of auxesis underlying and organising large compositional units in both writers, but also the Thucydidean meaningful contrasts between speeches and narrative and other suggestive traits of his literary accomplishment.55 In a word, both historians stand shoulder to shoulder within the realm of what I would be tempted to call “paradigmatic historiography.” Needless to say, we are entitled to posit that those days, at the turn of the fifth century BC, there must have been a public capable of grasping and appreciating the “philosophical” (in pre-Platonic terms) message conveyed by grand historical works. In this perspective there is, however, a marked difference between the two historians. As compared with Herodotus, Thucydides is more explicit, as we have seen, e.g., in his straightforward way of deploying the notion of political “growth” in the

54

In the discussion following my talk during the Wrocáaw conference, Kurt Raaflaub drew my attention to the fact that when presenting his subject matter in the incipit and in the whole prologue Thucydides limits himself to a pre-war perspective. From my point of view it is intriguing that he stresses the “growthand-peak” (see above) pattern but without hinting at the (all too well known to his public) outcome of the story, so without presenting the whole “growth-peak-andcollapse” model, typical of archaic and classical Greek ethics. The reason for that is not the (to some extent) unrevised state of his work, neither the need for a brief introductory advertisement for the book, but a conscious literary strategy resulting from Thucydides’ ambition to join in the earlier wisdom tradition. His reader will progressively be inculcated with the historian’s view of the human nature based on his detailed narrative of consecutive historical events (signposted at that with revealing speeches or “debates”). This principle of, so to say, cumulative instruction of the reader was characteristic of Herodotus, too. 55 More trivially, we should also mention meaningful selection of episodes, their meaningful temporal order, telling juxtapositions etc. These characteristics do not disappear, of course, with Thucydides. In general, see Romilly 1990; cf. also Rawlings 1981.

56

Chapter Four

introductory sections of the Peloponnesian War56—a contrast to Herodotus who relied on his (implied) audience’s skill of extrapolating from the data (and patterns) of a more distant history. This, I would argue, is yet another trace of a new kind of literary public as envisaged by Thucydides. We can assume that he found himself in a new situation, facing a new post-sophistic “literary contract” between the writer and his audience. Also in these terms, Herodotus’ practice was clearly not enough. On the other hand, Thucydides felt like a member of the old tradition of wisdom genres, although he thought he beat all his predecessors. In this respect, he was still within the frames of the same, say, Herodotean, paradigm. Hence, among other things, the heat of his polemic against, and his rivalry with, Herodotus. Despite and beyond some profound differences between them, they share their place on the same side of a Great Divide in the history of Greek, and indeed Graeco-Roman, historiography. The dimensions of this divide can fully be appreciated if we turn to Xenophon, in his Hellenika one of the continuators of Thucydides. Clearly, there is no “paradigmatic historiography” of the kind after Thucydides and no envisaged public of such a historiography.57 A famous passage of ch. 9 of Aristotle’ Poetics points to the same phenomenon (Arist. Poet. 1451b 4-11; trans. by S. Halliwell, adapted): The real difference [between a poet and a historian] is this, that one tells what happened and the other what might happen (ǭ̕Ǧ ǥ̏Ǧ ǭ̍ ǜǞǦ̖ǥǞǦǚ Ǥ̐ǜǞǢǦ, ǭ̕Ǧ ǝ̏ Ǩ˜ǚ ʫǦ ǜ̐ǦǨǢǭǨ). For this reason poetry is something more philosophic and serious than history (ǝǢ̕ ǣǚ̓ ǯǢǤǨǬǨǯ̚ǭǞǪǨǦ ǣǚ̓ ǬǩǨǮǝǚǢ̖ǭǞǪǨǦ ǩǨ̔ǠǬǢǫ ˖ǬǭǨǪ̔ǚǫ ʹǬǭ̔Ǧ), because poetry tends to give general truths while history gives particular facts (ˆ ǥ̏Ǧ ǜ̍Ǫ ǩǨ̔ǠǬǢǫ ǥ͐ǤǤǨǦ ǭ̍ ǣǚǡ̖ǤǨǮ, ˆ ǝ’ ˖ǬǭǨǪ̔ǚ ǭ̍ ǣǚǡ’ ʾǣǚǬǭǨǦ Ǥ̐ǜǞǢ). By a “general truth” I mean the sort of thing that a certain type of man will do or say either probably or necessarily (…ǣǚǭ̍ ǭ̕ Ǟ˕ǣ̕ǫ ˇ ǭ̕ ʩǦǚǜǣǚͭǨǦ)…By “particular facts” I mean what Alcibiades did or suffered.

But this is precisely how we could characterize Herodotus and especially Thucydides, the two writers chosen by Aristotle as negative examples of how inferior historiography is to poetry!58 56

Cf. above, n. 36. The same is true of Thucydides’ explicit statements about his method and of many other characteristics of his writing, but of course not about his implicit dealing with Herodotus, which belongs to another facet of his work. 57 At least for the time being; cf. K.A. Raaflaub in this volume. 58 What is more, our historians clearly comply to Aristotle’s view of the usefulness of tragedy: they do offer mimetic structures of human action embodying the

Friends or Foes? Herodotus in Thucydides’ Preface

57

It seems highly probable that Aristotle responds in this passage to Thucydides, who stressed the superiority of (his) historiography over poetry, and to his claims of offering to his public a “durable possession” based on the profound understanding of how ǭ̕ ʩǦǡǪ̚ǩǢǦǨǦ works. Aristotle inverts the earlier hierarchy by deliberately dismissing the Thucydidean notion of factual truth for the sake of a general (or better: generic) truth of man, ǭ̍ ǣǚǡ̖ǤǨǮ. Evidently, Aristotle was unable to grasp the “philosophical” aspect of our historians.59 However, this is not due to a superficial reading of Thucydides. On the one hand, he was determined by the practice of the new historiography, which made Thucydides’ claims to superior knowledge of “human affairs” look rather naïve (just think here of Xenophon). On the other hand, a totally new notion of philosophy emerged in the meantime and Aristotle feels obliged to come to terms with Thucydides’ self-proclaimed wisdom as encoded in a historical work.60 At the end of this story philosophy properly speaking strikes back. Let me conclude that it is regrettable that Aristotle ultimately succeeded in persuading the Greeks that historiography by its very nature must be unphilosophical. And it is deplorable indeed that he was able to persuade historians, too. Once their philosophical “common denominator” lost of sight, Herodotus and Thucydides started to drift apart in the eyes of their ancient successors and in our modern perception. The time was ripe for the “Herodotean” and the “Thucydidean” models to hold sway in the field.

generalised patterns of universals and are open to the contemplative mind able to perceive the plot as the dramatic communication of universals (for the Aristotelian mimesis, cf. Halliwell 1986, 79). For this passage in general, cf. also Else 1967, 302-14. For my present purpose, Gomme 1954 (passim) still remains an indispensable commentary on Arist. Poet. 1451b. 59 Did he understand that Alcibiades in Thucydides is not only a historically determined individual, but also incarnates Athens’ energies and drawbacks? I do not think so. 60 One can reasonably ask oneself in more general terms what has happened in the meantime and it is here, after Thucydides, that we may also postulate a hypothetical change in a wider cultural paradigm influencing Greek historiography (and its later assessment)—involving especially the social role of the intellectual and the fora of the communication with his audience (in general, cf. Wallace 1995).

CHAPTER FIVE “HOPE IS NOT A STRATEGY”: HOMER’S HECTOR AND THUCYDIDES’ NICIAS LYNN KOZAK

In November of 2006, the United States Senate Armed Forces Committee called a series of hearings on the war in Iraq, questioning its inception, its progress, and its possible outcomes. After listening to the report before the committee of General John Abizaid, then the senior military official on the ground in Iraq, Senator Hilary Clinton contemptuously told him, “Hope is not a strategy.” General Abizaid shot right back: “With regard to hope not being a method, Senator, I agree with you. But I would also say that despair is not a method.”1 Needless to say, there has been a healthy dose of optimism in the United States’ “strategy” in its war with Iraq, which has continued to endure, if not grow, in the face of increasing adversity and what seems to be an ever-shrinking likelihood of a positive outcome. While this current Iraq war finds few direct parallels with the Peloponnesian War, and even fewer parallels with the Trojan War, I want to look at the military leaders of the losing sides, and how the Iliad and Thucydides characterize Hector and Nicias, respectively, as military leaders, with a special interest in their relationship to hope.2 1

Testimony before the United States Senate Armed Forces Committee, 15 November, 2006. For a full transcript: http://www.centcom.mil/sites/uscentcom1/Press%20Briefings/Nov%2015%2006% 20%20Senate%20Armed%20Services%20Committee%20Holds%20Hearing%20o n%20Current%20Situation%20in%20Iraq%20and%20Afghanistan.htm 2 Blaiklock 1944, finds a parallel between Nicias as a tragic hero, and the tragedy of the Sicilian expedition, with the dominant conflict of his own time, drawing a direct parallel between the Sicilian Expedition with Britain’s losses in Athens and around the Mediterranean in 1941.

“Hope Is Not a Strategy”: Homer’s Hector and Thucydides’ Nicias

59

Nicias is perhaps one of the most thoroughly constructed characters within Thucydides’ account of the Peloponnesian War; no doubt this is why scholars have often found parallels between him and other literary figures. Edmunds sees him as more of an Amphion, from Euripides’ lost play Antiope, and, most likely thinking of Thucydides’ assertion at 5.16.1 that Nicias’ motive was to stay in good fortune,3 says that “mortal life is at the mercy of chance...so one should seek as much pleasure as possible.”4 H.P. Stahl compares him to Cassandra, calling him a “doomed warner figure,”5 since it is Nicias who warns the Athenians against the outcome of the Sicilian Expedition at the beginning of Book 6, only to find his own death within that outcome near the end of Book 7. Marinatos also sees this “tragic warner” role for Nicias, extending the parallel with Cassandra to focus instead on Herodotus’ Artabanus, following Conrad and Hunter.6 Rood dismisses both of these possibilities, opting for a closer parallel with Archidamus, as a figure who has more of a hand in his own fate than that of a “tragic warner.”7 But the Homeric figure that scholars most closely associate with Nicias is, beyond a doubt, Agamemnon. Edmunds finds a direct parallel between Agamemnon’s deceptive speech to his men in Book 2 (2.110ff.) with Nicias’ exaggerated second speech in Book 6 (6.19ff.), and sees both men as leaders rather clumsily attempting reverse psychology as a means of persuasion.8 Zadorojnyi furthers this parallel: “Nicias must lose because he only knows how to behave like Agamemnon,”9 following Lateiner’s assertion that Thucydides refers to an outdated and obsolete Homeric concept of ʩǪǞǭ̒ in his famous eulogy for Nicias at 7.86.5.10 Lateiner’s view, much like Zadorojnyi’s, is based heavily both on Adkins’ ubiquitous assessment of Homeric values, or “traditional values of excellence” as 3

LJǢǣ̔ǚǫ ǥ̏Ǧ ǛǨǮǤ̖ǥǞǦǨǫ, ʹǦ ͂ ʩǩǚǡ̑ǫ ˋǦ ǣǚ̓ ˅ǧǢǨͼǭǨ, ǝǢǚǬ̚ǬǚǬǡǚǢ ǭ̑Ǧ Ǟ˱ǭǮǰ̔ǚǦ, ǣǚ̓ ʽǫ ǭǞ ǭ̕ ǚ˱ǭ̔ǣǚ ǩ̖ǦDzǦ ǩǞǩǚͼǬǡǚǢ ǣǚ̓ ǚ˱ǭ̕ǫ ǣǚ̓ ǭǨ̗ǫ ǩǨǤ̔ǭǚǫ ǩǚͼǬǚǢ ǣǚ̓ ǭΊ ǥ̐ǤǤǨǦǭǢ ǰǪ̖Ǧ· ǣǚǭǚǤǢǩǞͭǦ ˩ǦǨǥǚ ˾ǫ Ǩ˱ǝ̏Ǧ Ǭǯ̒Ǥǚǫ ǭ̑Ǧ ǩ̖ǤǢǦ ǝǢǞǜ̐ǦǞǭǨ. (“Nicias, while still happy and honoured, wished to secure his good fortune, to obtain a present release from trouble for himself and his countrymen, and hand down to posterity a name as an ever-successful statesman,” trans. by R. Crawley.) 4 Edmunds 1975, 118. 5 Stahl 2003, 183. 6 Marinatos 1980. 7 Rood 1998b, 166f. 8 Rood 1998b, 128. 9 Zadorojnyi 1998, 302. 10 Lateiner 1985, 209f.

60

Chapter Five

well as an assumption that those Homeric values are, by the time of Thucydides, no longer an asset.11 Adkins himself, however, sees no such devaluation of Homeric values.12 Meanwhile Rood successfully dissects many of the Agamemnon parallels that Zadorojnyi draws, but adds some of his own and maintains the parallel, seeing both men’s involvement in the “frustrated prospect of an early withdrawal” as reinforcing “the epic resonance of Thucydides’ Sicilian narrative: additionally, both men give ‘deception’ speeches, and both men are besiegers who become besieged.”13 Allison likewise finds parallel between Nicias and Agamemnon, comparing the language of Agamemnon’s speech at 10.67ff. to Nicias’ at 7.69.2, particularly both men’s unique use of ǩǚǭǪ̖ǡǞǦ, and seeing “an ironic identification of [Nicias] as commander of the Athenians with Agamemnon, who, despite his bumbling, eventually succeeded.”14 Returning to Rood’s dismissal of Zadorojnyi’s examples, he also tentatively steps away from a direct link between Agamemnon and Nicias (even while creating his own), and suggests that one “…take[s] the similarities Zadorojnyi detects as a sign of the realities of naval warfare and distant campaigns (ship-timber does get wet) and of Thucydides’ depicting those realities in an ‘epic manner.’”15 And while Mackie does not discuss characterization at all in his study of Homer and Thucydides (and goes so far as to say that “there may be no real heroes in Thucydides’ account” of the Sicilian expedition),16 he does warn against reading Thucydides through Homeric eyes, citing Hornblower’s insistence that there is no proof of Homeric influence on wartime narrative.17 But even Hornblower sees parallels between the narrative style of Homeric epic and Thucydides’ History.18 While there might not be any direct proof of Homeric influence on Thucydides’ writing, I think it is safe to say that Thucydides’ familiarity with Homer could not help but to influence him somewhat in how he approached narrative and character construction (see especially 1.3; 1.10; 2.41; 3.104). Even though Thucydides insists on his objectiveness in his 11 Zadorojnyi 1998, 301 nn. 17 and 18 for a discussion of Thucydides’ pejorative use of ʩǪǰǚǢǨǤǨǜǞͭǦȱto describe Nicias’ speech. 12 Adkins 1975. 13 Rood 1998a, 4. 14 Allison 1997, 510. See the Appendix at 515f. for a full list of Homeric terms used in the Sicilian narrative. 15 Rood 1998a, 4. 16 Mackie 1996, 112. 17 Mackie 1996, 112 n. 38 18 Hornblower 1994, esp. 154f.

“Hope Is Not a Strategy”: Homer’s Hector and Thucydides’ Nicias

61

account of the war, he writes with a vigour of narrative and a construction of character certainly worthy of the great oral poets. If we then allow that the comparison of Thucydides’ characters with other literary characters of the time is a creditable pursuit, then it becomes hard to argue against scholarship’s linking Nicias with Agamemnon. Yet still, the figure that Nicias most persistently parallels in my mind is not Agamemnon, but Hector. Both Hector and Nicias show some reluctance in their leadership; both men have some interest in peace; both men show some devotion to holding on to what they have; both men make some fatal error, misreading crucial signs; both men are doomed to fail, doomed to die, doomed to ultimately condemn their men to join them. Moreover, despite their failings, both men are essentially sympathetic, even tragic in their narrative arcs.

Abdication and Reluctance Neither Hector nor Nicias is perhaps as keen to lead their people as one might expect; neither man comes across as power hungry, or as taking particular pleasure in their responsibilities to their peoples. In our first introduction to Hector, he is chastising his brother Paris for having got them into the war in the first place, and he voices his contempt for the Trojan people in tolerating Paris’ behaviour (3.39-57). This essentially puts him at odds not only with his brother, and the war cause, but even his own people. Moreover, Hector must sometimes be reminded of his duty to his people, first by Sarpedon at 5.472ff., then by Glaucus at 16.537ff. and at 17.142ff.; Hector frequently forgets his public duties in favour of his private glories, his own ambitions.19 We will look at this aspect of Hector’s character again when we consider his death. Hector is also sometimes missing from Trojan deliberation; when the Trojans have a council in Book 7 to decide what to do in the face of their broken oaths, Hector is notably absent.20 Nicias shows a similar ambivalence towards leadership. At 4.28, Nicias famously offers his Pylos command not once, but twice, to Cleon, who finally accepts it under pressure from the crowd. Nicias’ motivation here stems in part from his personal conflict with Cleon, but, more 19

This is especially true in the incident in Book 17, where Hector’s negligence centres entirely around his desire to capture the horses of Achilles (17.75ff.; 17.485ff.). 20 Whether this is a result of tradition, or some innovation on tradition in the character of Hector is not significant—it is still a part of how the poem characterizes Hector.

62

Chapter Five

importantly, also incorporates Nicias’ understanding of the fickleness of the crowd and what public responsibility means for the individual blamed for their decisions. Likewise, Nicias makes it abundantly clear at the beginning of Book 6 that the Sicilian Expedition is an idea that he does not agree with, and his personal attacks in his speech against Alcibiades suggest that it is quite possible the only reason he has accepted the command is so that it does not fall into the hands of his younger counterpart. Furthermore, Nicias asks for the Athenians to send a replacement for him once he is in Sicily, writing in his letter to them that not only has the Athenians’ position greatly weakened, turning the “besiegers into the besieged” (7.11.4), but also that he himself has become too ill with nephritis to continue to serve (7.15.1f.). The Athenians, however, refuse his request, and do not release him from his command (7.16.1).

Peace Seeing that both men have some amount of ambivalence towards their roles as military leaders, it is hardly shocking that both men are also responsible for brokering peace for their people. It is Hector’s chiding of Paris at the beginning of Book 3 that leads to the great truce between the Trojans and the Achaeans; and while it is Priam who must be present to ratify the truce, it is Hector himself who is responsible for making the proposal to the Achaeans (3.86ff.), and it is he who measures out the distances for the contest and draws the lots (3.314ff.). When the gods wish to put a temporary stop to the fighting between the two armies at 7.29f., Helenus asks Hector to stand up and ask for single combat with the Achaeans, which he promptly does, creating a temporary respite from the battle for the rest of the men. And when Hector is given the opportunity either to call his single combat with Ajax a draw, or to keep fighting, at 7.290ff., Hector chooses to draw, exchanging gifts with Ajax in a goodwill gesture that creates a brief peace between them. Perhaps Hector’s most poignant link with peace is in Book 22, when, as he waits to fight Achilles outside the gates of Troy, he fantasizes about peace, wishing he could return Helen (and much more) in exchange for a total truce (22.111-21). Of course there is more than a small element of self-preservation behind Hector’s desire for peace here, but the desire is there just the same. Nicias’ own efforts for peace are perhaps more famous, and certainly more widely recognized, even by Thucydides himself. The “Peace of Nicias” that Thucydides describes from 5.16ff. shows that Nicias has a similar flare for self-preservation in his desire to make peace with the

“Hope Is Not a Strategy”: Homer’s Hector and Thucydides’ Nicias

63

Spartans, especially at 5.16.1, where he wants to stop troubles “for himself and for the citizens”: just as with Hector, there is a complex relationship for Nicias between his public and private motivations, between his selfinterest and his notion of civic duty.

Preservation Self-preservation is not an instinct that emerges solely in the face of imminent danger; Nicias’ desire for peace, unlike Hector’s, is not a response to the immediate attack of a charging Achilles. Instead, Nicias’ motivations are for security, for holding on to what he has, and both in public and in private “saving what is” (5.16.1; 5.46.1; 6.9.3) is a key for Nicias. Thucydides makes this explicit in 5.16.1 with the ǝǢǚǬ̚ǬǚǬǡǚǢȱ when he describes Nicias’ private motivations for peace; this persistent protection of what one has becomes particularly poignant when Nicias’ troops are forced into a defensive position, “entirely consumed with the defence of the wall” (7.11.3). Hector is not as cautious as Nicias and never explicitly claims “holding on to what you have” as a motivation. But just the same, it is couched in the text, from the narrative so clearly showing us what Hector has to lose in his exchange with Andromache and his interaction with his young son at 6.400-93, and in Hector’s own nostalgia for the Troy that was at 18.28892. Hector’s more prevalent position as a defender also implicitly aligns him with Nicias’ stance to preserve what one has.

Failure and Error In the end, both men fail in their efforts towards peace and in holding on to what they have, and each man’s failure is, in some ways, his own. Both men are shown a sign that they misread. When Gylippus, the Spartan commander, first arrives at Syracuse, Nicias does not respond with an attack, but instead holds his position (7.3); Demosthenes’ thoughts at 7.42 detail this inaction of Nicias. After defeats at Plemmyrium, the Great Harbour of Syracuse, and Epipolae, the Athenians are in a bad way, but Nicias continues to insist on inaction, suspecting that the Athenians will hold him responsible for any retreat he might order, and put him to death (7.48). Additionally, Nicias thought he had insider information on the Syracusans that encouraged him to stay, and imbued him with a sense of boldness (7.48.2). But by 7.50.3, even Nicias is ready to admit defeat, and secretly orders the army to prepare to sail; yet when their preparations are interrupted by an eclipse of the full moon, he gives in to his superstitions,

64

Chapter Five

and follows the advice of the prophets that they should wait 27 days to retreat. This decision thus completes a pattern of inaction on the part of Nicias, which culminates in his misreading this sign, and he essentially damns himself and his comrades to death: their delay squanders the Athenians’ last real chance for escape. Hector too misinterprets a sign at a crucial turning point in battle. First in Book 12, when Polydamas interprets a bird sign and spells out what will happen unless the Trojans withdraw back into the city, that even should they break the wall of the Achaeans now they will later have to retreat (12.223-7). Hector famously responds that the only bird-sign is to fight for one’s country (12.243), and does indeed successfully lead the Trojans through the Achaean wall (12.462ff.), but the rest of Polydamas’ prediction comes true as well. In Book 18, the Trojans are at the peak of their attack on the Achaean ships when Achilles makes his return to the frontlines for the first time. Even though Achilles is not armed, Polydamas sees this again as a sign that the Trojans should retreat back within the city walls. But Hector insists that Zeus has promised him glory, glaringly misinterpreting Zeus’ promise of glory from Book 11 (11.200-9), so that he overstays the duration of glory that Zeus granted him, and finally subjects the Trojans to slaughter at the hands of Achilles and the Achaeans. When Hector goes to face Achilles, he admits his own fault in how events have panned out, citing specifically his failure to listen to Polydamas in Book 18 at 22.99ff. At the very last, Hector fatally mistakes a sign again, as he believes that Athena disguised as Deïphobus is his brother come to help him; it is only after Hector turns to face Achilles that he realizes that he is alone, and has been tricked into combat. It is the same moment that he realizes he is going to die (22.293-305).

Hope But despite their deteriorating circumstances and their persistent failings, both men have a good deal of hope;21 ultimately combining their fatal misjudgements of signs with a persistent investment in chance, and the changing fortunes of war. Nicias’ character takes a noted arc from “not trusting anything to chance” to eventually investing everything in hope.22 21 See “Hope and Fear,” in Luginbill 1999, 65-81 for a discussion of varying vocabulary and situations associated with Hope in Thucydides. 22 Edmunds 1975, 111: “…[Nicias] epitomises in his own person the hopelessness of the Athenian campaign. His words signal the peripety (7.11.4; cf. 4.29; later Thucydides makes the peripety explicit: 7.71.7). At the same time, Nicias, who had

“Hope Is Not a Strategy”: Homer’s Hector and Thucydides’ Nicias

65

Even though the narrative tells us at 7.47.2 that the situation seemed hopeless, Nicias decides in 7.48.2 to carry on with the siege, “emboldened” that victory still might come. At 7.61.3, Nicias speaks about the unpredictability of war, reminding his troops that fortune might still stand with them. But at 7.71.7 the narrative strikes back even stronger, describing the Athenians’ chance for escape as “hopeless.” Nicias still clings to hope though, telling his troops at 7.77.1 that they “must have hope.”23 Hector is not as explicit as Nicias is about his investment in hope, but still manages to convey a persistent optimism in the face of impending failure. Hector is the first Trojan to have a vision of the fall of Troy, describing it in Book 6 to his wife Andromache at 6.447ff. Despite this certainty that Troy is going to fall, and that he himself will die, Hector continues to have hope, wishing that his son grows up to be stronger than he is at 6.476ff., and then going on to tell Paris, as the brothers prepare to go back into battle, that they will make amends with the gods once they drive the Achaeans out (6.526ff.). It is as though Hector is able to suspend his vision of Troy’s fall so that he might continue to perform his duty to protect its people. His faith comes out again in Book 18, in the same speech where he rejects Polydamas’ advice to retreat at the appearance of Achilles, where he says that he might have a chance of killing the Achaean hero, because many times before Ares has “killed the killer” (18.308f.). Hector is perhaps clearest in his investment in hope over ability in Book 20, where he faces Achilles and tells him (20.434-7): And I know that you are excellent, and I am lesser by far than you. But still these things lie on the knees of the gods, and even while I am lesser, I might take the life from you, throwing with my spear, since my weapon has been sharp before.

Even in Book 22, as he contemplates the possibility of surrender for the sake of peace before he goes out to face Achilles, Hector shores himself up at the end of this reflective speech, telling himself “we shall see to which one the Olympian grants the victory” (22.130): here he pushes aside any consideration of who is actually the better warrior, and instead

wished to make the least commitment to chance (5.16), finds himself at the mercy of chance (7.77.1-4).” 23 Orwin 1994, 136f.: “The theme of Nicias’ moving final speech (7.77) is hope.” See also Huart 1968, 147 for a discussion of Nicias’ reliance on hope in this latter half of Book 7.

66

Chapter Five

invests everything in the arbitrariness of war that Nicias himself comes to depend upon. In the end, despite or because of their investment in hope, death comes to both men. And here again it is fruitful to compare the two, particularly with a view towards the complex interrelationship that their deaths have between their private interests and their public roles. We have already seen a bit of the confusion between private and public in our consideration of these two men, but here we can go further. Nicias’ sense of what is his is inextricably linked with what he views as Athenian: his insistence that the Athenians hold on to what they have is a clear manifestation of his own desire to maintain what he himself has.24 This connection turns to conflict during the expedition, when Nicias decides that he would rather stay and die a private death at the hands of the Syracusans than face a public execution by the Athenians should he retreat (7.85.1). But Nicias’ two interests are conflated once more on the actual occasion of his death, when he voluntarily gives himself over to stop the slaughter of the Athenians, for which his death worthily receives Thucydides’ famous eulogy at 7.86.5.25 Here, we see Nicias’ desire for self-preservation fatally converted into self-sacrifice. Hector has a similar dilemma between his private self-interest and shame and his public duties before he faces Achilles. Hector acknowledges his own fatal error from Book 18, and blames himself for “ruining his people” and “trusting in his own strength” at 22.99-110. But he goes on to say that he cannot return, because of shame: this is the same shame that he refers to when he rejects Andromache’s pleas for him to stay with her (22.105 = 6.441).26 Essentially, Hector’s sense of public shame is greater than his private desires to preserve what he himself has; later this sense of shame is greater even than saving himself. When he gets 24 Edmunds 1975, 112: “Nicias’ motives combine a personal and a patriotic element, as does the main proposition that they explain (boulomenos through eutuchian), where eutuchian is both Nicias’ and Athens’ (5.46.1).” Edmunds goes on, however, to show that Nicias’ self-interest is paramount (112-4). Rood 1998b, 185f.: “Nikias has often been thought to bear out Thucydides’ analysis of the increasing concern for private interests among the leaders of post-Periklean Athens. But Thucydides’ presentation of Nikias’ motives for peace in 421 suggests that a more complex reading is preferable: [5.16.1]. The same intermeshing of personal and civic is found when Nikias defends his opposition to the Sicilian expedition: [6.9.2]…[2.60.2; 2.44.3] Later, too, Nikias appeals to the individual’s advantage—but with the safety of all paramount [7.64.2].” 25 For a full discussion of the debate surrounding Nicias’ eulogy, see Rood 1998b, 183f. 26 Cf. Redfield 1994, 157f.

“Hope Is Not a Strategy”: Homer’s Hector and Thucydides’ Nicias

67

closer to death, his relationship with the Trojans still looms large over his actions; at 22.287 Hector tells Achilles that he hopes to kill him, not so that he might gain glory for himself, but because “the war would be lighter for the Trojans after your death, for you (Achilles) are their greatest pain.” And at the moment when he sees that his death is imminent, realizing that Deiphobus is a god-sent ruse, his public duty and his private idea come together once again, as he hopes “but I will do some great thing, so that men to come will learn about it” (22.305). So even when he knows he is about to die, Hector has some hope, hope that he might do some “great thing”: he then attacks Achilles, clearly hoping that he might still wound or even kill him despite his own fate being sealed (22.306ff.). It is impossible to know here whether any of his concern for the fate of the Trojans is still present in his motivations, or whether in this last moment of his conscious life he is solely concerned with how his own reputation might live on. It is even harder to see how these two things can be completely disconnected.27 Hector is honoured for his death by the Trojans, and the Iliad fittingly ends with his funeral feast. There is no doubt that despite Hector’s flaws, and even despite his fatal error in judgement in Book 18, that his death evokes much sympathy from within and outside the text, embodying for many what it means to be a tragic hero.28 Thucydides’ eulogy for Nicias feels very much the same.29 There has been much debate over what exactly Thucydides means by his eulogy “that he was the least worthy of all Hellenes, in my time, to arrive at such misfortune, because his life had 27

Redfield 1994, 154: “In victory the hero’s self-definition and his social task are a single thing; in defeat they break apart…[T]he hero may find himself faced with a choice between his self-conception on the one hand and the continuation of his social task on the other. This is what happens to Hector.” I would argue that Redfield’s emphasis on Hector’s isolation once outside the walls of Troy is rendered moot by the fact that the Trojans are, as I have shown, still paramount in his concerns. 28 Redfield 1994, 152. Redfield actually identifies Hector as a kind of Thucydidean tragic hero, analysing his error of Book 18 through Thucydides 3.45: “Hope and desire, one pushing and the other pulling…do the greatest harm…And chance also counsels them to make the attempt for sometimes unexpectedly she takes a hand and so leads people to run risks with inferior resources, especially when cities are fighting for the greatest stakes. Each man, supported by the rest, has an irrationally exaggerated opinion of himself.” 29 Rood 1998a, 198 n. 72 notes the parallel language between Thucydides’ eulogy for Nicias and Aristotle’s Poetics 1453a 4 about pity for the tragic hero being greatest for the one who is least deserving of his misfortune (˦ ǥ̏Ǧ ǜ̍Ǫ ǩǞǪ̓ ǭ̕Ǧ ʩǦǕǧǢǵǦ ʹǬǭǢǦ ǝǮǬǭǮǰǨͼǦǭǚ).

68

Chapter Five

been lived throughout according to excellence” (7.86.5). The debate over this line is fervent: is Thucydides speaking in earnest, or is he being ironic? Is his value judgement of ʩǪǞǭ̒ itself a comment; was Nicias particularly excellent in his observance of religion, or in his adherence to some kind of behavioural code? Is Nicias a good man, but a bad general? Does he lead a virtuous private life, only to fail as a leader? There is no doubt that his character is a complex one, teetering between the sensible and the silly, the selfish and the selfless. Nicias enters into peace with the Spartans as the most successful Athenian general, having never been defeated; his death marks an end to the most humiliating defeat that Athens has ever known. Yet despite these contradictions of character, and the peripeteia of his narrative arc, Nicias remains a sympathetic figure, and we must consider this in our analysis of Thucydides’ motives of representation.30 Thucydides invests a lot of time in his characterization of him, drawing the portrait of a careful man, a wealthy conservative, and a successful general who barters for peace, advises caution, speaks reason, but who is drawn into a conflict against his will, where he quickly falls victim to idleness, poor judgement, and superstition. His muddled sense of the private and the public, and his ambivalence towards leadership, only add to this portrait, and while his death might be one of his own making, it is the result of both his self-interest and his concern for his men and for his polis. Nicias dared to hold out hope, and in the end was still defeated: in this we must see a parallel with Hector. The narratives of both men do not seem to be detailed judgements of leadership styles, or personal beliefs, but rather portraits of tragedy, of essentially good men placed in positions of enormous responsibility, and whose mistakes affected many lives because of that responsibility. Perhaps Thucydides, in constructing his Nicias, was trying to draw out the universal truths in war, that good men do not always make good decisions, that the instinct for self-preservation often conflicts with leadership, and that in times of crisis hope often overwhelms reason and becomes its own strategy.

30

Vlachos 1970, 43: “De tous les Athéniens de son temps dont Thucydide fait mention dans son Histoire de la Guerre Péloponnèse, seul Nikias semble lui avoir inspire des sentiments de sympathie et d’admiration.”

CHAPTER SIX VIEWING, POWER AND INTERPRETATION IN XENOPHON’S CYROPAEDIA ROSIE HARMAN

The Cyropaedia offers a number of challenges to the historian.1 In telling the story of Cyrus the Great’s conquest of one people after another, culminating in his establishment of the Persian Empire, Xenophon is narrating the antecedents to the eventual invasion and attempted conquest of Greece. No discussion of Persia from the Classical period onwards can have been written or read without an awareness of the threat Persia had posed, and in Xenophon’s day continued to pose, to Greek selfdetermination.2 The subject is provocative, and politically charged. Xenophon never comments on the later consequences of his narrative for Greece. How would a Greek reader respond to such a representation of Persians and Persian imperialism? Or alternatively, what sort of Greek subject is imagined by the text?3 In this chapter I wish to indicate some of the ways in which the Cyropaedia is valuable as a source for ancient 1

I would like to thank Stephen Hodkinson, Helen Lovatt, Nancy Rabinowitz and Tim Whitmarsh for their generous assistance in the preparation of this paper. I am most grateful to GoĞciwit Malinowski and Jakub PigoĔ for their invitation to participate in the Children of Herodotus conference in Wrocáaw, 25-26th May 2007, and to the other participants of that conference for their helpful comments on the first version of this paper. I would also like to thank the Arts and Humanities Research Council for their assistance. 2 E.g. Persia’s support for Sparta in the Ionian War, 413/12; the conflicts between Sparta, Athens and Persia in the aftermath of the Peloponnesian War; Persian intervention in Greek affairs in and after the King’s Peace, 387/86. See Ryder 1965; Hamilton 1979; Kagan 1987. 3 I am dealing with the implied reader, not the actual, historical, reader. For discussion of the implied reader, see Rabinowitz 1987.

70

Chapter Six

conceptions of cultural and political identity, imperialism, political power and conquest, by considering how scenes of viewing position the reader in Xenophon’s representation of the Persian conquest of Asia. The Cyropaedia’s Persian subject-matter has been treated as a problem to be discounted, as a mine of factual information, or as incidental to the concerns of the text. Early 20th century commentators denied that the Cyropaedia is about Persia in the first place. Unable to countenance what he reads as an idealising portrayal of a Persian, the Loeb translator Miller claimed that Persian virtues act as ciphers for Greek virtues;4 the Cyropaedia has even been read as an elaborate historical allegory which is “really” about Greeks, and whose aim is in fact anti-Persian.5 Where the representation of the Persians has been the subject of interest, it has been as a potential source for Achaemenid history.6 The text’s focus on Persia has been explained as generic, by emphasizing its participation within a body of political theory which used Persia, and specifically Cyrus the Great, as examples;7 it has also been argued that the Persian setting is

4

Miller 1914, IX: “…Cyrus’ invincible battle lines are not the wavering, unwieldy hordes of orientals, easily swept away by the Grecian phalanx like chaff before the strong south-wind, but the heavy, solid masses of Sparta.” Taking an “idealising” line on Cyrus, Griffith (1998, 48 n. 93) notes “it is hilarious to see through what contortions the Loeb translator will go to explain that this glowing figure of virtue and manliness is really, in Xenophon’s mind, a cross between a Spartan and an Athenian.” 5 Prinz 1911, followed by Schwartz 1943, read it as a roman à clef, whereby Cyrus and the Persians represent Agesilaus and the Spartans, and the Assyrians represent Persia; they therefore saw it as a call for Panhellenic military unity against the contemporary Persian enemy. Carlier 1978 takes a diametrically opposed view, seeing the text as a warning to the Greeks not to attempt a Panhellenic conquest of Persia. More recently the Prinz/Schwartz approach has been adopted by Christensen 2006 to argue that the Cyropaedia is a call for military reform in Sparta. 6 Hirsch (1985, 61-131) attempts to use the Cyropaedia as a source for the historical Persia. At 72-6 he suggests that the text gives direct access to Persian self-conceptions, conjecturing a system of propaganda instituted by Cyrus the Younger by which he compared himself to Cyrus the Great, and to which Xenophon was responding. In contrast, Tuplin 1990 emphasizes “the patchiness of the novel’s oriental veneer” (18). 7 Gera (1993, 2-13) frames Xenophon’s interests within the writing of biography and the use of Cyrus in Hdt. 1, Ctesias’ lost Persica, Pl. Leg. 694a-b and Menex. 239d-e and Isoc. Philippus 5.66; in particular she emphasizes the influence of the lost writings on Cyrus by Antisthenes, mentioned in Diog. Laert. 6.15-8.

Viewing, Power and Interpretation in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia

71

necessary for the portrayal of the ideal, all-powerful leader, as absolute power was not imaginable in the contemporary Greek context.8 Such approaches are reductive; they explain away the Persian subjectmatter rather than considering its effect. The Cyropaedia must be read as ethnography:9 written in Attic Greek, for a Greek audience, it is entirely concerned with descriptions of and narratives about various barbarian peoples.10 Ethnographic description is usually more informative about the culture of the describer than about the culture of the described; it is often also a highly politicised genre, inscribing relations of power between the ethnographer who surveys and judges and the voiceless object of interest.11 What relationship is constructed between the Greek reader of the Cyropaedia and Cyrus and the Persians? Is the reader produced as a subject, and placed in a secure position of power over barbarians who are constructed as ethnographic objects of scrutiny, or does the imperial power of Cyrus and the Persians disrupt such a comfortable relationship? I argue that the text’s episodes of viewing give us a way into this problem.

8

Tatum 1989, 63. Due (1989, 22-5) takes a similar line, suggesting that the impressiveness of the Persian Empire made Cyrus a valuable paradigm. 9 The problem of the Cyropaedia’s genre is notorious (see Reichel 1995). By reading it as ethnography I do not mean to impose narrow genre definitions or close down interpretations of it as a novel, historiography or political philosophy. 10 The main focus is on Persians and Medes, but Armenians, Chaldaeans, Hyrcanians, Assyrians, Egyptians, Indians (et al.) are also presented. Present tense ethnographic explanations of customs and articles of dress often interrupt the narrative (see discussion below); Xenophon’s frequent aetiological asides, in which he claims that events in the narrative mark the beginnings of a Persian custom, also set up the text as an explanation of the behaviour of the contemporary Persians. For examples and discussion of authorial interventions, see Due 2002. The text is often highly self-aware of its status as a Greek representation of foreign peoples: Xenophon describes the arming of Persian men with the explanatory comment that they carry Ǩ˜ǵǦǩǞǪ ǜǪǕǯǨǦǭǚǢ Ǩ˖ NJǖǪǬǚǢ ʽǰǨǦǭǞǫ (“such things as the Persians are painted as having”, 1.2.13), offering tacit acknowledgement that the reader’s relationship to the Persians is mediated through his experience of previous Greek representations. Cambyses criticizes Greek education which teaches the art of deception as part of training in wrestling, saying that Persian education only teaches truthfulness (1.6.32); similarly, at a dinner party a Persian makes a joke about another Persian behaving in a suspiciously Greek manner (ǣǚǭ̍ ǭ̕Ǧ ˀǤǤǠǦǢǣ̕Ǧ ǭǪǵǩǨǦ, 2.2.28) by bringing a young man with him. Through the irony of the pretence of a Persian voice, Xenophon makes the Greek reader aware of the Greekness of what he is reading. 11 Said 1978; Clifford and Marcus 1986; Pratt 1992. On the ancient world see especially: Hartog 1988; Hall 1989.

72

Chapter Six

Throughout the work the reader is repeatedly confronted with scenes of observation and spectacle, as well as highly self-conscious theoretical arguments on the purpose and effect of looking and being looked at.12 Although no study of the text has pursued vision as a theme, Cyrus’ use of deceptive visual display has been a concern. Most previous work on the Cyropaedia has tended to be polarised around the question of whether Cyrus should be read as an ideal ruler13 or a corrupt ruler;14 Cyrus’ display has generally been treated in the context of this debate.15 Too argues that Xenophon offers a critique of Cyrus as a ruler by contrasting Cambyses’ privileging of “being” over “seeming” with the use of deceptive display adopted by Cyrus in Babylon;16 Azoulay, on the other hand, argues for the appropriateness of Cyrus’ use of display because of the change in audience from friends in Persia to conquered enemies in Babylon.17 While I would by no means wish to downplay the importance of such concerns for our understanding of this highly politically self-aware text, readings which foreground Xenophon’s presentation of Cyrus as either idealising or critical tend to treat the representation of Cyrus’ rule as part of an abstract theoretical treatise on ruling as such,18 and do not take into account the problematic nature of a text about Persian imperialism for a Greek audience. The text’s concern with Cyrus’ use of the visual in his acquisition of power, and with his conquered subjects’ responses to it, must be understood as directly engaged with this problem. 12

Vision is the subject of interest across Xenophon’s works. See Goldhill 1998 on the theorization of vision in Socrates’ encounter with the hetaira Theodote at Mem. 3.11.1-18. 13 Due 1989 reads Cyrus as exemplary of the virtuous leader. Gera 1993, 285-99 incorporates an acknowledgement of the despotic tendencies of Cyrus’ rule in Babylon into a reading of Cyrus as exemplary by seeing them as demonstrating the moral compromises necessary to imperial rule. Tatum 1989 emphasizes Cyrus’ Machiavellian qualities, seeing them as part of Xenophon’s didactic project on the art of rule. 14 Higgins 1977, following Strauss 1939, reads the portrait of Cyrus as subtly ironic, intended to be “read between the lines”; Too 1998 critiques such an approach, reading the Cyropaedia as an overt representation of corrupt leadership. 15 An exception is Dillery 2004, 267-70; following the approach of Farber 1979, he discusses Cyrus’ Babylonian procession (8.3.9-18) as prefiguring the processions of the Hellenistic kings. 16 Too 1998, 293. Cambyses on appearances: 1.6.22; Cyrus’ deceptive display: 8.1.40f.; 8.3.13f. 17 Azoulay 2004. 18 See Nadon 2001, who reads the Cyropaedia as a critique of both the republic and the empire as political systems.

Viewing, Power and Interpretation in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia

73

Viewing in the Cyropaedia is predominantly cross-cultural. In particular, as the Persian army travels across Asia, the reader is presented with repeated scenes in which Cyrus tries to control the way he and his army will be seen by the people they encounter; we are also shown the responses of those who see Cyrus. The reader is made into a literary viewer of Cyrus and the Persians;19 representations of viewing operate as a site for the self-positioning of the reader.20 How might such self-positioning work? Of crucial importance to the interpretation of the Cyropaedia is the absence of any Greek protagonists; Greeks only feature in brief references.21 Unlike the Anabasis, which, in its narrative of the travels of a Greek army across Asia, frames its discussion of the exotic peoples encountered through Greek reactions to what they see, the Cyropaedia relates its narrative of Persian conquest through the reactions of a series of barbarians. The representation of barbarian reactions to other barbarians raises a problem for the self19

The opening of the text presents Xenophon’s choice of subject through his wonder (ǡǚǮǥǕǟDz: 1.1.1; 1.1.6) at Cyrus. This term has visual connotations: for the etymological connection to ǡǞǕǨǥǚǢ, see Frisk 1958, 656; Chantraine 1984, 425. Xenophon presents ǡǚͼǥǚ as inspiring investigation (see Arist. Metaph. 1.982b12-13; Pl. Tht. 155d3; and Llewelyn 1988); he uses the verb ʹǬǣǞDZǕǥǞǡǚ (1.1.6), from ǬǣǖǩǭǨǥǚǢ, ‘I look at,’ to describe his investigation as a process of visual scrutiny in which the reader is implicitly invited to participate. The visual role of the reader is made explicit in direct invitations to the reader to look at and come to conclusions about the Persians; in the second person: ʹǩǖǜǦDzǫ ǝ’ ʫǦ ʹǣǞͭ Ǩ˱ǝǖǦǚ Ǩ˵ǭǞ ˥ǪǜǢǟǵǥǞǦǨǦ ǣǪǚǮǜ͠ Ǩ˵ǭǞ ǰǚǘǪǨǦǭǚ ˲ǛǪǢǬǭǢǣΊ ǜǖǤDzǭǢ, ʩǤǤ̍ ˕ǝ̙Ǧ ʫǦ ǚ˱ǭǨ̗ǫ ˆǜǗǬDz ǭΊ ˩ǦǭǢ Ǟ˕ǫ ǣǕǤǤǨǫ ǟ͟Ǧ (“You would not have perceived anyone there shouting in anger, or taking delight in insolent laughter, but on seeing them you would have held that they really lived nobly,” 8.1.33); with the impersonal pronoun: Ǟ˕ ǝǖ ǭǢǫ ǭʩǦǚǦǭǘǚ ʹǥǨ̓ ǜǢǜǦǷǬǣǨǢ, ǭ̍ ʽǪǜǚ ǚ˱ǭΉǦ ʹǩǢǬǣǨǩΉǦ Ǟ˲ǪǗǬǞǢ ǚ˱ǭ̍ ǥǚǪǭǮǪǨͼǦǭǚ ǭǨͭǫ ʹǥǨͭǫ ǤǵǜǨǢǫ (“If anyone thinks the contrary to me, looking at their actions he will find that they bear witness to my words,” 8.8.27). 20 See Walker 1993 for a discussion of how ancient literary theory conceptualised the visual role of the reader. At 355-63 he discusses Plut. De glor. Ath. 347a, where Plutarch claims that in Thucydides’ description of the spectators of the battle of the Athenian fleet in the Syracusan harbour (Thuc. 7.71) the reader is made into a spectator who experiences the same responses as those who witnessed the event. See Feldherr 1998, 4-12 for the visual role of the reader in GraecoRoman historiography. Also: Zanker 1981; Webb 1999. 21 Greeks from Asia are among those who are willingly Cyrus’ subjects (1.1.4); relations between Hyrcanians and Assyrians are compared to those between Sciritae and Spartans (4.2.1); Croesus includes in his army a contingent of Greeks from Asia, and sends to Sparta to negotiate an alliance (6.2.10). Also cf. 1.6.32 and 2.2.28 discussed in n.10 above.

74

Chapter Six

positioning of the reader. Will the reader identify with or be alienated from the text’s internal audiences? The Cyropaedia self-consciously flags the issue of identification or alienation as critical to the hermeneutics of viewing, presenting some reactions to viewing as conditioned by the crosscultural frame in which it occurs. A fuller discussion would include all uses of viewing in the text;22 in this paper I will restrict myself to the use of vision in the representation of Cyrus as an imperialist, considering scenes where vision becomes a problem for the interaction of Cyrus and those who will become his subjects. I argue that viewing is involved in the acquisition of Cyrus’ imperial power; that his power is acquired through his control of the interpretation of viewing; but that there can also be alternative interpretations countering those which Cyrus attempts to foist on his various audiences. I also consider how far the ethnographic context of viewing conditions its interpretation, to examine the implications for the Greek reader’s interpretation of the text.

Vision and Power The involvement of vision in the construction of power has been widely studied following the work of feminist scholars in film criticism in the 1970s and 1980s, most notably Laura Mulvey, who argued that in filmic representation the process of looking is gendered, with the male cast in the active role as the one looking and the female in the passive role as the one looked at.23 Studies of the imperial gaze have also discussed how vision structures relations of race and ethnicity; Pratt’s study of 18th-20th century travel writing has examined how the Western traveller’s position is formulated by his or her role as a viewer.24 Discussions of power relations in ancient vision have considered whether power is owned by the viewer, or whether the Greeks’ rather different conception of the mechanics of vision, as revealed in ancient 22 Other areas which could be treated include the function of vision in the ethnographic representation of Persia and Media; the use of vision in the construction of models of political rule; and vision in erotic discourse and in the construction of gender (e.g. the discussion about Panthea, 5.1.4-17; the representation of Abradatas as a visual object, 6.4.4-11; Artabazus’ gaze at Cyrus, 1.4.27f.). 23 Mulvey 1975. Cf. Kaplan 1983; De Lauretis 1987. More recent work has extended these arguments to consider, for instance, the role of the female spectator or the male visual object. 24 Pratt 1992. Cf. hooks 1992; Kaplan 1997.

Viewing, Power and Interpretation in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia

75

optical theories, leads to a more reciprocal model of visual relationships. Richlin applies Kappeler’s formulation of female objectification through the gaze developed in her discussion of pornography25 to the study of ancient texts to argue for the continuity of the empowered male gaze from the ancient to the modern world.26 Her approach has been criticized by Goldhill, who argues that in many ancient texts viewing produces more nuanced relationships.27 How does the Cyropaedia fit into this debate? Viewing in this text is often presented as paradigmatic of the conquest of foreign lands and peoples. Cyrus admits that although ruling seems a difficult task, when he looks at the enemy (ǩǪ̕ǫ ʭǤǤǨǮǫ ʩǦǡǪǷǩǨǮǫ ˕ǝ̙Ǧ, 1.6.8)28 it seems shameful to be unwilling to fight them. For Cyrus, looking at the enemy is the first step to overcoming them. Cyrus’ viewing is similarly active in the imperial exploitation of conquered resources: whatever he sees that is good for an army (˪ ǭǢ ǩǨǮ ǣǚǤ̕Ǧ ˙ǝǨǢ ʹǫ ǬǭǪǚǭǢǕǦ, 3.3.6) he acquires. The conquests of both Armenia and Chaldaea are told through a narrative of a sequence of sights. There is a repetitive focus on what is seen in the course of both battles to the extent that the description of sights seems to replace direct description of action: Cyrus sees the plain full of Armenians trying to escape, so orders them to stay in their homes (3.1.3); Cyrus sees the Armenian king flee to the hilltop, and so encircles it with his army (3.1.5); Cyrus’ men look down from the hills and see the Chaldaeans fleeing from their homes (3.2.10). The act of conquest is mirrored by and told through Cyrus’ and his army’s viewing of their enemy.29 25

Kappeler 1986. Richlin 1992. See also Morales 2004. 27 Goldhill 1998. 28 All quotations from the text are taken from the Oxford edition of E.C. Marchant; translations are based on Ambler 2001, with some alterations where clarification is necessary. 29 Cyrus’ domination through viewing is especially prominent in Babylon, in his establishment of himself as ǛǤǖǩǨǦǭǚ ǦǵǥǨǦ, a “seeing law” (8.1.22), and in his employment of spies, called “the King’s Eyes,” who extend the reach of his own vision to all spaces of the city (8.2.12). As Too (1998, 297) suggests, in Babylon “Cyrus creates a ‘panoptic’ state.” His power as military commander is instantiated in his surveying of his men (1.6.18: the successful commander’s gaze at his men is compared to looking at the pleasing spectacle of a chorus; 4.1.4: Cyrus inspects and judges his men’s actions). Cf. the importance of being able to look at the enemy for an army’s self respect (3.3.18). More generally, the inability to look is associated with the powerlessness of a child (1.4.12: Cyrus as a child cannot look at Astyages) or a slave (3.1.23: Tigranes claims that fear enslaves 26

76

Chapter Six

However, there is an equal emphasis on the role of the Armenians’ and Chaldaeans’ viewing in their own defeat: the Armenians see their king withdraw, so run to rescue their possessions (3.1.3); similarly ˾ǫ ǝ̏ ǝǢǷǣǨǦǭǞǫ Ǩ˖ ǐǚǤǝǚͭǨǢ Ǟ˛ǝǨǦ ʹǦǚǦǭǘǨǮǫ ǥǚǰǚǢǪǨǯǵǪǨǮǫ ˖ǞǥǖǦǨǮǫ ʭǦDz, Ǩ˖ ǥǖǦ ǭǢǦǞǫ ǚ˱ǭǨͭǫ ǩǞǤǕǬǚǦǭǞǫ ǭǚǰ̗ ʩǩǖǡǦ͝ǬǣǨǦ, Ǩ˖ ǝ’ ʽǯǞǮǜǨǦ… When the pursuing Chaldaeans saw swordsmen rushing up in opposition, some were quickly killed when they got near, and others fled (3.2.10).

In the sequence of main verbs (Ǟ˛ǝǨǦ; ʩǩǖǡǦ͝ǬǣǨǦ; ʽǯǞǮǜǨǦ) it is implied that the Chaldaeans’ sight of Cyrus’ army has a direct impact upon them; Cyrus and his men impose themselves not just through action but through the visual effect of that action on their enemy.30 Similarly we are told that in the attack on the Assyrian fortification, although the Assyrians were standing ready on the rampart, …ǭǨǧǞǶǞǢǦ ǥ̏Ǧ ˇ ʩǣǨǦǭǘǟǞǢǦ Ǟ˕ǫ ǭǨ̗ǫ ǣǚǭǚǣǚǘǦǨǦǭǚǫ Ǩ˵ǭǞ ʹǯǪǵǦǨǮǦ Ǩ˵ǭǞ ʹǝǶǦǚǦǭǨ ǝǢ̍ ǭ̍ ǝǞǢǦ̍ ˦ǪǕǥǚǭǚ ǣǚ̓ ǝǢ̍ ǭ̕Ǧ ǯǵǛǨǦ. …as for shooting their arrows or throwing their spears at those who were doing the killing, they neither thought of it nor had the power because of the terrible sights and their fear (3.3.66).

The sight of Cyrus’ onslaught is enough to make that onslaught successful; to view it is to be disempowered (Ǩ˵ǭǞ ʹǝǶǦǚǦǭǨ).31 [ǣǚǭǚǝǨǮǤǨͼǬǡǚǢ], and prevents people looking at those of whom they are afraid). Also, social cohesion is enacted in the reciprocity of returned looks (3.3.59). 30 The use of visual effect in battle is a theme of the Iliad: the sight of Patroclus in the arms of Achilles strikes fear into the Trojans (16.278-83); the gleam of Achilles as he reappears at the edge of the battlefield produces confusion in the Trojans and gladness in the Achaeans (18.202-38); Achilles in his new armour sends out a gleam (19.373-83) which terrifies the Trojans (20.44-6). Gorgias also refers to the overpowering visual effect of an army (Gorg. Hel. 16). 31 There is repeated concern with the danger inherent in looking, most strikingly in the debate between Cyrus and Araspas on the erotic gaze (5.1.4-17), where it is claimed that looking at the beautiful Panthea carries the risk of a loss of selfmastery and enslavement; similarly see Artabazus’ self-abandonment in gazing at Cyrus as a beautiful boy, 1.4.27f. (cf. Xen. Symp. 4.12 and 4.24 on the lover’s helpless gaze). See also the child Cyrus’ loss of self-control through an overly intensive gaze at enemy corpses (1.4.24), and the exchange with Gadatas, whose

Viewing, Power and Interpretation in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia

77

Sight and Interpretation In these moments of sight, the act of vision presupposes its result, albeit sometimes to the detriment of the object of view and sometimes of the viewer. However, visual experience in this text is often more nuanced and equivocal than these examples might suggest. The act of viewing is self-consciously figured as a moment of political crisis, as its involvement in the production of power is made the subject of concern and debate. After Cyrus’ allies, the Cadusians, have been defeated by the Assyrian enemy, Cyrus makes the following speech: ǣǚ̓ ʮǥǚ ǥ̏Ǧ ǡǕDZǨǥǞǦ ǭǨ̗ǫ ǭǞǤǞǮǭǗǬǚǦǭǚǫ, ʮǥǚ ǝ̏ ǝǞǘǧǨǥǞǦ ǭǨͭǫ ǩǨǤǞǥǘǨǢǫ ʽǦǡǚ ǣǪǚǭ͟ǬǚǢ ǦǨǥǘǟǨǮǬǢǦ ʹǦǭǚͼǡǚ ʭǤǤǨǮǫ ǚ˱ǭΉǦ ǣǪǞǘǭǭǨǮǫ, ˇǦ ǡǞ̕ǫ ǡǖǤ͝· ʹ̍Ǧ ǝ̏ ǥ̑ ʩǦǭǞǩǞǧǘDzǬǢ, ǣǚǶǬǨǥǞǦ ǚ˱ǭΉǦ ǭ̍ǫ ǣǷǥǚǫ ǣǚ̓ ǝ͝ǷǬǨǥǞǦ ǭ̑Ǧ ǰǷǪǚǦ, ˚Ǧǚ ǥ̑ ʬ ˆǥ͐ǫ ʹǩǨǘǠǬǚǦ ˦ǪΉǦǭǞǫ Ǟ˱ǯǪǚǘǦDzǦǭǚǢ, ʩǤǤ̍ ǭ̍ ʺǚǮǭΉǦ ǣǚǣ̍ ǡǞǷǥǞǦǨǢ ʩǦǢΉǦǭǚǢ, ǣǚ̓ ˪ǩDzǫ ǜǞ ǥǠǝ̏ ǭ̕ ǰDzǪǘǨǦ ˆǝǖDzǫ ˦ǪΉǬǢǦ ʽǦǡǚ ǣǚǭǖǣǚǦǨǦ ˆǥΉǦ ǭǨ̗ǫ ǬǮǥǥǕǰǨǮǫ. We will at once bury the dead, and show our enemies that on the very spot where they believe they conquered, others are stronger than they, if god is willing. If they do not come out in opposition we will burn their villages and ravage their land, in order that they do not take delight in seeing what they did to us, but to the contrary feel pain in gazing on their own evils, and so that they do not take pleasure in looking on the place where they killed our allies (5.4.21).

Cyrus articulates the balance of power between the two sides through the issue of how what is seen will be interpreted. The same location is open to be seen in different ways. Cyrus is concerned that the site where the defeat occurred might become a monument to that defeat in the eyes of the enemy, placing them in a position of power over Cyrus’ army. In Cyrus’ reacquisition of power over the Assyrians, the emphasis is placed not on the concrete—the burning of their villages and the ravaging of their land—but on the visual effect this will have.32 The location of the defeat will be reclaimed as a monument to his own power, becoming a sight which will produce pain for the enemy when they gaze at it.33 The enthusiasm for gazing upon Cyrus figures his domination (5.4.10f.; contrast the ironic prefiguring of this scene at 5.3.33, where concern is expressed that an inability to return Gadatas’ gaze would instantiate a loss of power). 32 Cf. Davidson 1991 on the privileging of appearances in Polybius. 33 A concern with the memorialisation of battles can be found in the Iliad: Hector imagines the burial mound of the man he defeats in single combat being seen by

78

Chapter Six

conquest of a piece of foreign land is instantiated in its transformation into the visual sign of its own conquest.34 The experience of viewing does not produce only one possible response; rather viewing is shown as open to challenges, refusals and manipulations. The openness of a sight to be interpreted in different ways becomes a problem for Cyrus’ imperial project. When Cyrus considers whether to lead his army past Babylon, his ally Gobryas advises that Cyrus keep the army as far from the city as possible, as the Assyrians have started refusing to give up their arms, “…because your force seemed small to those of them who saw it” (…˪ǭǢ ǭǨͭǫ ˕ǝǨͼǬǢǦ ǚ˱ǭΉǦ ˥ǤǘǜǠ ʽǝǨǧǞǦ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ ˆ Ǭ̑ ǝǶǦǚǥǢǫ, 5.2.30).35 Cyrus disagrees, arguing that it is far safer for the army to march right up to the walls: ǥ̑ ˦ǪΉǦǭǞǫ ǥ̏Ǧ Ǩ˷Ǧ ˆǥ͐ǫ, ʩǤǤ’ Ǩ˕ǵǥǞǦǨǢ ʩǯǚǦǞͭǫ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ ǝǢ̍ ǭ̕ ǯǨǛǞͭǬǡǚǢ ʹǣǞǘǦǨǮǫ, ǬǕǯ’ ˙ǬǡǢ, ʽǯǠ, ˪ǭǢ ǭǨͼ ǥ̏Ǧ ǯǵǛǨǮ ʩǩǚǤǤǕǧǨǦǭǚǢ ˨ǫ ǚ˱ǭǨͭǫ ʹǦǞǜǖǦǞǭǨ, ǡǕǪǪǨǫ ǝ’ ʹǥǯǶǬǞǭǚǢ ʩǦǭ̓ ǭǨǶǭǨǮ ǭǨǬǨǶǭ· ǥǞͭǟǨǦ ˪Ǭ· ʫǦ ǩǤǞǘǨǦǚ ǰǪǵǦǨǦ ˆǥ͐ǫ ǥ̑ ˦ǪΉǬǢǦ· “If they do not see us, and think that we are out of sight because we are afraid of them, be quite assured,” he said, “that they will lose the fear that arose in them, and in its place will grow up courage that becomes greater as the time they do not see us increases” (5.2.32).

The argument pivots on the issue of how sight, or the lack of it, functions within an economy of courage and fear, encouragement and discouragement, which is presented as part of a struggle between the two sides for power over each other. Viewing matters; it is the subject of serious strategic debate. Whereas Gobryas’ report of Assyrian resurgence suggests that being seen has led to a reduction in the power exercised by Cyrus’ army, Cyrus claims that it will give power to the enemy if they are not seen. He elaborates: ǥ̑ ǤǚǦǡǚǦǖǭDz ǝǖ ǬǞ ǥǠǝ̏ ǭǨͼǭǨ, ʽǯǠ, ˪ǭǢ ʽǧǞǬǭǢ ǥ̏Ǧ ǭǨͭǫ ǩǨǤǞǥǘǨǢǫ ǣǚ̓ ǦͼǦ ˕ǝǞͭǦ ˆǥ͐ǫ· ǜǨǪǜǵǭǞǪǨǢ ǝǖ, ǬǕǯ’ ˙ǬǡǢ, Ǩ˱ǝǚǥΉǫ ʫǦ ǚ˱ǭǨͭǫ ǯǚǦǞǘǠǥǞǦ ˇ ˕ǵǦǭǞǫ ʹǩ’ ʹǣǞǘǦǨǮǫ.

those passing in ships as a Ǭ͟ǥǚȱ of his glory (7.81-9). See also the epigrams of Simonides on the dead at Thermopylae (Simon. FGE 6, 22a and 22b). 34 See Bell 2004, 6: “…power…and its phenomenology are closely intertwined.” 35 The concept of the battle-field as a visual arena watched from city walls is familiar from the Iliad in the teichoskopia of Helen and Priam (3.161-242), reworked in Antigone’s teichoskopia in Eur. Phoen. 88-201. See Zeitlin 1994.

Viewing, Power and Interpretation in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia

79

“Do not let it escape your consideration,” he said, “that it is possible even now for our enemies to see us. Be assured that there is no way we could appear more gorgon-like to them than by marching against them” (5.2.37).

Cyrus suggests that the army may well be seen anyway, and so it is necessary to control how it is seen. It is suggested that being seen by the enemy does not have one simple effect, but can cut two ways. It can involve the enemy fixing Cyrus’ army with an intrusive, scrutinizing gaze, or Cyrus inflicting on the enemy an awe-inspiring spectacle. The adjective ǜǨǪǜǵǭǞǪǨǢ, meaning ‘like the Gorgon,’ whose gaze famously could turn those who looked at her to stone, suggests the extremes of power available in being seen.36 Viewing is presented not only as involved in the production of power, but as producing relationships of power which are contingent on the interpretation of the viewer. Cyrus puts forward a theory about the way visual display affects its audience; however, the text is self-conscious about demonstrating the failure of vision to produce a fixed code of response. Cyrus’ “theory” is picked up on and transformed in a second conversation with Gobryas, when after a successful campaign leading to increases in the army’s size, Cyrus must again march past Babylon. This time Cyrus does not wish to pass so close to the Assyrian king’s city. Gobryas is surprised: …ʩǤǤ’ ʽǜDzǜ’, ʽǯǠ, ̻ǵǥǠǦ ǣǚ̓ ǛǨǶǤǞǬǡǚǢ ʭǦ ǬǞ ǦͼǦ ˪ǭǢ ʹǜǜǮǭǕǭDz ǭ͟ǫ ǩǵǤǞDzǫ ʭǜǞǢǦ, ˚Ǧǚ ǣǚ̓ ʹǩǢǝǞǘǧǚǢǫ ǚ˱ǭΊ ˪ǭǢ ǭ̕ ǬǭǪǕǭǞǮǥǕ ǬǨǮ ˉǝǠ ǩǨǤǶ ǭǖ ʹǬǭǢ ǣǚ̓ ǣǚǤǵǦ· ʹǩǞǢǝ̑ ǣǚ̓ ˪ǭǞ ʽǤǚǭǭǨǦ Ǟ˛ǰǞǫ ǩǪǨǬ͟Ǥǡǖǫ ǭǞ ǩǪ̕ǫ ǚ˱ǭ̕ ǭ̕ ǭǞͭǰǨǫ ǣǚ̓ ʹǡǞ͐ǭǨ ˆǥ͐ǫ Ǩ˱ ǩǨǤǤǨ̗ǫ ˩Ǧǭǚǫ· ǦͼǦ ǝ̏ Ǟ˕ ǣǚ̓ ǩǚǪǞǬǣǞǮǚǬǥǖǦǨǫ ǭǘ ʹǬǭǢǦ, ̂ǬǩǞǪ ǩǪ̕ǫ Ǭ̏ Ǟ˛ǩǞǦ ˪ǭǢ ǩǚǪǚǬǣǞǮǕǟǨǢǭǨ ˾ǫ ǥǚǰǨǶǥǞǦǵǫ ǬǨǢ, Ǩ˛ǝ’ ˪ǭǢ ˕ǝǵǦǭǢ ǚ˱ǭΊ ǭ̑Ǧ Ǭ̑Ǧ ǝǶǦǚǥǢǦ ǩǕǤǢǦ ʩǩǚǪǚǬǣǞǮǚǬǭǵǭǚǭǚ ǭ̍ ǚ˲ǭǨͼ ǯǚǦǞͭǭǚǢ. 36 This term may recall the shield blazon, often shown as a Gorgon in Greek vase painting. The adjective ǜǨǪǜǵǫ (in positive, comparative and superlative) is used by Xenophon in a variety of contexts: Cyr.: of successful soldiers (4.4.3); Symp.: of someone possessed by a god (1.10); Lac.: of Spartan men (11.3); Eq. mag.: of a cavalry procession (3.11); Eq.: of a horse (1.10; 1.14; 10.5; 10.17; 11.12). In all examples except Cyr. 4.4.3 and Symp. 1.10, ǜǨǪǜǵǫ is a deliberately contrived effect: in the Lac. Lycurgus has the Spartans wear long hair in order to make them appear ǜǨǪǜǨǭǖǪǨǮǫ; in the examples from Eq. mag. and Eq., advice is given on how to achieve a ǜǨǪǜǵǫ effect in a cavalry show or horse. Cf. also Symp. 4.24: ǭ̍ǫ ƽǨǪǜǵǦǚǫ: looking at the beautiful Cleinias is compared to looking at the Gorgons—his lover Critobulus is unable to look away but stares at him stonily (ǤǢǡǘǦDzǫ); Eq. 10.4: ǜǨǪǜǨǶǥǞǦǨǫ: of a stallion prancing before mares. See Vernant 1991, 111-41 on the contexts of gorgon terminology.

80

Chapter Six “But I thought,” he said, “that you would wish now to march as near as possible to the city, so you could display to him that your army is now large and noble. For even when you had a smaller one, you marched right up to the wall itself, and he gazed on us when we were not numerous. But now even if he is in some way prepared, just as he said to you that he would be prepared to do battle with you, I know that when he sees your power, his own will seem most unprepared” (5.4.42).

Cyrus counters that now it is no longer appropriate to be seen: ƾǨǣǞͭǫ ǥǨǢ, ̃ ƽDzǛǪǶǚ, ǡǚǮǥǕǟǞǢǦ ˪ǭǢ ʹǦ ͂ ǥ̏Ǧ ǰǪǵǦ· ǩǨǤ̗ ǥǞǘǨǦǚ ʽǰDzǦ ǬǭǪǚǭǢ̍Ǧ ˋǤǡǨǦ, ǩǪ̕ǫ ǚ˱ǭ̕ ǭ̕ ǭǞͭǰǨǫ ǩǪǨǬ͟ǜǨǦ· ǦͼǦ ǝ’ ʹǩǞ̓ ǩǤǞǘǨǦǚ ǝǶǦǚǥǢǦ ʽǰDz, Ǩ˱ǣ ʹǡǖǤDz ˲ǩ’ ǚ˱ǭ̍ ǭ̍ ǭǞǘǰǠ ʭǜǞǢǦ. ʩǤǤ̍ ǥ̑ ǡǚǶǥǚǟǞ· Ǩ˱ ǜ̍Ǫ ǭ̕ ǚ˱ǭǵ ʹǬǭǢ ǩǪǨǬǕǜǞǢǦ ǭǞ ǣǚ̓ ǩǚǪǕǜǞǢǦ. You seem to me, Gobryas, to be full of wonder that at the time when I came with a far smaller army I marched right up to the wall itself, but now, when I have a greater power, I do not wish to march under the walls themselves. Do not wonder, for to march up to and to march by are not the same thing (5.4.43).

He goes on to explain that when marching by, the baggage train straggles out in a thin line, and in order that it does not appear (ǯǚǘǦǞǬǡǚǢ) to the enemy to be unarmed the soldiers must spread out with it, and so are in weak order (5.4.45). The argument is partly construed as practical (if the enemy attacks they will be stronger than the men at any point in the line). However, this practical reason is inextricably bound up with a concern for the visual: the army becomes weak because of their fear of looking weak. When marching by at close quarters the army will not be organised for impressive display. However, if marching by is performed at a distance …ǭ̕ ǥ̏Ǧ ǩǤ͟ǡǨǫ ǣǚǭǵDZǨǦǭǚǢ ˆǥΉǦ· ˲ǩ̕ ǝ̏ ǭΉǦ ǩǚǪǮǯǚǬǥǖǦDzǦ ˪ǩǤDzǦ ǩ͐ǫ ˩ǰǤǨǫ ǝǞǢǦ̕ǫ ǯǚǘǦǞǭǚǢ. …they will look upon our multitude. Behind the weapons which frame a formation, every mob appears terrible (5.4.48).37

37 Indeed, as they march past Babylon at a distance, Cyrus increases the strength of the troops in the rear (5.4.50), to produce the correct visual effect. The manipulation of viewing in military tactics is a recurring interest throughout the battle scenes. See the discussion of exposure or inaccessibility to view in the choice of camp (3.3.28); and of lines of sight in battle manoeuvres (7.1.8).

Viewing, Power and Interpretation in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia

81

Power is not only based in the actual (is the army large or small?), but on how the actual is seen; previously a small army was seen in a way which gave it power, whereas now a big army, if it is seen, will seem (and therefore also be) weak. In the restatement and reformulation of the problem of the army’s visual availability, it appears that openness to observation must be rigorously policed; the response of the viewer is not static, but subject to continual reinterpretation.38

Challenging the Spectacle: Interpretation and Dissent Unlike in the examples with which I began, where Cyrus’ surveying of foreign peoples and resources articulates his power, here it is not the viewer but the object of visual display whose empowerment is the focus of concern. This raises a problem: the empowerment of the viewed object implies that power is not imposed from above, but is a two-way process, dependent on the complicity of the viewer.39 The viewer’s response therefore becomes a site of concern: will the viewer see in the way that Cyrus wishes, or in another way? The question of the viewer’s acquiescence to, or alternatively, dissent from Cyrus’ control of visual experience is self-consciously raised in scenes dealing with his acquisition and subjugation of allies.40 After Cyrus 38

A similar debate on sight occurs between Cyrus and Cyaxares (3.3.30-2) where Cyaxares proposes taking the army right up to the Assyrian fortifications in order to produce a spectacle which will cow the enemy. He envisages no fighting taking place, yet frames this self-display as comparable in effect to a successful battle. Cyrus argues that it will be harmful rather than beneficial for the army to be seen while the enemy can look down at them in safety from their battlements; on the contrary, not being seen actually enhances their position, by causing the enemy to fear what they might be doing. However, he says that once the enemy attacks, then the army must show themselves. Again, availability to sight is open to different interpretations; power relations in viewing are continuously shifting and must be controlled. 39 The concept of the complicity of the subjugated in their own subjugation has been articulated in postcolonial theory, as a way of describing the complex relationship between coloniser and colonial subject. See Gandhi 1998, 9-17 for discussion of the colonial subject’s desire for and identification with the culture of the colonisers as part of the operation of colonial oppression. Foucault 1977 argues that the pervasiveness of power is manifested through the engagement and cooperation of its subjects. 40 For complicity and dissent as responses to display, see Foucault 1977, 58-65. In his discussion of responses to the spectacle of the torturer’s scaffold, he argues that the effectiveness of the display for the production of the king’s power relies upon

82

Chapter Six

takes control of his Median uncle Cyaxares’ army, effectively assuming leadership of the Medes, he has a conversation with Cyaxares in which he claims that the latter has been benefited by his actions. The conversation is framed as a debate on the interpretation of the visual. On Cyaxares’ arrival at Cyrus’ camp, Cyrus organises a parade of troops, displaying his power to him (ʹǩǢǝǞǢǣǦ̗ǫ ǭΊ DŽǮǚǧǕǪ͝ ǭ̑Ǧ ǝǶǦǚǥǢǦ, 5.5.5). Cyaxares interprets the display as a slight to him (5.5.6); Cyrus challenges his reaction, asking what harsh sight he has seen to respond so harshly (ǭǘ ǰǚǤǞǩ̕Ǧ ˦ǪΉǦ Ǩ˶ǭDz ǰǚǤǞǩΉǫ ǯǖǪǞǢǫ; 5.5.8). He proposes a visual examination of his actions: ǬǚǯǖǬǭǚǭǚ ǣǚǭǘǝDzǥǞǦ ǩǨͭǵǦ ʹǬǭǢ ǭ̕ ǩǚǪ’ ʹǥǨͼ ʩǝǘǣǠǥǚ (“Let us see most clearly what sort of unjust act I have committed,” 5.5.13).Cyrus presents the benefits which he claims Cyaxares has been given as a spectacle which ought to impress and persuade him. He implicitly claims that the visual quality of his actions makes their meaning transparent and therefore open only to the interpretation which he himself offers. By presenting his actions as visible, Cyrus tries to co-opt their meaning to his purpose: ǭǘ ˆǥͭǦ ǩǞǩǪǚǜǥǖǦǨǦ Ǩ˱ ǯǚǦǞǪǵǦ ʹǬǭǢǦ;...ǰǪǗǥǚǭǕ ǜǞ ǥ̑Ǧ ǭ̍ ǭΉǦ ǯǞǪǵǦǭDzǦ ǣǚ̓ ʩǜǵǦǭDzǦ ǭ̍ Ǭ̍ ǩǪǵǬǡǞǦ ǦͼǦ ˦Ǫ͑ǫ ǭǨ̗ǫ ǬǨ̗ǫ ǯǘǤǨǮǫ ǣǚ̓ ʽǰǨǦǭǚǫ ǣǚ̓ ʭǜǨǦǭǚǫ…ǭ̑Ǧ ǥ̏Ǧ Ǭ̑Ǧ ǰǷǪǚǦ ǚ˱ǧǚǦǨǥǖǦǠǦ ˦Ǫ͑ǫ, ǭ̑Ǧ ǝ̏ ǭΉǦ ǩǨǤǞǥǘDzǦ ǥǞǢǨǮǥǖǦǠǦ· What did we do that is not visible?…Now you see your friends possessing and leading away the valuables of those who previously used to carry and lead your valuables away…You see your country being enlarged, and that of your enemies being diminished (5.5.23f.).

However, Cyaxares challenges Cyrus’ interpretation. He sees the same things in a different way.41 The possibility of discrepancy in interpretations of the visual is flagged up, as Cyaxares requests of Cyrus: the spectator’s identification with the executioner as the legitimate upholder of the law, so that the crowd acquiesces and participates in the ritual of execution; however it also requires identification with the victim as a suffering body, in order to inspire fear and obedience. The subtleness of this balance of responses produces a danger that identification with the victim will move the spectator into resistance and civil disobedience. See also Bell 2004, 1-10 on collusion and dissent in the reactions of crowds at the fall of Ceauúescu. 41 See Cyaxares’ response: ʱǤǤ’, ̃ DŽͼǪǞ, ˾ǫ ǥ̏Ǧ ǭǚͼǭǚ ʬ Ǭ̗ ǩǞǩǨǘǠǣǚǫ ǣǚǣǕ ʹǬǭǢǦ Ǩ˱ǣ Ǩ˛ǝ’ ˪ǩDzǫ ǰǪ̑ ǤǖǜǞǢǦ· Ǟ˷ ǜǞ ǥǖǦǭǨǢ, ʽǯǠ, ˙ǬǡǢ ˪ǭǢ ǭǚͼǭǚ ǭʩǜǚǡ̍ ǭǨǢǚͼǭǕ ʹǬǭǢǦ Ǩ˜ǚ ˪Ǭ· ǩǤǞǘǨǦǚ ǯǚǘǦǞǭǚǢ, ǭǨǬǨǶǭ· ǥ͐ǤǤǨǦ ʹǥ̏ ǛǚǪǶǦǞǢ (“Well, Cyrus, I do not know how one could say that the things you have done are

Viewing, Power and Interpretation in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia

83

Ǟ˕ ǝǖ ǬǨǢ, ʽǯǠ, ǭǚͼǭǚ ǝǨǣΉ ʩǜǦDzǥǵǦDzǫ ʹǦǡǮǥǞͭǬǡǚǢ, ǥ̑ ʹǦ ʹǥǨ̓ ǚ˱ǭ̍ ʩǤǤ’ Ǟ˕ǫ Ǭ̏ ǭǪǖDZǚǫ ǩǕǦǭǚ ǣǚǭǚǡǖǚǬǚǢ Ǩ˜Ǖ ǬǨǢ ǯǚǘǦǞǭǚǢ. “If I seem to you,” he said, “to lack judgement in the way I take these things to heart, put yourself in my situation, and then look how these things appear to you” (5.5.28).

What is seen is a matter of one’s position. Cyaxares’ self-positioning as a ruler in his own right, with autonomous interests separate from those of Cyrus, allows him to see something other than the sight Cyrus wishes him to see. The argument is resolved as Cyrus orchestrates a display of Median loyalty to Cyaxares, ordering the Medes to follow Cyaxares (5.5.37) and to court him with gifts (5.5.39).42 He then leaves him to his dinner while he holds a meeting with the allies (5.5.41f.). Cyaxares has been both pacified and marginalised; Cyrus assumes full power over the Medes. However, crucially, Cyaxares, although eventually subjugated, is capable of challenging Cyrus’ interpretation; the possibility of resistance to Cyrus’ control of viewing is allowed.

Complicity, Dissent and the Reader The problem of interpretation in viewing has implications for the reader of the Cyropaedia, as an external viewer of Cyrus’ display. Can the reader observe Cyrus with detachment, or is his power over the viewer disturbingly invasive? Does his imperial success hold seductive appeal— especially, perhaps, for Athenian readers, with their own history of empire?43 The problems of complicity or resistance to visual display and bad. Be well assured, however, that they are good in such a way that the more numerous they appear, the more they oppress me,” 5.5.25). In this apparent paradox, Cyaxares expresses the complexity of the interpretation of actions within relationships of contested power. 42 The Medes are also an audience of Cyrus’ display: Cyrus orchestrates an appearance of happy resolution as a spectacle for his followers, ensuring that no rifts of loyalty occur and that they can continue to obey him as before, by asking Cyaxares publicly to kiss him and not to turn away from him as he did on their greeting (5.5.6). This gesture does not go unnoticed: ̆ǫ ǝ̏ Ǟ˛ǝǨǦ Ǩ˖ dž͟ǝǨǘ ǭǞ ǣǚ̓ Ǩ˖ NJǖǪǬǚǢ ǣǚ̓ Ǩ˖ ʭǤǤǨǢ (ǩ͐ǬǢ ǜ̍Ǫ ʽǥǞǤǞǦ ˪ ǭǢ ʹǣ ǭǨǶǭDzǦ ʽǬǨǢǭǨ), Ǟ˱ǡ̗ǫ ˊǬǡǠǬǕǦ ǭǞ ǣǚ̓ ʹǯǚǢǝǪǶǦǡǠǬǚǦ (“When the Medes, Persians, and the many others saw this (for the result was a matter of concern to them all), they took immediate pleasure and beamed with joy,” 5.5.37). 43 The question of how far the reader will identify with Cyrus also poses ethical problems for modern readers of the text in a post-colonial age.

84

Chapter Six

of the reader’s interpretation arise strikingly in the presentation of Cyrus’ imperial procession in Babylon (8.3.9-18), which we are told is put on in order to cement his rule:44 LJͼǦ ǝ̏ ˉǝǠ ǝǢǠǜǠǬǵǥǞǡǚ ˾ǫ ǭ̕ ǩǪΉǭǨǦ ʹǧǗǤǚǬǞ DŽͼǪǨǫ ʹǣ ǭΉǦ ǛǚǬǢǤǞǘDzǦ· ǣǚ̓ ǜ̍Ǫ ǚ˱ǭ͟ǫ ǭ͟ǫ ʹǧǞǤǕǬǞDzǫ ˆ ǬǞǥǦǵǭǠǫ ˆǥͭǦ ǝǨǣǞͭ ǥǘǚ ǭΉǦ ǭǞǰǦΉǦ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ ǭΉǦ ǥǞǥǠǰǚǦǠǥǖǦDzǦ ǭ̑Ǧ ʩǪǰ̑Ǧ ǥ̑ Ǟ˱ǣǚǭǚǯǪǵǦǠǭǨǦ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ. Now we will narrate how Cyrus for the first time marched in procession out of his palace, for it seems to us that the majesty of the procession itself was one of the arts contrived so that his rule should not be easy to hold in contempt (8.3.1).

We are shown Cyrus planning the procession with an advisor: …ǬǮǦǞǛǨǮǤǞǶǞǭǨ ǚ˱ǭΊ ǩΉǫ ʫǦ ǭǨͭǫ ǥ̏Ǧ Ǟ˵ǦǨǢǫ ǣǕǤǤǢǬǭǚ ˕ǝǞͭǦ ǩǨǢǨͭǭǨ ǭ̑Ǧ ʹǧǖǤǚǬǢǦ, ǭǨͭǫ ǝ̏ ǝǮǬǥǞǦǖǬǢ ǯǨǛǞǪǷǭǚǭǚ. …he deliberated with him about how he could make his procession most noble for those of goodwill to see, and most frightening for those who harboured ill will (8.3.5).

Cyrus envisages two groups of viewers who will interpret what they see in different ways;45 he attempts to produce a single display capable of having different effects on these different audiences. When the procession takes place, however, Xenophon allows the possibility of intellectual, if not actual, resistance to Cyrus’ display:46 ˕ǝǵǦǭǞǫ ǝ̏ ǩǕǦǭǞǫ ǩǪǨǬǞǣǶǦǠǬǚǦ, Ǟ˙ǭǞ ǣǚ̓ ʭǪǧǚǢ ǭǢǦ̏ǫ ǣǞǣǞǤǞǮǬǥǖǦǨǢ Ǟ˙ǭǞ ǣǚ̓ ʹǣǩǤǚǜǖǦǭǞǫ ǭ͠ ǩǚǪǚǬǣǞǮ͠ ǣǚ̓ ǭΊ ǝǵǧǚǢ ǥǖǜǚǦ ǭǞ ǣǚ̓ ǣǚǤ̕Ǧ ǯǚǦ͟ǦǚǢ ǭ̕Ǧ DŽͼǪǨǦ.

44 See Herodotus’ description of the procession of Phya mocked up as Athena, used to reinstate Peisistratus in Athens (Hdt. 1.60). 45 This passage occurs in the context of a discussion about how Cyrus devised strategies for ruling both his Persian subjects and the conquered Assyrians; although it is not stated, it is possible that the different reactions of the procession’s audience are expected to belong to these different constituencies. 46 See Beard 2007, 136 on the problem of controlling the gaze of the viewer of the Roman triumph.

Viewing, Power and Interpretation in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia

85

On seeing him all prostrated themselves, either because some had been ordered to initiate it, or because they were stunned by the display and by Cyrus’ seeming to appear tall and beautiful (8.3.14).

Cyrus’ display is presented as open to alternative interpretations; the viewer may be awed by the display, or may be able to view it with detachment. How will the reader respond? The description of Cyrus’ display emphasizes his use of illusion and artifice; he is said to wish to bewitch (ǣǚǭǚǜǨǠǭǞǶǞǢǦ, 8.1.40) his audience by taking on the deceptive Median robe, which conceals bodily defects and displays its wearers as especially beautiful and tall (ǚ˶ǭǠ ǜ̍Ǫ ǚ˱ǭΊ ǬǮǜǣǪǶǩǭǞǢǦ ʹǝǵǣǞǢ Ǟ˙ ǭǘǫ ǭǢ ʹǦ ǭΊ ǬǷǥǚǭǢ ʹǦǝǞ̏ǫ ʽǰǨǢ, ǣǚ̓ ǣǚǤǤǘǬǭǨǮǫ ǣǚ̓ ǥǞǜǘǬǭǨǮǫ ʹǩǢǝǞǢǣǦǶǦǚǢ ǭǨ̗ǫ ǯǨǪǨͼǦǭǚǫ, 8.1.40). In the procession itself Cyrus is driven by a tall charioteer who is nevertheless made to appear shorter than him (ǩǚǪDzǰǞͭǭǨ ǝ̏ ǚ˱ǭΊ ˆǦǘǨǰǨǫ ǥǖǜǚǫ ǥǖǦ, ǥǞǘDzǦ ǝ’ ʹǣǞǘǦǨǮ Ǟ˙ǭǞ ǣǚ̓ ǭΊ ˩ǦǭǢ Ǟ˙ǭǞ ǣǚ̓ ˦ǩDzǬǨͼǦ· ǥǞǘǟDzǦ ǝ’ ʹǯǕǦǠ ǩǨǤ̗ DŽͼǪǨǫ, 8.3.14). These passages have been discussed by commentators on the Cyropaedia in terms of the morality of Cyrus’ use of illusion and its implications for his presentation as a ruler.47 What I rather wish to stress is the problematic position in which these passages place the reader. Cyrus’ visual presentation is highly seductive. As a viewer of Cyrus’ visual artifice, will the reader too be bewitched, falling under the spell of Cyrus’ power? The reader’s response is problematized by the ethnographic framing of the display; the description of Cyrus’ self-presentation can be read as an explanation of exotic and alien practices. The narrative is interrupted, both in the passage on Cyrus’ adoption of the Median robe (8.1.40f.) and the passage on the procession (8.3.13f.), by comments in the authorial voice in the present tense explaining customs and articles of dress to the reader: the Median robe is useful in making the wearer appear taller, it is explained, because the costume includes shoes under which platforms can be inserted (ǣǚ̓ ǜ̍Ǫ ǭ̍ ˲ǩǨǝǗǥǚǭǚ ǭǨǢǚͼǭǚ ʽǰǨǮǬǢǦ ʹǦ Ǩ˜ǫ ǥǕǤǢǬǭǚ ǤǚǡǞͭǦ ʽǬǭǢ ǣǚ̓ ˲ǩǨǭǢǡǞǥǖǦǨǮǫ ǭǢ, ̂ǬǭǞ ǝǨǣǞͭǦ ǥǞǘǟǨǮǫ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ ˇ Ǟ˕Ǭǘ, 8.1.41); Cyrus’ purple and white tunic is a costume reserved for the king (ʭǤǤ· ǝ’ Ǩ˱ǣ ʽǧǞǬǭǢ ǥǞǬǵǤǞǮǣǨǦ ʽǰǞǢǦ, 8.3.13); Cyrus and his relatives have a special sign on their tiaras, which the king and his family still use (ǣǚ̓ ǦͼǦ ǭ̕ ǚ˱ǭ̕ ǭǨͼǭǨ ʽǰǨǮǬǢ, 8.3.13). These ethnographic and aetiological asides offer Cyrus and his followers for the enquiring scrutiny of their Greek

47

Tatum 1989, 196f.; Gera 1993, 291f.; Too 1998, 293; Azoulay 2004.

86

Chapter Six

audience;48 they also present an exposé of how the illusionistic effects are achieved, allowing the reader a privileged sight unavailable to internal audiences.49 Through the ethnographic self-consciousness of the description, the problem of interpretation becomes bound up with the reader’s awareness of reading as a Greek.

Interpretation in Cross-Cultural viewing The problem of the reader’s position as an ethnographic viewer is brought to the fore by moments where the cross-cultural context of sight is self-consciously addressed as a problem for its interpretation. This concern occurs in the first meeting of Cyrus and Gobryas the Assyrian, who will become Cyrus’ follower. When Cyrus and his army first approach Gobryas’ fortress, the latter invites them to inspect it: ǩǖǥDZǚǫ ǝ’ ˦ ƽDzǛǪǶǚǫ ǩǪ̕ǫ ǭ̕Ǧ DŽͼǪǨǦ ʹǣǖǤǞǮǬǞ ǩǞǪǢǞǤǕǬǚǦǭǚ ˕ǝǞͭǦ ̲ ˆ ǩǪǵǬǨǝǨǫ Ǟ˱ǩǞǭǞǬǭǕǭǠ, Ǟ˙ǬDz ǝ̏ ǩǖǥDZǚǢ ǩǪ̕ǫ ʺǚǮǭ̕Ǧ ǭΉǦ ǩǢǬǭΉǦ ǭǢǦǚǫ, Ǩ˚ǭǢǦǞǫ ǚ˱ǭΊ ǭ̍ ʽǦǝǨǦ ˕ǝǵǦǭǞǫ ʩǩǚǜǜǞǤǨͼǬǢǦ. Gobryas sent to Cyrus and bade him ride around and see where the approach was easiest and to send to him some of his trusted troops, so these could see what was inside and report back to Cyrus (5.2.3).

48

A similar ethnographic framing of spectacle occurs when Cyrus as a child meets his Median grandfather Astyages for the first time: ǣǚ̓ ˦ǪΉǦ ǝ̑ ǚ˱ǭ̕Ǧ ǣǞǣǨǬǥǠǥǖǦǨǦ ǣǚ̓ ˥ǯǡǚǤǥΉǦ ˲ǩǨǜǪǚǯ͠ ǣǚ̓ ǰǪǷǥǚǭǨǫ ʹǦǭǪǘDZǞǢ ǣǚ̓ ǣǵǥǚǢǫ ǩǪǨǬǡǖǭǨǢǫ, ʬ ǝ̑ ǦǵǥǢǥǚ ˋǦ ʹǦ džǗǝǨǢǫ· ǭǚͼǭǚ ǜ̍Ǫ ǩǕǦǭǚ džǠǝǢǣǕ ʹǬǭǢ, ǣǚ̓ Ǩ˖ ǩǨǪǯǮǪǨͭ ǰǢǭΉǦǞǫ ǣǚ̓ Ǩ˖ ǣǕǦǝǮǞǫ ǣǚ̓ Ǩ˖ ǬǭǪǞǩǭǨ̓ Ǩ˖ ǩǞǪ̓ ǭ͠ ǝǖǪ͝ ǣǚ̓ ǭ̍ DZǖǤǢǚ ǭ̍ ǩǞǪ̓ ǭǚͭǫ ǰǞǪǬǘǦ, ʹǦ NJǖǪǬǚǢǫ ǝ̏ ǭǨͭǫ Ǩ˙ǣǨǢ ǣǚ̓ ǦͼǦ ʽǭǢ ǩǨǤ̗ ǣǚ̓ ʹǬǡ͟ǭǞǫ ǯǚǮǤǵǭǞǪǚǢ ǣǚ̓ ǝǘǚǢǭǚǢ Ǟ˱ǭǞǤǖǬǭǞǪǚǢ· ˦ǪΉǦ ǝ̑ ǭ̕Ǧ ǣǵǬǥǨǦ ǭǨͼ ǩǕǩǩǨǮ, ʹǥǛǤǖǩDzǦ ǚ˱ǭΊ ʽǤǞǜǞǦ· ̋ ǥ͟ǭǞǪ, ˾ǫ ǣǚǤǵǫ ǥǨǢ ˦ ǩǕǩǩǨǫ (“He saw him adorned with eye shadow, rouge, and a wig—as was, of course, the custom among the Medes (for all these things are Median: purple coats, cloaks, necklaces, and bracelets on their wrists; but among the Persians who are at home, their clothes are even now much more ordinary and their diet much cheaper). So seeing the adornment of his grandfather, he said while looking at him, ‘Mother, how beautiful my grandfather is!’” 1.3.2). An ethnographic explanation in the authorial voice interrupts the description of Cyrus’ gaze; although the eye of the reader is to some extent invited to replicate Cyrus’ visual experience, the self-conscious ethnographic framing of the reader’s gaze problematizes the reader’s response. 49 I am grateful to Helen Lovatt for this point. Awe-struck gawping and analytical inspection are presented as contrasting responses to sight in later Greek literature: see Goldhill 2001, 160-7 on Lucian’s De domo.

Viewing, Power and Interpretation in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia

87

Cyrus examines the fortress and sees that it is impregnable. Next Gobryas displays his wealth: ʹǩǞǢǝ̑ ǝ̏ ʽǦǝǨǦ ˋǬǚǦ, ʹǣǯǖǪDzǦ ˦ ƽDzǛǪǶǚǫ ǯǢǕǤǚǫ ǰǪǮǬ͐ǫ ǣǚ̓ ǩǪǵǰǨǮǫ ǣǚ̓ ǣǕǤǩǢǝǚǫ ǣǚ̓ ǣǵǬǥǨǦ ǩǚǦǭǨͭǨǦ ǣǚ̓ ǝǚǪǞǢǣǨ̗ǫ ʩǥǖǭǪǨǮǫ ǭǢǦ̍ǫ ǣǚ̓ ǩǕǦǭǚ ǣǚǤ̍ ǩǨǤǤǕ, ǭǖǤǨǫ ǭ̑Ǧ ǡǮǜǚǭǖǪǚ, ǝǞǢǦǵǦ ǭǢ ǣǕǤǤǨǫ ǣǚ̓ ǥǖǜǞǡǨǫ… When they were inside, Gobryas brought out golden cups, pitchers, vases, every sort of adornment, Darics without measure, and many other things, which were all beautiful. Finally he brought out his daughter, a marvel in beauty and stature… (5.2.7).50

Gobryas attempts to impress Cyrus with his strength and wealth by a visual display. His aim is to get Cyrus to join him as his ally and help him take vengeance on the Assyrian king for the death of his son. Cyrus’ response is to refuse the proffered gifts, but to claim that he is grateful for one gift that Gobryas is offering him (5.2.8). He explains: …ǩǞǩǨǘǠǣǕǫ ǥǞ ǝ͟ǤǨǦ ǜǞǦǖǬǡǚǢ ǩ͐ǬǢǦ ʩǦǡǪǷǩǨǢǫ ˪ǭǢ Ǩ˵ǭ’ ʫǦ ʩǬǞǛǞͭǦ ǩǞǪ̓ ǧǖǦǨǮǫ ǡǖǤǨǢǥǢ Ǩ˵ǭ’ ʫǦ ʩǝǢǣǞͭǦ ǰǪǠǥǕǭDzǦ ʾǦǞǣǚ Ǩ˵ǭǞ ǬǮǦǡǗǣǚǫ ʫǦ DZǞǮǝǨǘǥǠǦ ʺǣ̙Ǧ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ. You have made it clear to all human beings that I would not be willingly impious where hospitality is required, unjust for the sake of valuables, or voluntarily false in agreements (5.2.10).

Cyrus claims that the greatest gift Gobryas has bestowed is to allow him the opportunity openly to refuse his gifts and therefore display his virtue. He takes control of the means of display, changing the meaning of the display of wealth to his own advantage by offering a new interpretation of it. The shift in control over display is shown as Cyrus insists that his men are not impressed by Gobryas’ display but by his own:

50

See also: …ǭǨ̗ǫ ʽǦǝǨǡǞǦ ǩǕǦǭǚǫ ʹǧ͟ǜǞ ǯǖǪǨǦǭǚǫ Ǩ˛ǦǨǦ, ʭǤǯǢǭǚ, ʭǤǞǮǪǚ, ʭǤǤǨǮǫ ǝ’ ʹǤǚǶǦǨǦǭǚǫ ǛǨͼǫ, ǚ˛ǜǚǫ, Ǩ˛ǫ, Ǭͼǫ, ǣǚ̓ Ǟ˙ ǭǢ ǛǪDzǭǵǦ, ǩǕǦǭǚ ˖ǣǚǦ̍ ǩǪǨǬ͟ǜǨǦ ˾ǫ ǝǞǢǩǦ͟ǬǚǢ ǩ͐ǬǚǦ ǭ̑Ǧ Ǭ̗Ǧ DŽǶǪ· ǬǭǪǚǭǢǕǦ (“…[Gobryas] led out all those who were inside. Some carried out wine, barley meal, and flour, while others drove out cattle, goats, sheep, pigs, and if there was anything else to eat, they brought it all in a quantity sufficient to feed the whole of Cyrus’ army,” 5.2.5).

88

Chapter Six Ǭ̗ ǥǖǦǭǨǢ Ǟ˷ ˙ǬǡǢ ˪ǭǢ Ǟ˕Ǭǘ ǭǢǦǞǫ ǚ˱ǭΉǦ Ǩ˘ ̄Ǧ ǥ̏Ǧ Ǭ̗ ǝǘǝDzǫ ǰǪǠǥǕǭDzǦ Ǩ˱ǝ̏ ǥǢǣǪ̕Ǧ ǭǨǶǭDzǦ ʾǦǞǣǕ ǬǞ ǥ͐ǤǤǨǦ ǡǚǮǥǕǟǨǮǬǢǦ· ʹǥ̏ ǝ̏ ǟǠǤǨͼǬǢ ǦǮǦ̓ ǣǚ̓ Ǟ˵ǰǨǦǭǚǢ ǩ͐ǬǢ ǡǞǨͭǫ ǜǞǦǖǬǡǚǢ ǩǨǭ̏ ʹǩǢǝǞǘǧǚǬǡǚǢ ˾ǫ ǩǢǬǭǨ̓ ǥǖǦ Ǟ˕ǬǢǦ Ǩ˱ǝ̏Ǧ ˌǭǭǨǦ ʹǥǨͼ ǭǨͭǫ ǯǘǤǨǢǫ… Be assured, however, that there are some of my friends here who do not regard you with any more wonder because you are giving away these valuables. Rather, they are now jealous of me and pray to all the gods that it may sometime happen for them to show that they are not less faithful to their friends than I am… (5.2.12).

Cyrus claims to know the reaction of their joint audience; he circumscribes their response with his own interpretation. Crucially, Xenophon does not relate the actual response of this internal audience; we are not told whether Cyrus’ men really are thinking what he claims them to be. Gobryas’ reaction is slightly ambiguous. He asks about this audience: ǣǚ̓ ˦ ƽDzǛǪǶǚǫ Ǟ˛ǩǞ ǜǞǤǕǬǚǫ· NJǪ̕ǫ ǭΉǦ ǡǞΉǦ, ʽǯǠ, ̃ DŽͼǪǞ, ǝǞͭǧǨǦ ǝǗ ǥǨǢ ǩǨͼ Ǩ˸ǭǨǘ Ǟ˕ǬǢǦ, ˚Ǧǚ ǬǞ ǭǨǶǭDzǦ ǭǢǦ̍ ǚ˕ǭǗǬDzǥǚǢ ǩǚͭǝǕ ǥǨǢ ǜǞǦǖǬǡǚǢ. Gobryas laughed and said, “By the gods, Cyrus, show me where they are, so that I may ask one of them to become my son” (5.2.13).

His laugh hints that he is unconvinced by Cyrus’ claims. After this conversation, Gobryas invites Cyrus to dinner. Cyrus refuses, insisting that Gobryas should rather be his guest. Gobryas’ reaction to the Persian meal is described visually: ǭ̕ ǥ̏Ǧ ǝ̑ ǩǪΉǭǨǦ ǬǮǦǝǞǢǩǦΉǦ ǚ˱ǭǨͭǫ ˦ ƽDzǛǪǶǚǫ ǣǚ̓ ˦ǪΉǦ ǭ̑Ǧ ǯǚǮǤǵǭǠǭǚ ǭΉǦ ǩǚǪǚǭǢǡǞǥǖǦDzǦ ǛǪDzǥǕǭDzǦ ǩǨǤ̗ Ǭǯ͐ǫ ʹǦǵǥǢǟǞǦ ʹǤǞǮǡǞǪǢDzǭǖǪǨǮǫ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ ǚ˱ǭΉǦ· ʹǩǞ̓ ǝ̏ ǣǚǭǞǦǵǠǬǞ ǭ̑Ǧ ǥǞǭǪǢǵǭǠǭǚ ǭΉǦ ǬǮǬǬǘǭDzǦ· ʹǩ’ Ǩ˱ǝǞǦ̓ ǜ̍Ǫ ǛǪǷǥǚǭǢ Ǩ˱ǝ̏ ǩǷǥǚǭǢ NJǖǪǬǠǫ ʩǦ̑Ǫ ǭΉǦ ǩǞǩǚǢǝǞǮǥǖǦDzǦ Ǩ˵ǭ’ ʫǦ ˩ǥǥǚǬǢǦ ʹǣǩǞǩǤǠǜǥǖǦǨǫ ǣǚǭǚǯǚǦ̑ǫ ǜǖǦǨǢǭǨ… Now dining with them for the first time and seeing the coarseness of the food that was set beside them, Gobryas believed his people to be much freer than they. But then he noted the restraint of his tablemates, for none of the educated Persian men became visibly distracted in their eyes by food or drink… (5.2.16f.).

We are presented with a metaethnographic observation of a foreign people’s customs; Gobryas surveys the Persians at their meal with surprise, and initially with disdain. However, the tables are soon turned;

Viewing, Power and Interpretation in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia

89

the meal becomes a display put on by the Persians to impress Gobryas, as we are told that they are visibly (ǣǚǭǚǯǚǦǗǫ) self-controlled.51 By the end of the meal Gobryas is contrite, admitting that “…we are worth less than you” (…ǚ˱ǭǨ̓ ǝ̏ ʹǤǕǭǭǨǦǨǫ ˲ǥΉǦ ʭǧǢǨǘ ʹǬǥǞǦ, 5.2.20). Cyrus responds by ordering him to lay out his troops for inspection: ˦ ǝ̏ DŽͼǪǨǫ, ʵǜ’, ʽǯǠ, ̃ ƽDzǛǪǶǚ, ˪ǩDzǫ ǩǪΆ ǩǚǪǖǬ͝ ʽǰDzǦ ǭǨ̗ǫ ˖ǩǩǖǚǫ ʹǧDzǩǤǢǬǥǖǦǨǮǫ, ˚Ǧǚ ǣǚ̓ ǭ̑Ǧ ǝǶǦǚǥǘǦ ǬǨǮ ˙ǝDzǥǞǦ… Cyrus replied, “Make sure that you are here at dawn with your cavalry in their armour so we may see your force…” (5.2.21).

Gobryas has been successfully subjugated. His display of wealth is transformed into Cyrus’ moral display, and his attempt to make himself a critical observer of Persian customs reduces him to a stunned spectator of a spectacle of Persian self-control. At the end of the scene, what belongs to him is once again put on display, but with a very different meaning; now it is on the orders of Cyrus, and the troops on display are about to become Cyrus’ troops. This passage raises important questions for the relationship of the reader to the text. As elsewhere, Cyrus’ acquisition of power is shown through his control not only of scenarios of viewing, as he puts on a display, but also of the way that viewing fosters interpretation. Importantly, it is not always clear how easily Cyrus is able to exert this control; Gobryas is finally subdued to his will, but the possibility of his initial resistance is mooted, and the internal audience of friends whom Cyrus invokes is never given a voice. The reader’s response to Cyrus’ display, focalised through the eyes of these internal audiences, is therefore left open. The question of whether the viewer accepts or rejects Cyrus’ interpretation of viewing, and therefore his rule, is played out within a self-consciously cross-cultural framework. Xenophon’s staging of the viewing of Gobryas’ wealth and of Cyrus’ refusal of wealth is informed by his presentation of Gobryas as Assyrian and Cyrus as Persian; anecdotes of spectacular wealth are a cliché of Greek writing on Asia,52 whereas material poverty has been exhibited throughout the Cyropaedia as a

51

We are also told that the Persians think it necessary to appear to be moderate (Ǩ˙ǨǦǭǚǢ ǝǞͭǦ ǯǪǵǦǢǥǨǢ ǣǚ̓ ǥǖǭǪǢǨǢ ǯǚǘǦǞǬǡǚǢ, 5.2.17). 52 We can compare Herodotus’ description of Solon’s viewing of the palace of Croesus (Hdt. 1.30).

90

Chapter Six

hallmark of Persian self-presentation.53 Similarly, Gobryas’ disdain at the meagre Persian meal, and his awe at Persian self-control, are presented as contingent on his position as Assyrian.54 The ethnographic context of viewing in this scene impacts on the reader. The transformation of Gobryas’ distanced, patronising, scrutiny of the Persian meal into his awe-struck subjection to spectacle raises a question about the reader’s own position as a viewer of Persian customs. How will the Greek reader see Cyrus and the Persians? Will he or she see through Gobryas’ eyes, and experience the same response, or does Gobryas’ own position as object of ethnographic observation alienate the reader from his way of seeing? The self-conscious staging of the ethnographic conditioning of sight invites the reader to consider how far his or her own interpretation is controlled by, or constructs, a Greek way of seeing.

Conclusion In this discussion, I have considered how the representation of viewing impacts on a reading of the Cyropaedia as ethnography. The power of Cyrus as imperial conqueror is constructed through his control over his viewers, in the production of spectacle. This has implications for the 53

See especially 1.2.2-16: the presentation of Persian society; and 2.4.1-6: the meeting with the Indian ambassadors, where Cyrus presents a display of Persian austerity to compete with Cyaxares’ display of Median pomp. 54 A similar self-conscious presentation of the cultural conditioning of sight occurs when Cyrus as a child attends the feast of his Median grandfather Astyages. He is disdainful of the unfamiliar dishes, and claims he can see that Astyages is disgusted by them too: …ǬǞ…˦ǪΉ, ˪ǭǚǦ ǥ̏Ǧ ǭǨͼ ʭǪǭǨǮ ʮDZ͝, Ǟ˕ǫ Ǩ˱ǝ̏Ǧ ǭ̑Ǧ ǰǞͭǪǚ ʩǩǨDZǷǥǞǦǨǦ, ˪ǭǚǦ ǝ̏ ǭǨǶǭDzǦ ǭǢǦ̕ǫ ǡǘǜ͝ǫ, Ǟ˱ǡ̗ǫ ʩǩǨǣǚǡǚǘǪǞǢ ǭ̑Ǧ ǰǞͭǪǚ Ǟ˕ǫ ǭ̍ ǰǞǢǪǵǥǚǣǭǪǚ, ˾ǫ ǩǕǦǮ ʩǰǡǵǥǞǦǨǫ ˪ǭǢ ǩǤǖǚ ǬǨǢ ʩǩ’ ǚ˱ǭΉǦ ʹǜǖǦǞǭǨ (“…I see that whenever you touch your bread, you do not wipe your hand on anything; but whenever you touch any of these, you wipe your hand on your napkin as if you were most distressed that it became soiled with them,” 1.3.5). Although Astyages assures him that Medes like the dishes, Cyrus “sees” (˦ǪΉ) that this is not true; he interprets what he sees to fit in with his culturally conditioned preconceptions about the correct way to hold a dinner and to eat. The humour is based not only on the misunderstandings of children, but on that topos of travel writing, misunderstanding of unfamiliar sights. This misunderstanding is predicated upon cultural position; playing on the austerity of the Persians, the passage suggests that those from different cultural positions see the same thing in different ways. Compare also Cyrus’ comments on Median drunkenness (1.3.10): he refuses to taste wine after “seeing” that it is a poison inducing odd behaviour.

Viewing, Power and Interpretation in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia

91

reader; the representation of Cyrus and the Persians as imperialists disrupts the secure, distanced position of the ethnographic viewer gazing on exotic sights, problematizing the reader’s relationship with the text. Relationships of power are produced in a complex and nuanced engagement between viewer and viewed. The visual field is presented as the site of argument and political struggle; it is hermeneutically flexible, and open to be contested. The power available in spectacle is not monolithic, but is presented as contingent on the complicity of the viewer. I have indicated some of the ways in which Cyrus uses the control of interpretations of viewing in the acquisition of imperial power. The imperial procession in Babylon is engineered so as to produce the required reaction in different constituencies of viewers. Enemy armies are outmanoeuvred through the control of their interpretation of visual signs, and foreign rulers, like Cyaxares and Gobryas, are won over as obedient followers through Cyrus’ mastery over the way they see him. If acceptance of Cyrus’ attempt to control viewing means acceptance of his domination, how secure is the reader against his or her own subjugation by Persian imperialism? However, I have also shown how the possibility of resistance is inscribed into the text. We are shown how the same sight can be seen in different ways, offering possible models of recalcitrant, oppositional viewing. Xenophon does not intervene in the narrative, telling the reader how to respond. The reader’s relationship to Cyrus and to the text will depend on his or her interpretation, which is left open. The highly self-conscious representation of cross-cultural viewing in the text reflects on this relationship. Responses to sights are sometimes presented as culturally conditioned. In witnessing foreign spectacle and the responses of internal audiences to it, the reader is reminded of his or her own position as a Greek as the foreignness of those responses is flagged. The problem of the viewer’s interpretation is made urgent by its formulation as the site of political struggle, producing either resistance or domination. I suggest that the reader is implicated in this problem. The interpretation of the reader—how far the reader acquiesces to Cyrus’ control of visual experience and how far he or she resists such control—is involved in a double bind of political positioning. The reader’s interpretation inscribes relationships of power between him- or herself and Cyrus’ imperialism, and it also is both predicated on and informs the reader’s own self-positioning as Greek.

CHAPTER SEVEN AENEAS TACTICUS BETWEEN HISTORY AND SOPHISTRY: THE EMERGENCE OF THE MILITARY HANDBOOK BOGDAN BURLIGA

Among many interesting short stories in Herodotus, there are two devoted to plausible trickeries. When describing how Aristagoras, the governor of Miletus, attempted to raise the famous rebellion against the Persian satrap Artaphrenes (499 BC), the historian tells us that Histaeus (the tyrant of Miletus, but actually residing at Susa at the time) communicated secretly with Aristagoras, his son-in-law. The story runs as follows (5.35.3): …something else occurred to confirm his [Aristagoras’] purpose: this was the arrival from Susa of a slave, sent by Histaeus, the man with the tattooed scalp, urging him to do precisely what he was thinking of, namely, to revolt. Histaeus had been wanting to make Aristagoras take this step, but was in difficulty about how to get a message safely through to him, as the roads from Susa were watched; so he shaved the head of his most trustworthy slave, pricked the message on his scalp, and waited for hair to grown again. Then, as soon as it had grown, he sent the man to Miletus with instruction to do nothing when he arrived except to tell Aristagoras to shave his hair off and look at his head. The message found there was, as I have said, an order to revolt (trans. by A. de Selincourt).

In the second tale which concerns an episode during Artabazus’ siege of Potidaea in 479 BC (Hdt. 8.128), we are told that:

The Emergence of the Military Handbook

93

While he was vigorously pressing the siege, Timoxenus, commander of the troops from Scione, agreed with him to betray the town…Whenever Timoxenus and Artabazus wished to communicate with one another, they wrote the message on a strip of paper, which they rolled round the grooved end of an arrow; the feathers were then put on over the paper and the arrow was shot to some predetermined place. Timoxenus’ treachery was finally discovered when Artabazus, on one occasion, missed his aim, and the arrow, instead of falling in the spot agreed upon, struck a Potidean in the shoulder. As usually happens in war, a crowd collected round the wounded man; the arrow was pulled out, the paper discovered and taken to the commanding officers…The letter was read…

What do these tales have in common? Albeit both narratives are typical examples of Herodotean ekbolai tou logou (excurses),1 they form the very characteristic, peculiar feature of “the father’s of history” narrative: while presenting his interest in plausible solutions, they do not so much explain the motives of the actors, and even less present the causes; rather, they reveal one aspect of his historiƝ—the cunning ways in which an action itself was conducted. Their dramatic, almost sensational dimension within Herodotus’ work is certainly of important significance. And it is hardly surprising, then, that one finds them in the antiquarian collections of the Roman period.2 The first time they were repeated, however, although this was not as a verbatim quotation, of course,3 was, however, about 80 years later than Herodotus,4 in a small work which was believed in antiquity (and still is) to be the first military treatise on the art of war: How to Survive under Siege (or On Defence of Occupied Places, according to oldest MSS ‘title’5) by Aeneas the (so called) ‘Tacticus.’ This was a book belonging to a larger project aimed at summarizing the variety of military experiences by collecting them into what was later labelled by Polybius “the books on warfare” (ta strategika), a series of technical works which embraced the military experience of that time.6 “The treatise…then, was written by a fourth-century soldier who had to work [my italics] for the most part with fifth century material, but 1

Cf. Lang 1984, 41; also Gray 2002, 292. The first story was recounted also by Gellius 17.9.16 and Polyaenus 1.24 (who adds the content of the message). See also Justinus 2.10.13. 3 Behrendt 1910, 12. 4 This is of course only a rough number, even if we accept Fornara’s view (1971a) that Herodotus still composed during the Archidamian war (down to 424 BC), see Sansone 1985. 5 On the vexed problem of the title of Aeneas’ treatise, see Whitehead 1990, 15. 6 See Xen. Cyr. 1.6.43. 2

94

Chapter Seven

without fifth century ideals”—so announces the modern, authoritative judgement.7 Yet, even if today it is hardly possible to believe without reservation in those “fifth-century ideals,” one thing nevertheless remains true in this statement: by including famous stories Aeneas really did rely, partly at least, on the earlier, ‘classical’ literary patterns,8 and it is in this sense that one can legitimately call him an intellectual ‘offspring’ of great historiography, and of Herodotus especially (see below). But one may ask, however, why—as those editors said—had he to work with the stories that were already known and, to some extent, were held as loci classici? What influence did it have on the structure of the treatise and how did the literary examples work in it? * It is often thought that Aeneas’ treatise was meant to be the result of sophistic ideas of teaching—a typical example of turning military experience into text. So, as it was put in a standard handbook on Greek literature: “Jedenfalls steht der Verfasser mit dieser Schrift und seiner ganzen Denk- und Lehrart in den Bahnen der Sophistik” (Christ, Schmid and Stählin 1912, 525).9 Yet, we know nothing for certain about what a treatise on war should consist of, and we know nothing of earlier military literature. There are a few fragments of Simon the Athenian’s treatise on the art of horsemanship (mentioned by Aristophanes, Equit. 242, and Xenophon, De re. eq. 1.1; 1.3; 11.6). Nothing is known for sure about the content of the books by Democritus and Daemachus, either. Worse, there is even fundamental controversy over the identification of these writers. Democritus of Abdera was said to have compiled handbooks on tactics and hoplomachy, if one may rely on Diogenes Laertius, 7.48 (= FVS6 68, B28) but doubts exist if this name should not refer to another writer from the Hellenistic period. We have also the title of Daemachus’ of Plataea treatise: NJǨǤǢǨǪǣǠǭǢǣǕ (FGrHist 65 F 3f.) but this was not a work of the fourth century writer, but of the homonymous author who lived in the next century. Nevertheless, several themes do appear in Xenophon’s early 7

Hunter and Handford 1927, XXXII. On his knowledge of Thucydides, see Hornblower 1995, although he does not gather all the examples of Aeneas’ use of the great Athenian historian. 9 See also Schwartz 1894, 1020f., who says of Aeneas’ work that “sie wäre…ohne den sophistischen Rationalismus, der die Theorie, den ǤǵǜǨǫ, auf alles übertragen wollte, nicht möglich gewesen”; such a view was already expressed by Köchly and Rüstow 1853, 3. For instance, in the Preface there is evidence for his knowledge of contemporary oratory, the rules of antilogy, epideictic and ornamental language. 8

The Emergence of the Military Handbook

95

philosophical writings on Socrates,10 as well as in Plato’s Laches.11 All of them give us a vague idea of what themes were “in the air” but none informs us of what constituted a military handbook or about its structure. Indeed, it was Aeneas’ encyclopaedia, together with Xenophon’s later work on the duties of the cavalry commander,12 which were the truly pioneering undertakings in this field.13 It is interesting to observe that their works were referred to in a similar way. In The Art of Horsemanship (12.14) Xenophon names his treatise ˲ǩǨǥǦǗǥǚǭǚ ǣǚ̓ ǥǚǡǗǥǚǭǚ ǣǚ̓ ǥǞǤǞǭǗǥǚǭǚ (“notes, instructions and exercises,” trans. by E.C. Marchant, Loeb), as he does in The Cavalry Commander (1.9; 3.1). According to Polybius (10.44.1), Aeneas’ work was also ǭ̍ ǩǞǪ̓ ǭΉǦ ǬǭǪǚǭǠǜǢǣΉǦ ˲ǩǨǥǦǗǥǚǭǚ.14 This does not indicate a formal title but roughly describes a special kind of instructional, didactic essay, indeed a new literary genre (see e.g. Goldhill 2002, 7). It was also obvious for the later military writer Aelian, living in the second century AD, who simply refers to Aeneas’ strategika biblia (Tact. 3.4). Together with the Xenophontic writings Aeneas’ treatises were, then, certainly meant to be read, as V.D. Hanson put it recently, as “pragmatic guides” (Hanson 2007, 3). I leave aside, however, the eternal dilemma, namely to what extent (if at all) they served a useful purpose in real military circumstances. Rather, I am concerned with the problem of how 10

Mem. 3.1.3; 3.2.4; 3.3.9; 3.4f.; 3.6.18; 4.1.2; 4.7.1. The special case is The Education of Cyrus, dated approximately to 360 BC, of which Jähns 1899, 22 has said that it may be described as “das älteste Dokument methodischer Kriegspädagogik”; in the same vein Pease 1934, 439 (“the first general military treatise ever written”); cf. Gáombiowski 1993, 228. 11 183a-c; also Euth. 273c; cf. Leg. 804c-d. 12 The complicated problem of the chronology of these two Xenophontic writings is beyond the scope of this chapter. Most editors (e.g. Marchant in the Loeb edition, p. XXXII) assume these dates as certain. However, Delebecque (1957, 242-5) maintains that The Art of Horsemanship was written in the eighties of the 4th century BC, when the author was living in Scillous, while The Cavalry Commander is a much later work, written in the context of the Athenian-Spartan alliance against Thebes, that is ca. 357/56 (ibid. 425-7). Be that as it may, in both cases it seems extremely probable that Aeneas (whose handbook dates to approximately 360-346 BC) must have known the former Xenophontic essay at least, not to mention the discussion about the cavalry commander’s duties in the Memorabilia. 13 See n. 10 on the importance of the Cyropaedia. 14 On this passage, see Walbank 1967, 259. This ‘title’ occurs also in the MS Parisinus Graecus C 2443 (which was at the disposal of Aeneas’ first editor, Casaubon), a copy of the famous Byzantine codex Mediceus-Laurentianus LV.4.

96

Chapter Seven

the author arrived at the concept of, let us say, their “usefulness-effect.” In order to decide on the structure of a scientific work the author had to face the question of how to arrange the data, how to make the text accessible and understandable to readers, in short—how does rhetorical persuasion help to make the text authoritative?15 Handbooks mean teaching, yet the process of teaching is not always a fascinating enterprise, to the addressees at least. This must have also been the case with a set of written instructions. Accordingly, it seems obvious that this literary problem of how to present and demonstrate convincingly the theme of “rules and ways” in defending a country/town against a hostile army, was a serious concern for Aeneas. Every reader of Aeneas’ book soon realizes the characteristic and favourite feature of expression—the construction ǰǪǗ/ǝǞͭ16 with the infinitive, plenty of “should- and must-clauses.” To this one may add, finally, the instances of the use of infinitive only (as happens especially in ch. 10). Those were the simplest and, one might say, the most natural ways of presenting advice, and this was the device used by Xenophon, whom, I believe, Aeneas followed. The second way was a direct statement to an imagined person, ‘you’ (a would-be general, or commander, a reader?), imitating a dialogue and didactic throughout.17 Also in this aspect Aeneas’ style reveals a correspondence to the style Xenophon adopted in his Cavalry Commander (Eq. mag. 1.2; 1.9; 1.20).18 Both writers often choose to write in the first person, with ‘I’ revealing the main narrator’s (an instructor/teacher/master of knowledge) presence in the text.19 Despite these stylistic variations all such recommendations and repetitions soon make the lecture inevitably tiresome. These common formal features as well as the same themes (e.g. the high level of attention paid by Aeneas to the usefulness of cavalry troops to the polis, 15.5; 16.7), led Professor Whitehead20 even to suppose that the two men might have

15

On this process see Lloyd 1987, 102; recently Wilson Nightingale (2000, 158) rightly points out the efforts of the early prose-writers to set out their competence by text; cf. Campbell 2004, 17. On the embedded rhetoric, see Pelling 2000, 1. 16 Employed also in medical texts from the Corpus Hippocraticum (Salubr. 6 Littré). 17 E.g. Aen. 9.1; 14.1; 16.7; 16.12; 16.19; 16.20f.; 17.1; 17.19. 18 On the general’s style, see Thesleff 1966, 89. 19 Especially Aen. 28.7 to be compared with Xenophon’s more frequent use of the first person: De re eq. 1.1; 1.2; 1.17 etc.; Eq. mag. 1.8; 1.10f.; 3.1; 3.2; 3.5; 7.5; 7.8; 9.3. 20 Whitehead 1990, 36 (following Anderson 1970, 139).

The Emergence of the Military Handbook

97

known each other. If so, borrowings in Aeneas would be even more natural.21 Familiarity with the Xenophontic Cavalry Commander is, then, significant, but there is one important difference: the paradigm stories illustrating the dry, non-emotional instructions. At first glance this is astounding, given that there is a complete lack of them in Xenophon. Yet, as this influential Athenian soldier and writer himself confesses, he compiled the short didactic writings mainly for private purposes (De re eq. 2.5; 12.14: ǣǚ̓ ǭǚͼǭǚ ǥ̏Ǧ ǝ̑ ˕ǝǢǷǭ͝).22 To be sure, Aeneas himself does not explain to his readers whom he expected his readership to be, but his target audience was certainly wider than that of Xenophon.23 He was a professional officer, a type of ancient ‘Hawkwood’ probably, who during his mercenary service had acquired a knowledge of many places and cities in Greece—from the Peloponnese to the cities on the Black Sea. The strategika biblia were, then, to be “everyone’s guide to paradigm-polis” (the writer carefully avoids any allusion to historical community), henceforth the mercenary’s decision to insert examples, after all probably a practice he had also employed with success in other writings.24 But this was in many ways a much more interesting decision than it might at first seem, for, as far as it is possible to state, his practice was never repeated in such a form in any other military literature known to us.25 True, almost nothing has been preserved from the rich literary military product which

21

In Eq. mag. 8.10f. Xenophon enters into polemics with “some men” (eisi gar tines), as does Aeneas at 2.7 and 26.12. 22 Dakyns (1897, 69) interprets this addressee in the same vein (“a private individual”) while in the Penguin translation by R. Waterfield the word is rendered as “a non-professional.” 23 I fully agree with Professor Whitehead (1990, 40), who refers to “the quite deliberate universality of Aineias’ approach.” This does not contradict the fact that the book was written in such a form as to be addressed to one adept in the art of war. I think this was written in the tradition established by the pattern found first in Xenophon’s Memorabilia, and further strengthened in the Cyropaedia. 24 As the title of one of them, at least, indicates: Instructions (literally: Things Heard, ʱǣǨǶǬǥǚǭǚ, Aen. 38.5), see Hunter and Handford 1927, 233; Whitehead 1990, 202. Cf. Mahlstedt 1910, 30. Why with success? Because his book was read in antiquity, as Polybius proves (10.44.1), and we know from Aelian (Tact. 1.1) that Cineas the Thessalian made an excerpt from Aeneas’ work (the practice of epitomizing was very popular in ancient literature). 25 There exist, however, some parallels with the treatise Economy ascribed to Aristotle (especially as far as the structure of book 2 is concerned).

98

Chapter Seven

flourished in the Hellenistic period,26 but, interestingly, from what has remained one can infer that in the history of the military genre the enigmatic Aeneas seems to have had no followers. Had the books of the authors mentioned by Aelian (Tact. 1.1) and Arrian (Tact.1.1) survived, one might have the opportunity to make some comparison. Instead, the earliest preserved tactical Handbücher of Asclepiodotus, Aelian and Arrian contain no examples of anecdotal material. Even stranger, it would seem, is the lack of such narrative elements in the case of the flourishing Byzantine military writings. With another military literary ‘sub-genre,’ namely the collections of military ruses or stratagems (ǬǭǪǚǭǠǜǗǥǚǭǚ), of which the collections of Frontinus and Polyaenus achieved great popularity, the situation is different. Yet, their apparent antiquarianism confronts us with a serious difficulty, for in spite of their resemblance to Aeneas’ work, the time in which these works were written as well as their context do not permit us to make any sensible comparison with the work of Aeneas.27 In fact the decision to include anecdotal material seems to be his own, and it sheds some interesting light on the reception of great narratives in the fourth-century BC ‘secondary’ literature, the new kind of non-narrative prose. * In the extant work there are 42 anecdotes (some of them mentioned only in passing, but many of them being more carefully elaborated pieces, see below), of which 34 report contemporary incidents, while 8 recall past events. The prevalence of contemporary history is perfectly understandable for Aeneas’ is striving to produce a handbook which would be useful to his audience. It seems that they were borrowed either from personal experience (although Aeneas never gives any indication that he was present at any incident) or, it is argued, from the author’s historiƝ (it is noteworthy that there we have some resemblance to the Herodotean manner of investigation), namely from his knowledge about the events stemming from listening to eyewitnesses or other people whose own knowledge was already indirect. But what about the rest? Among the latter group, containing the ‘historical’ passages, two are cited without naming the source(s),28 one is derived from Thucydides (Thuc. 2.2-6, esp. ch. 4 = 26 Within the broad category of military writings I omit here the flourishing subgenre devoted to the construction of siege machines. 27 Saying this is not to deny the historical value of examples cited there. 28 4.8-11 (Pisistratus plausibly overwhelms the Megarians); 11.12 (the revolt of the so-called partheniai).

The Emergence of the Military Handbook

99

Aen. 2.3-6, recounting an episode from the famous 431 BC siege of Plataea) and one refers to the story preserved, in a slightly different shape, in Xenophon’s Anabasis, 2.2.20 (= Aen. 27.11). And lastly, there are four stories borrowed from Herodotus. Beside the two cases mentioned above (Hdt. 5.35.3 = Aen. 31.28f.; Hdt. 8.128 = Aen. 31.25-7), the other two include an episode during Amasis’ siege of Barca (Hdt. 4.200 = Aen. 37.6f.), and the trickery with the secret letter which king Demaratus sent to the Spartans (Hdt. 7.239.3 = Aen. 31.14). It looks as if Herodotus was the main authority for Aeneas, if we are to rely on the extant treatise. Indeed, on the whole, narrative passages are a tool employed by Aeneas and they constitute part of the ‘scientific’ reasoning (which reminds us of Aristotle’s well known statement in Rhet. 1354b 21 on ǚ˖ ʹǦǭǖǰǦǚǢ ǩǘǫǭǞǢǫ), and obviously he treats them just as proof.29 There are five times where he uses the noun ǩǚǪǕǝǞǢǜǥǚ (‘a warning example,’ see Barends 1955, 109). At 11.2 he gives an account of what precautions were taken by a city’s opposition party which was preparing a coup, and what measures were taken to prevent it. He writes that he will rely on the book: ʹǣ ǭ͟ǫ ǛǘǛǤǨǮ ǩǚǪǚǝǞǘǜǥǚǭǨǫ ʾǦǞǣǞǦ (“a succession of examples, from the book”, trans. by D. Whitehead). A long and somewhat amusing story of concealing and smuggling arms into a city is told in detail at 29.3-10. Again, the story is recounted in order to offer a warning— ǩǚǪǚǝǞǘǜǥǚǭǨǫ ʾǦǞǣǞǦ. At 4.7-11, when he recalls the famous story of Pisistratus’ stratagem against the Megarians (see n. 28), he makes the following comment at the outset: “The result of failing to take these precautions will be clear actual incidents, which may be cited in passing as illustration and pure evidence” (ʹǩ̓ ǩǚǪǚǝǞǘǜǥǚǭǨǫ ǣǚ̓ ǥǚǪǭǮǪǘǨǮ ǣǚǡǚǪǨͼ ǩǚǪǚǤǖǜǠǭǚǢ).30 Another paradigm narrated to illustrate this advice is an incident in Argos, when conspirators took the city during a public festival held outside the walls (17.2-4). How are the stories deployed? Was Aeneas’ selection carefully prepared, or, conversely, do we have only a random choice of examples, the best which he had at hand? They vary in length and detail. We can detect no hard and fast rules which have been applied, but it is the narrative parts which demonstrate Aeneas’ skills as a writer. To some extent, this must have been dictated by the scarcity of examples which were suitable to match his instructions. Sometimes the author inserts them 29

Being an equivalent of what Thucydides has called ǭǞǣǥǗǪǢǨǦ, although the noun does not appear in Aeneas. 30 See also 31.24; this again proves the influence of contemporary language on Aeneas; cf. Thuc. 1.8.1; 1.9.3 etc.

100

Chapter Seven

without any introduction and gives no conclusion, so the illustration is, so to speak, naturally embedded in the advice. When warning how dangerous gatekeepers who get into debt can be, he immediately (5.2), in one sentence only, mentions the efforts of Leucon of Bosporus to solve the problem. The same is true in the case of the famous ch. 18 (but only down to §7), where the narrator relates the devices used by gatekeepers in cases of betrayal. Here the paradigms form no separate stories but are set within the precaution and they in fact create one piece. In many cases, however, the idea of demonstration (again, Herodotean ˖ǬǭǨǪǘǠǫ ʩǩǵǝǞǧǢǫ ˊǝǞ, 1.1.1) gave him the possibility of including a larger narrative which becomes a short mini-story, and this certainly was not done ‘in passing’ (ǩǚǪǚǤǖǜǠǭǚǢ; e.g. the truly ‘epic’ stories in 15.8-10; 16.14f.; 18.13-9). So, in the second group, the paradigms are more formal and they ostentatiously differ from the ǰǪǗ-clauses. That they do not point merely to the recommendations and form an essential (not to say: independent) factor in the presentation of the argument is evident, but what is at the core of such a logic? Two factors contribute to this, I would like to suggest: first, the popularity of the stories; second, the vividness of their presentation. It was Aristotle who in his Rhetoric (1403b) said that success in persuasion depends not only on the presentation of ‘bare’ facts but next, he adds, comes the problem of how to present them successfully. It is doubtful whether Aeneas was aware of this rule in such a form, yet it is exactly what he is doing in the text. The first factor is clear and understandable enough: popularity is due to the authority provided by the sources, that is, strictly speaking, by the written text. This authority comes, then, from and is based on the written form. So, following Herodotus, Aeneas, we may observe, proceeds quite contrary to Thucydides’ famous reproach made against the logographers (Thuc. 1.21.1) who, in his view, told the audience their stories interestingly rather than truly and carefully. But there is a second factor which is really more curious: how the story told in a most sensational manner could serve as proof? In fact, it can, as we remind ourselves of the status the stories retain: they are not only paradigms but, at the same time, ǥǚǭǶǪǢǚ, and in order to be persuasive they had to be told amusingly, colourfully. As has already been said, the majority of the narrative pieces were taken from autopsy or investigation. Such is the case in ch. 29, where the danger of ˪ǩǤDzǦ ǤǕǡǪ͎ Ǟ˕ǬǣǨǥǢǝǗ (‘smuggling arms in’) is shown. The story’s sensational character is so colourful that one suspects the author’s personal involvement: was ‘the ringleader’ from §8 Aeneas himself? If he was not, then his narrative skill stands out even more clearly. The story runs quickly, corresponding to the actual circumstances of the episode. Here we find Aeneas’ fascination

The Emergence of the Military Handbook

101

with details: particularly worthy of note are his descriptions (ekphraseis) of arms: ‘linen corselets, jerkins, helmets, shields, greaves, sabres, bows and arrows, all stowed in chests used for transporting merchandise and appearing to contain clothing and other goods’ (29.4; also §6 with the detailed description of where exactly the arms were concealed). In the case of the Herodotean passages some observations may also be made. Relying on Herodotus 8.128 Aeneas introduces some changes: his story is shorter, although he adds some significant details (there is a phrase which has no counterpart in Herodotus: “one in the city, one in Artabazus’ camp”). Further, he supplements Herodotus’ information by including an important remark that the plan failed due to “some poor feathering” (which shows his interest in technical details). And most telling in the ‘long’ stories is in fact something else: the formal beginning and ending of the whole episode. While the former is official, even solemn (e.g.: “Here is a trick played in earlier times”), the latter often rounds off the story in a slightly moralizing tone, as is usual in Aeneas (e.g.: “As often happens in war, a crowd rapidly gathered round the wounded man; and at once the arrow was seized and taken to the generals, which is how the plot came to light,” 31.27). Such is the case with the second major episode, concerning the Ionian revolt. Here Aeneas omits the contents of the message. Instead, what he narrates is the method of transmission. Summing up, we may acknowledge the dual status of narrative passages in Aeneas. On the one hand they are used as a tool to prove the rightness of the writer’s statements. But on the other, their narrative dimension aimed at giving pleasure (taken in its broadest terms) operates within the text of the handbook in the same way. The attractiveness of reading and the pleasure derived from the text are a helpful step in making the persuasion effective. This leads us to the practice of oratory and delivering speeches. It is not only the author’s careful preface but, as it appears, also more informal narrative sections, which show his awareness of the rhetorical rules.

CHAPTER EIGHT WRITING LOCAL HISTORY: ARCHEMACHUS AND HIS EUBOIKA* SàAWOMIR SPRAWSKI

Archemachus, the author of the Euboika, belongs to a large group of Hellenistic authors who wrote about local history. As is the case with the works of all the authors in this group, his writings have also been preserved in brief fragments, in the form of quotations in later authors. In the case of Archemachus only a few such quotations have survived. In the fourth volume of his Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum (Paris 1885), Carl Müller identified nine fragments which supposedly came from two works written by Archemachus. The first one was Euboika, from which five fragments have been preserved, and the second Metonymiai or Metonomasiai (Change of Names), from which the four remaining ones supposedly derive. In his edition of Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, Felix Jacoby repeated his predecessor’s findings with just a minor correction (FGrHist 424), as did E. Schwartz in his article on Archemachus in Real-Encyclopädie (Schwartz 1896). Apart from that this author has not been a focus of much attention, which has been limited to mentions in commentaries on the works of other authors. It is very rarely that these mentions offer an attempt at a comprehensive look at Archemachus’ writings, perhaps with the exception of the Italian scholar L. Braccesi, who devoted several sentences to the author, observing, among others, that “in lui si sposino due passioni e due competenze…: l’amore per la storia locale e il gusto per la ricerca onomastica.”1

*

I am grateful to Peter Rhodes for his careful reading and comments on the manuscript of this paper. 1 Braccesi 2001, 37.

Writing Local History: Archemachus and his Euboika

103

* We know nothing of Archemachus’ life and background; the only information we have about him is his ethnikon ‘Euboeus’ (ƿ˱ǛǨǞ̘ǫ) or ‘Euboieus’ (ƿ˱ǛǨǢǞ̘ǫ) which Strabo (10.3.6) and Plutarch (De Is. et Os. 361E) used when talking about him. At first glance, the ethnikon, which refers to his links to the island of Euboea, does not raise suspicion. Although rare, it is documented in its plural form by both historical and epigraphical sources.2 However, it is difficult to find another person described by such an ethnikon in those sources, even though the occurrence of the name ‘Euboieus’ is confirmed.3 In ancient times there were several poleis on the island of Euboea, four of which survived until the second half of the 4th century BC: Chalcis, Eretria, Carystus and Histiaia. It seems odd that Archemachus did not take the ethnikon of one of them, like another author of a book on Euboea, Aristotle of Chalcis. Looking for an explanation we should note the fact that the ethnikon ‘Euboieon’ appears in official documents, for example in an Amphictionic decree dated to 273/2. However, this is a rare case, possibly related to the establishment of the Euboean League, which was of rather ephemeral nature and the existence of which in the second half of the 4th and first half of the 3rd centuries is very poorly documented.4 Archemachus’ unusual ethnikon gives rise to questions about the character of his links to Euboea. An analysis of his fragments does nothing to answer these questions; although his focus on Euboea is noticeable, it is difficult to see a bias that could be interpreted as a manifestation of local patriotism. Since there is a lack of information, it is difficult to decide why Archemachus was remembered as ‘Euboeus.’ Perhaps he published his treatise at the time the Euboean League existed and he used this ethnikon. Perhaps he did come from Euboea but lived and wrote away from the island, e.g. in Athens or Alexandria, where he was known only as Euboeus or he used this ethnikon only to emphasize his pan-Euboean identification. It is also possible that he did not come from Euboea but received this ethnikon from later authors, who did not have reliable information on his origin and based it only on the title of his work. The name ‘Archemachos’ is not a very popular one but it is not that rare either. In Apollodorus’ Library two mythical figures of this name are 2

Hdt. 1.98.3; 8.20.1; Thuc. 1.113.2; 8.91.2; Dem. 18.95; Hyp. 6.11; IG II2 149.6; IG XII 9.207.72. Cf. Reber, Hansen and Ducrey 2004, 643. 3 Euboieus: IG XII 9.191. 4 CID IV 23.4; Knoepfler 1998, 205f.

104

Chapter Eight

mentioned, although not very important ones.5 The Lexicon of Greek Personal Names records on average several persons of this name in various regions of Greece. On this basis it can be assumed that the names ‘Archimachos’ or ‘Agchemachos’ in Strabo (10.3.6) and Pliny (NH 7.207) are simply distorted forms of the name ‘Archemachos’, as is the case with one manuscript reading of the Scholia on Pindar (Pyth. 3.120c), where the name ‘Archidamos’ appears. The situation is much more complicated in the case of the lexicons of Stephanus of Byzantium (who, in the entry on ‘Kotylaion,’ refers to a work of ‘Antimachos’) and Harpocration (who, in the entry on ‘Halonnesos,’ quotes a work of ‘Archelaos’). In both cases the editors proposed to emend the name to ‘Archemachos,’ but it cannot be excluded that their proposals are too far-fetched and we are in fact dealing with works of other authors.6 We cannot say much about when Archemachus lived, either. It seems that in one of the surviving fragments he enters into a polemic with the work of Theopompus of Chios (see below), which may mean that he could not have written earlier than the end of the 4th century BC. His information about the Egyptian god Sarapis, whom he identifies with the Greek Pluto, might also be a valuable clue. This identification occurred during the reign of Ptolemy I, as confirmed by Plutarch (De Is. et Os. 362A), which establishes the terminus post quem. The fact that an author writing on Euboea showed interest in Sarapis might perhaps be attributed to the appearance of a cult site dedicated to this god on the island. This occurred in the early 3rd century, when a sanctuary of Isis and Sarapis was erected in Eretria.7 This information enables us, following in Jacoby’s footsteps, to move up the time of Archemachus’ activity to the first half of the 3rd century BC. 5

Apollod. Bibl. 2.7.8 and 3.12.5. Writing about one of Euboean toponyms, ‘Kotylaion,’ Stephanus of Byzantium refers to the second book of Antimachus’ On Artemis (F 2b). Since no other source mentions such a work, in his 1849 edition of Stephanus of Byzantium August Meineke proposed to emend this fragment to “Archemachos in the second book of the Euboika.” This emendation finds support in Harpocration’s lexicon; in the entry on ‘Kotylaion’ the author refers to the third book of Archemachus’ Euboika (F 2a). However, a considerable group of scholars subscribe to the theory that there was a work by Antimachus entitled On Artemis. Cf. Matthews 1993 and 1996, 98128. Philippe de Maussac in his edition of Harpocration (Paris 1614) proposed the spelling ‘Archemachos’ in the entry on ‘Halonnesos,’ as an emendation of the reading of ‘Archelaos,’ which appears in the manuscripts. This emendation was followed by Jacoby (FGrHist 424 F 4) but refuted by J.J. Keaney, who in his edition of Harpocration (Amsterdam 1991) prints ‘Archelaos.’ 7 Dunand 1973, 21-9; Bruneau 1975. 6

Writing Local History: Archemachus and his Euboika

105

The terminus ante quem is more difficult to establish. The first author to quote Archemachus whom we can date with certainty was Strabo, who wrote in the early 1st century AD. Counting Archemachus among the authors who wrote in the first half of the 3rd century BC, Jacoby relied mainly on the Scholia on Apollonius Rhodius 4.257-62c, where views on the date of the founding of Egyptian Thebes are assembled. The scholiast first cites the opinion of Xenagoras, the author of the Chronicles (FGrHist 240), dated to the turn of the 4th century. He also cites the opinion of Nicanor, the author of the Change of Names, suggesting that the latter agreed with Archemachus. This would mean that Archemachus wrote contemporarily to Nicanor or earlier. However, the precise dates of Nicanor’s life have not been established either; the same is true for the last author referred to by the scholiast, Hippys of Rhegium, for whom a move to as early as the 5th century BC has been suggested.8 In conclusion, it seems that Archemachus could have lived in the first half of the 3rd century, as Jacoby proposed, but arguments supporting this thesis are rather weak. * It is assumed that Archemachus was the author of two works. The title of the first one, Euboika, is well-documented by Athenaeus, Clement of Alexandria and Harpocration; four citations can be attributed to the work with certainty. Athenaeus obtained information on the Thessalian dependent population, the Penestai, from the third book of this work, and Clement of Alexandria found an opinion on the time of Homer’s life there. Harpocration acquired from Archemachus’ work his knowledge about Mt. Kotylaion on Euboea. He also probably referred to this work in his lexicon, in the entry on ‘Halonnesos,’ if, as we have already discussed, the name ‘Archelaos’ cited there may be interpreted as a corrupted form of the name ‘Archemachos.’ The citation by Stephanus of Byzantium is a more complicated problem; writing about Mt. Kotylaion, he repeats Harpocration’s information but he refers to Antimachus’ work On Artemis. According to some editors, Harpocration’s account proves that this passage of Stephanus’ work is corrupted and should be emended to read: “Archemachus in the Euboika”; this, however, has not been generally accepted (see n. 6 above). The situation is different in the case of the second work attributed to Archemachus; the title Metonymiai or Metonomasiai appears only once, in 8

Giangiulio 1992. For a different opinion, see Fowler 2001, XXXVI.

106

Chapter Eight

the Scholia to Apollonius Rhodius (4.257-62c). The other fragments were ascribed to this work by Müller and Jacoby purely on the basis of their content. As may be inferred from the title of the book, Archemachus seems to be interested in the etymology of names, especially in cases where various names were given to a particular people or a place and when the names changed. Therefore, all fragments whose content is in agreement with the title of the book and which were not clearly described as belonging to the Euboika were considered to be quotations from the second work. This includes a very short quotation preserved in the Scholia on Pindar (Pyth. 3.120c = FGrHist F 8a) and in the Scholia on Diogenes Periegetes (94 = FGrHist F 8b), from which we learn that Archemachus proposed his own etymology of the name ‘Ionian Sea’ (Ionion pelagos). Next, there is a much longer quotation in Strabo (10.3.6 = FGrHist F 9), including Archemachus’ exposition in which he argues that the Curetes (Kouretes) of Euboea (who are known from various mythical traditions) and the Abantes were the same people. The opinion, found in Plutarch’s treatise On Isis and Osiris (361E = FGrHist F 6) according to which the deities known by the Egyptian names of Sarapis and Isis were none other than Pluto and Persephassa, or Persephone, was also classified as a fragment of Metonymiai. Paradoxically, the fragment from the Scholia on Apollonius Rhodius (4.257-62c = FGrHist F 7), which as we know is the only place where the title of Metonymiai appears, fits this collection of quotations least well in terms of content. Differences between manuscripts make this fragment very problematic for editors, who have proposed various emendations, mostly in the word order, which naturally affect the meaning of the whole passage. Carl Müller, relying on earlier editions of the Scholia, is in favour of the version of the text in which Archemachus was named among authors who believed that Egypt was the oldest of all countries. Jacoby, on the other hand, relies on the editions of H. Keil (Leipzig 1854) and K. Wendel (Berlin 1935), according to which the passage in question cites the opinion of Archemachus that Thebes is the oldest town in Egypt. In neither version there is a direct reference to questions of onomastics or etymology. We can only guess that if Archemachus wrote about Thebes it was perhaps because there was a tradition that the city had changed its name. Diodorus (1.15) notes that it was originally called Herapolis and then Diopolis and Thebes. A town that changed its name several times seems to fit very well in a book entitled Change of Names. There is a similar problem with Archemachus’ opinion that the first man “who sailed in a long vessel was Aegaeon [Aigaion],” preserved by Pliny (NH 7.207). Jacoby thinks that it must have come from the

Writing Local History: Archemachus and his Euboika

107

Metonymiai, although before him Müller classified this citation among the fragments of the Euboika. Justifying his opinion in the commentary, Jacoby rightly points to a rich tradition related to Aegaeon, which includes elements that might have interested Archemachus when he was writing the Metonymiai. In Homer’s Iliad (1.397) it is said that the monster called by Thetis to help Zeus was called Briareus by the gods and Aegaeon by mortals. His double name was known also to another early poet, Cinaithon, the author of Heracleia, cited by the scholiast to Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica (1.1165). Archemachus could also have been interested in the tradition preserved by Arrian of Nicomedia (FGrHist 156 F 92), cited by Eustathius and Stephanus of Byzantium (s.v. ‘Karystos’), according to which the Aegean Sea was named after Briareus-Aegaeon, the son of Gaia and Ouranos. According to this story, he was the ruler of the Euboean town of Carystus, which was also called Aegaeon after him. Aelian also claims (VH 5.3) that the Pillars of Heracles were previously called the Pillars of Briareus. Archemachus could, therefore, have proposed his own etymology of one of these names, e.g. the name ‘Aegean Sea,’ as he did in the case of the Ionian Sea. On the other hand it is not difficult to see that Aegaeon was very closely linked to Euboea. According to the tradition preserved by Arrian (FGrHist 156 F 92), he was the ruler of Euboea who subjugated the neighbouring islands.9 We can therefore safely say that Archemachus might have mentioned Aegaeon in the Metonymiai just as easily as in the Euboika. The contentious issue of which of Archemachus’ works was used by Pliny brings us to the wider problem connected with the Metonymiai. On the basis of the surviving fragments it can be assumed that this work was at least as well-known as the Euboika. This leads us to the following question: Why was its title mentioned only once, whereas in the case of the Euboika later authors scrupulously gave not only the title of the work they referred to but also the book number? If both works were equally well-known, it is puzzling why authors avoided citing the title of the second one, even though it must have meant that they left their readers in the dark as to the work they referred to. This fact in itself would not have been inexplicable, considering how few fragments of Archemachus have been preserved and the fact that ancient authors did not care very much about precisely citing the sources they used; however, it takes on a completely different meaning when we note the fact that the account in which the title Metonymiai appears is a controversial one. As we have mentioned before, differences between manuscripts encouraged subsequent 9

Bury 1886, 634; Fowler 1988, 99f.

108

Chapter Eight

editors of the Scholia on Apollonius Rhodius to propose various versions of the passage in question which differ primarily with regard to the word order: G.E. Schaefer 1812: ǣǚ̓ LJǢǣ̎ǦDzǪ ǝ̏ ǭǨ̘ǭǨǢǫ ǬǮǥǯDzǦǞͭ, ǣǚ̓ ͗ƻǪǰ̐ǥǚǰǨǫ ʹǦ ǭǚͭǫ džǞǭǨǦǮǥǘǚǢǫ ǣǚ̓ LjǞǦǚǜ̖Ǫǚǫ ʹǦ ǩǪ̚ǭ· ǐǪ̖ǦDzǦ H. Keil 1856: ǣǚ̓ LJǢǣ̎ǦDzǪ ǝ̏ ǤǖǜDzǦ ʹǦ ƻ˕ǜ̘ǩǭ· ǩǪ̚ǭoǦ ǣǭǢǬǡ͟ǦǚǢ ǩ̖ǤǢǦ ǂ̒Ǜǚǫ ǣǚ̓ ǚ˱ǭ̕ǫ ǬǮǥǯDzǦǞͭ ǭΊ ͗ƻǪǰǞǥ̎ǰ· ʹǦ ǭǚͭǫ džǞǭǨǦǨǥǚǬǘǚǢǫ. ǝ̖ǣǞ͘ ǝ̏ ǩǪΉǭǨǦ ǂ̒ǛǠǦ ǣǚǭ͗ ƻ˙ǜǮǩǭǨǦ ǣǭǢǬǡ͟ǦǚǢ, ̂ǫ ǯǠǬǢ LjǞǦǚǜ̖Ǫǚǫ ʹǦ ͌ ǐǪ̖ǦDzǦ K. Wendel 1935: ǝǨǣǞͭ ǝ̏ ǩǪΉǭǨǦ ǂ̒ǛǠǦ ǣǚǭ͗ ƻ˙ǜǮǩǭǨǦ ǣǭǢǬǡ͟ǦǚǢ, ̂ǫ ǯǠǬǢ LjǞǦǚǜ̖Ǫǚǫ ʹǦ ͌ ǐǪ̖ǦDzǦ. ǣǚ̓ LJǢǣ̎ǦDzǪ ǝ̏ ǤǖǜǞǢ ʹǦ ǭǚͭǫ džǞǭǨǦǨǥǚǬǘǚǢǫ ʹǦ ƻ˕ǜ̘ǩǭ· ǩǪ̚ǭǠǦ ǣǭǢǬǡ͟ǦǚǢ ǩ̖ǤǢǦ ǂ̒Ǜǚǫ, ǣǚ̓ ǚ˱ǭ̕ǫ ǬǮǥǯDzǦΉǦ ǭΊ ͗ƻǪǰǞǥ̎ǰ· It seems that Thebes in Egypt was founded first as Xenagoras says in the first book of his Chronicles. Also Nicanor says this in his Change of Names, and he agrees with Archemachus that the city of Thebes in Egypt was founded first [the translation is based on the edition of Wendel].

The noticeable difference in the title itself results from the spelling džǞǭǨǦǨǥǚǬǘǚǢ preserved in the Codex Laurentianus, favoured by H. Keil, whereas the other editors opted for the spelling džǞǭǨǦǮǥǘǚǢ preserved in other manuscripts. A much more serious problem is the problem of who is the author of the work in question. According to Wendel’s edition, the title clearly refers to a work written by Nicanor, as Jacoby already observed.10 Such an interpretation seems justifiable since the existence of Nicanor’s work of this title is well-documented.11 In a situation in which the text allows him to attribute the work to one of the two authors, Wendel chose the writer whose authorship of the work of this title is very well documented, instead of that whose authorship is not documented anywhere. In other words, in Wendel’s edition the scholiast cites the opinion of Nicanor, expressed in the Metonymiai, in which he agrees with Archemachus’ view presented in a work whose title is not provided. 10

Jacoby, FGrHist III, 247; cf. Wendel 1936. Steph. Byz. Ethnica 645.14-6 (s.v. ˻ǝǠ); Athen. 296D; Schol. in Ap. Rhod. 4.262. See also Müller, FHG IV, 363f.

11

Writing Local History: Archemachus and his Euboika

109

The above conclusion provokes the following question: Is it justifiable to reject the notion that Archemachus wrote a work entitled Metonymiai or Metonomasiai? To answer this question one should analyse fragments in which Müller and Jacoby recognized citations from this work. Its title may indicate that Archemachus was interested in subjects far beyond the local affairs which he described in Euboika. Nicanor’s Metonymiai were probably of such nature, if we may draw conclusions from the preserved fragments in which he wrote about the cities in Phoenicia, Lydia, the Peloponnese, and Sicily. On the other hand the fragments believed to derive from Archemachus’ Metonymiai are mostly related to Euboea, apart from the reference to Egyptian Thebes. Perhaps this may be explained by the relatively small number of surviving fragments and the fact that Archemachus, collecting examples for his work on onomastics, turned to local history which he was very familiar with. What must make us think, however, is the question why one of Archemachus’ best analyses related to changing names and their etymology can be found in a quotation from the third book of the Euboika. Moreover, the fragment deals with the etymology of the name ‘Penestai,’ used to describe the dependent population of Thessaly. We do not know why this discussion, related mostly to Thessaly and Boeotia, was included in the Euboika rather than the Metonymiai. The way in which Archemachus explains the origin of this name greatly resembles his exposition on the origin of the Curetes, which is believed to belong to the Metonymiai. We could even assume that if we had not been explicitly told that the discussion of the etymology of the Penestai came from the Euboika, every editor of Archemachus’ fragments would have included it in the Metonymiai. To sum up, we might say that in the Euboika Archemachus analyses the origins of names and their changes also in reference to matters not related directly to Euboea, whereas in the Metonymiai he very often refers to examples related to the island. It seems, therefore, that either Archemachus wrote two very similar works or all the citations that we have come from one work. Since his authorship of the Euboika is unquestionable, whereas his authorship of the Metonymiai is based on very thin grounds, it seems there are no serious obstacles to assuming that it is from the Euboika that all the surviving citations come. * Archemachus’ Euboika was divided into at least four books, as follows from Harpocration’s account (s.v. ‘Halonnesos’), but not much is known about the content of the particular books. What we know for sure is that

110

Chapter Eight

the third book included information about the origins of the Thessalian Penestai and about the migration of the Boeotians from Arne to Boeotia, which according to Thucydides (1.12.3) supposedly took place sixty years after the Trojan War. The fragment about Hesiod’s and Homer’s stay on Euboea, as well as the citation about the mythical Kotylos and Mt. Kotylaion, also comes from this book. It is thought that Archemachus mentioned Mt. Kotylaion in connection with the Athenian campaign against Euboea in 348 BC. This is supported by Aeschines (In Ctes. 3.868), who mentioned military activities in the area of Mt. Kotylaion, identified with modern Servouni, in the same connection.12 There has also been an attempt to place Archemachus’ mention of the island of Halonnesus in a similar context. The island became the focus of interest of other fourth century authors, Hegesippus, Aeschines and Theopompus, only as the subject of the famous disagreement between Philip II and the Athenians in 342 BC. It seems likely, therefore, that Archemachus, making in the fourth book of his work comments about Halonnesus, also wrote about this disagreement which was significant for Euboea’s political situation. However, both in the case of the information on Mt. Kotylaion and of that on the island of Halonnesus we cannot exclude the possibility that they appeared in Archemachus without any connection to the political events of the 4th century BC. Mt. Kotylaion could have been mentioned when discussing the myth of Kotylos, and Halonnesus in the context of the Chalcidian colonisation of the Sporades Islands. This tradition was preserved by Pseudo-Scymnus (580-585), who, without mentioning Halonnesus, refers to such neighbouring islands as Scyrus, Peparethus, Icus and Sciathus and concludes that all of them were inhabited by the Chalcidians.13 Since this problem remains unresolved, it only seems justifiable to assume that the first two books of the Euboika presented 12

Two identifications of Mt. Kotylaion have been proposed. Wallace (1947, 138) argued for the identification of Mt. Kotylaion with modern Servouni which closes off the Plain of Eretria on the east. His view was followed by Bakhuizen 1985, 129-31; Cairns 1986, 160; Gehrke 1988, 29f.; Tritle 1992, 136 n. 29 and 157-60; Walker 2004, 6 with note 11. An alternative identification was proposed by Knoepfler (1981, 320-5; 1997, 384-6) arguing for the identification of Mt. Kotylaion with modern Mt. Mavrovouni. This identification was supported by J. Fossey and J. Morin in Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World, edited by R.J.A. Talbert (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), map 55 and p. 825, and Fachard 2006, who noticed that during the Venetian occupation of Euboea there existed a fort named ‘La Cuppa’ or ‘Coppa’ which could be a transposition of the Greek name Kotylaion, because kotule means in Italian ‘la coppa.’ 13 Picard 1979, 245-51; Walker 2004, 155 with n. 136.

Writing Local History: Archemachus and his Euboika

111

events prior to the Trojan War, whereas the events traditionally dated after this conflict were included in the third and fourth books.14 It seems that in the Euboika Archemachus described events, places and persons connected not just to Euboea but also the neighbouring regions, at least Thessaly and Boeotia, which were somehow linked to the island’s past. An example of this are his remarks about the migration of the Boeotians from Thessalian Arne, perhaps also his discussion of the antiquity of Egyptian Thebes, which, for an obscure reason, was given by the Greeks the same name as the famous city in Boeotia.15 Archemachus could also have been interested in the colonial activity of the Euboeans, their campaigns to the West towards Aetolia and further, towards Italy and Sicily, which is evidenced by his account of the migration of the Curetes from Euboea to Aetolia and his explanation of the origin of the name of the Ionian Sea. He was probably also interested in the tradition about the Euboeans’ activity in the Aegean Sea and their attempts to seize control over the neighbouring islands. Writing about Euboea itself he spoke about mythical figures connected with the island, the gods and heroes worshipped and their sanctuaries, as well as the earlier inhabitants of the island, the Curetes and the Abantes. References to Hesiod’s and Homer’s stay on the island may pertain to a contest between them, a story well known from later sources such as the Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi, which according to some of them took place in Chalcis. The long-lasting struggle between Eretria and Chalcis for control over the Lelantine Plain may have played an important part in his work. It is impossible to say at which point Archemachus terminated his narrative. If the information about the identification of Sarapis and Isis with Pluto and Persephassa respectively comes from a description of a sanctuary of these Egyptian deities which was erected at Chalcis, the author wrote about events as late as the beginning of the 3rd century BC. However, it is difficult to resist the impression that the focus of his attention was the mythical past. The preserved fragments of Archemachus’ work indicate his interest in searching for the etymology of words and bringing various mythical stories together. His work must have been full of digressions and it could be aptly characterized with the words used by the Byzantine patriarch Photius in reference to Theopompus: “very numerous digressions on every sort of topic lengthen his historical writings.”16 Three of the surviving fragments of Archemachus’ work are long enough to enable us to discover at least some elements of his research 14

Jacoby, FGrHist III, 245f. Levin 1996. 16 Photius 176.121a. 15

112

Chapter Eight

method and argumentation. The fragment FGrHist F 9, referring to the history of the Curetes, a mythical people known from references by many authors, is the most informative one. This fragment has been preserved by Strabo (10.3.6) who, presenting various mythical accounts of the people’s history, also cites Archemachus’ opinion: The Kouretes dwelled at Chalcis, and they were continually at war for the Lelantine Plain; since the enemy would grab their hair at the front and drag them down, they let their hair grow long behind but cut short the part in front, therefore they were called Kouretes from the cut of their hair, and they then migrated to Aetolia, and, after taking possession of the region round Pleuron, called the people who lived on the other side of the Achelous Acarnanians, because they kept their heads unshorn.

As we can see, Archemachus explains that the Curetes, who later inhabited the region around Pleuron in Aetolia, used to live in Chalcis on Euboea and used to be at war for the Lelantine Plain. In this way Archemachus refers to Homer’s story (Il. 9.524-99) about the Curetes who were at war with the Calydonians and Meleager. However, Homer does not mention that the Curetes had earlier lived on Euboea. Archemachus linked them to the island’s history, deriving the etymology of their name (DŽǨǮǪ͟ǭǞǫ) from the word ǣǨǮǪ̎ ‘haircut’. This association was not necessarily his own idea, since there are grounds to suppose that this etymology had already been known to Aeschylus in the 5th century BC.17 Archemachus used it to identify the Curetes with the Abantes (also mentioned by Homer), a warrior nation from Euboea, who were supposedly famous for their skill in hand-to-hand combat and very original haircuts. Due to the unusual haircut Homer calls the Abantes ˩ǩǢǡǞǦ ǣǨǥ̖DzǦǭǞǫ (Il. 2.542). Archemachus concluded that, since Homer’s Abantes were known for their unusual haircut and the Curetes’ name derived from an unusual haircut, these two peoples could be identified with each other. To strengthen his argument he did not hesitate to describe the Curetes and their original haircut with words used by Homer for the Abantes, ˩ǩǢǬǡǞǦ ǣǨǥ̖DzǦǭǞǫ.18 The tradition about the Abantes as former inhabitants of Euboea had been well established long before Archemachus’ time, and his only credit was to combine it with the tradition about the Curetes from Pleuron and one of the known etymologies of their name. Trying to make his argument more convincing, he provided an analogous explanation of the name of the 17 18

Aesch. fr. 173 ap. Athen. 528C, cf. Cook 1914, 23 n. 6. Donlan 1970, 131-3.

Writing Local History: Archemachus and his Euboika

113

Acarnanians, the Curetes’ neighbours, a people that lived on the other side of the Achelous River. In his opinion the name ‘Acarnanians’ meant “those who did not cut their hair the way the Curetes did.” It seems that as a result of the etymological combination mentioned above Archemachus was able to reconstruct the earliest history of the Euboeans, combining in one narrative stories about the combative Abantes from Euboea and the Curetes from Pleuron in Aetolia with the tradition about the rivalry between Chalcis and Eretria over the Lelantine Plain, which according to Thucydides was supposedly the biggest military conflict prior to the Peloponnesian War. Perhaps the identification of the Abantes and the Curetes became the source of stories passed on by later authors, e.g. the information that the Curetes or Corybantes were the children of Sochus and the nymph Combe, also known as Chalcis. We are also told that the Curetes were supposedly the first people to produce bronze weapons and were called the Chalcidians for this reason.19 Proving that the Curetes from Pleuron used to live on Euboea, Archemachus could combine their migration with stories about the Euboeans’ early campaigns in the West, in the area of the Corinthian Bay, the Ionian Sea, and further in Italy and Sicily. Perhaps it was the Euboika which was at the bottom of the tradition about the colonisation of Corcyra by the Eretians, mentioned by Plutarch (Mor. 293A-B).20 Archemachus’ attempt to combine different traditions in one narrative must have been partly caused by the lack of information about the earliest history of the island. Skilfully supporting his own arguments with information taken from authoritative sources such as Homer or Thucydides, Archemachus aimed, it seems, at making his own reconstruction (in which etymological discussion played the key role) more believable. It was these discoveries that were supposed to prove his originality, which he probably cared about more than the glorification of Euboea’s past. Such a conclusion comes to mind when we analyse the next fragment, in which Archemachus presents his own etymology of the name ‘Ionian Sea.’ FGrHist F 8a = Schol. Pind. Pyth. 3.120c: The Ionian Sea around Sicily got its name from Io as some claim [Aesch. Prom. 836]; according to Theopompus [FGrHist 115 F 128] from Ionios, a man of Illyria, according to Archemachus from the Ionians who drowned in it.

19

Hesych. s.v. ‘Kombe’; Schol. Townl. ad Hom. Il. 14.291; Steph. Byz. s.v. ‘Adiepsos’ and s.v. ‘Chalcis.’ Cf. Bakhuizen 1976, 58f. 20 Bakhuizen 1976, 22 and 35f.

114

Chapter Eight FGrHist F 8b = Schol. Dion. Per. 94: [Ionian] Some claim that it came from Io, others from Ion, who lived there and ruled the sea; still others claims that the Ionian Sea was named after Iaonos. But Archemachus says that it came from some Ionians who drowned in it, who were Athenians.

It is difficult to say with certainty how the Greeks explained the origin of the name ‘Ionian Sea’ in the 5th and 4th centuries BC, but it is likely that there never was a single explanation. From our perspective it should be noted, however, that Aeschylus derived the name from the nymph Io, Zeus’ lover whom he turned into a heifer, who roamed the world pursued by Hera’s anger. This version could have been accepted on Euboea, with which Io was closely connected according to some versions of the myth. The surviving fragment of the poem Aegimius mentions, for example, that the island’s name comes from the shape of Io changed into a heifer. Other explanations derived the sea’s name from Ion. According to Strabo (10.1.3) Euboea supposedly used to be called Ellopia after Ellops, Ion’s son.21 However, Archemachus rejects such explanations, despite their connections with Euboea, and he derives the name of the sea from the ‘Iaones,’ which seems to be an alternative version of the name ‘Ionoi.’ The name was adopted, according to the author, to commemorate the ‘Iaones’ who drowned in the sea. We may guess that he was referring to a known event but unfortunately for us the reference is obscure. Likewise, we cannot be sure who those ‘Iaones’ mentioned by Archemachus were. Although the note in the Scholia to Dionysius Periegetes ends with the statement that the drowned people were Athenians, this explanation seems so unusual that it is more likely to have been added by the scholiast himself. Some scholars think that Archemachus identified the ‘Iaones’ with the Euboeans, even though Herodotus (1.146.1) claimed that they did not consider themselves Ionians.22 Although this explanation does not seem entirely satisfying, it is worth noting that there are other traces indicating connections between Euboea and the southern part of Italy, Iapygia, in the beginning of the colonisation movement.23 The juxtaposition, by the scholiast on Pindar, of Archemachus’ and Theopompus’ views also sheds some light on Archemachus’ method. 21

Aesch. PV 839-41; Mitchell 2001. Aegimius fr. 296 Merkelbach-West. Braccesi 1998, 35f.; Coppola 1999, 105; Rossignoli 2004, 302f. According to Clitodemus (FGrHist 323 F 13), the Athenians formerly used to be called Iaones. Also Eustathius (Comm. ad Hom. Il. 13.685 and 689) maintains that Homer when he says ˝ǕǨǦǞǫ ʺǤǣǞǬ̔ǩǞǩǤǨǢ (Il. 13.685) means the Athenians. 23 Marton 2002. 22

Writing Local History: Archemachus and his Euboika

115

Theopompus supposedly claimed that the Ionian Sea was named after an Illyrian, Ionius. This makes the impression that Archemachus entered into a polemic with Theopompus by presenting a different etymology. We will find a similar line of reasoning in the fragment (FGrHist F 1) related to the Thessalian Penestai from Athenaeus’ Deipnosophists (264A-B): Archemachus in the third book of the Euboika says that some of the Boeotes dwelling in Arne did not depart to Boeotia but, because of their strong feelings towards their native country, they stayed there and by agreement gave themselves over as slaves to the Thessalians, on condition that the Thessalians should not remove them from the country, nor put them to death, but that they should cultivate the country for the Thessalians, and pay them levy. These men, who by agreement stayed there and gave themselves up were called at that time Menestai and now they are called Penestai; and many of them are richer than their masters.

We do not know in connection with what events or places on Euboea Archemachus mentions the Penestai, a relatively little known group of Thessalians with an unclear status, most frequently compared to that of the Spartan Helots.24 Perhaps Archemachus mentioned the connections between Thessaly and Euboea, which for other authors manifested themselves e.g. in the similarity of toponyms such as Histiaia~Hestiaiotis or Argoura~Argoussa.25 Perhaps he mentioned the Penestai when he wrote about migrations of the Boeotians and other peoples inhabiting Euboea and the neighbouring regions, which according to tradition took place after the Trojan War. In any event, as was the case with the name ‘Kouretes,’ Archemachus proposed his own etymology of the name ‘Penestai’ (NJǞǦǖǬǭǚǢ) which is supposed to be the key to understanding how this group of Thessalians emerged. It seems that the common etymology derived the name from ǩǖǦǠǫ ‘poor,’ for instance Aristophanes in Wasps 1270-4.26 Archemachus proposed a different etymology, according to which the Penestai were originally called Menestai (from ǥǖǦǞǢǦ ‘stay’), because they stayed in their motherland. This enabled the author to link the emergence of this social group to the well-known story about the Boeotians who used to live in Arne in Thessaly. Thucydides (1.12.3) mentioned this fact, writing that sixty years after Troy had been conquered, the Boeotians were removed from Arne by the Thessalians and 24

Ducat 1994; van Wees 1992, 53-7. Strabo 9.5.17; Geyer 1924; Wallace 1956, 1 n. 1; Knoepfler 1981, 318-24. 26 Cf. Schol. Ar. Av. 1274. 25

116

Chapter Eight

they settled in Boeotia. Archemachus seems to refer to the story and to support his thesis with Thucydides’ authority in a way analogous to the case of the Curetes, when he referred to Homer. In this way, constructing his argument, he used a well-known story in order to link the Penestai with the tradition about the Boeotians’ migration. The purpose of the reference to Thucydides was, as in the case of the Curetes and Homer, to make the explanation put forward by Archemachus more believable. The idea that the Penestai were descendants of the native population of Thessaly subordinated by the Thessalians who came to this area was not new. We find the same tradition in Theopompus, but the author says that the original inhabitants of Thessaly conquered by the Thessalians were not Boeotians, but Perrhaebians and Magnetes. According to Theopompus, these peoples were turned into serfs, like the Helots who were enslaved by the Spartans. Aristotle (Pol. 1269a; 1269b 5) also mentions frequent rebellions of the Penestai who tried to take advantage of the Thessalians’ wars with their neighbours, the Phthiotian Achaeans and Magnetes. Archemachus rejected Theopompus’ explanation and pointed to the Boeotians from Arne as the ancestors of the Penestai. Moreover, he replaced the tradition of their enslavement with the story of a freewill decision made by the people who decided to accept the domination of the Thessalians in specific circumstances, simply because they did not want to leave the country they loved. The argument which Archemachus offers to explain why the Boeotians stayed in Thessaly may seem rather naïve but, as has been rightly observed, Herodotus similarly explained the actions of some of the Phocaeans, who, after their city was evacuated and surrendered to the Persians, decided to return and live under the Persian rule because of “a pitiful sorrow for the city and the life of their land” (Hdt. 1.165). Describing the status of the Menestai/Penestai, Archemachus emphasizes that they made an agreement, according to which they pledged to work on the Thessalians’ land and pay the levy (syntaxeis) in exchange for a guarantee that they would not be removed from the country or sentenced to death. The term syntaxeis seems to suggest collective rather than individual financial obligations. The author thereby rejected the tradition which appeared in Theocritus (16.34f.) that the Penestai received ‘monthly wages.’ Analysing Archemachus’ surprising statement that many of the Penestai were in fact richer than their masters we might come to the conclusion that it was used only to weaken further the reliability of the derivation of their name from ǩǖǦǠǫ ‘poor.’ It must have been a very strong argument if we take account of the fact that the Thessalians were

Writing Local History: Archemachus and his Euboika

117

famous for their wealth and love of the sumptuous life.27 It is, however, difficult to tell if Archemachus formed his opinion on the basis of his knowledge of the situation of the Penestai in his own times. The scanty information which we have about this group allows us to assume that in the 3rd century BC it was disappearing. At least some of them were presumably included among the citizens of Thessalian cities at that time. It is likely that Archemachus knew little about the Penestai, and the value of his information about their status and origin is similar to the value of his account about the Curetes. However, his opinions about the origin of the Penestai attracted the interest of later authors, as evidenced by Pausanias Atticus (quoted in the Suda s.v. ‘Penesatai’) and Eustathius (Comm. ad Hom. Il. 13.685-7).28 The authors whom Archemachus could have read when writing his Euboika can only be identified hypothetically. It seems that he knew Thucydides and entered into a polemic with Theopompus. Writing about Homer’s stay on Euboea, he might have used Peri Homerou, a work of Theagenes, a native of the Euboean colony of Rhegium, who could be the first author to write about the contest of Homer and Hesiod at Chalcis.29 Presumably he also had access to surveys of Euboean constitutions of such cities as Chalcis and Eretria, which were among the 158 constitutions discussed by Aristotle and his disciples.30 It is possible that a special place among Archemachus’ sources was held by a work about the history of Euboea entitled Peri Euboias, written by Aristotle of Chalcis, according to Harpocration (s.v. ‘Argoura’) and the scholiast to Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica (1.558). This author causes numerous research problems. Diogenes Laertius (5.1.35) does not mention him in his list of men bearing the name Aristotle, and we cannot be absolutely sure that, despite his ethnikon ‘Chalkideus,’ he was a different man than the famous philosopher from Stagira. It is worth noting that Aristotle of Stagira had a property at Chalcis and spent the last year of his life there (Diog. Laert. 5.1.5 and 14) and according to Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Epistula ad Ammaeum 1.5) his mother was descended from one of those who led the colonists from Chalcis to Stagira.31 If we accept the existence of Aristotle of Chalcis, we face the problem of placing him in time. The only precise 27

Ducat 1994, 90f. Šišova 1975, 51f. and 56f.; Decourt 1990, 179; Ducat 1994, 90f. and 105-9; Helly 1995, 97-9 and 302-11. 29 Debiasi 2001. 30 Chalcis: Arist. Pol. 1289b 36-9; 1304a 29-31; 1316a 31f.; Fr. 601-3; 611.62f. (Rose). Eretria: Arist. Pol. 1289b 33-9; 1306 a 33-9; Fr. 611.40 (Rose). 31 Bakhuizen 1985, 30 n. 55. 28

Chapter Eight

118

information about the date of his life is Harpocration’s claim (F 1) that his book was cited by Lysimachus, who lived ca. 200 BC. In his book, Lysimachus named Aristotle along with Suidas (FGrHist 602), so they may have been contemporaries and have lived at the end of the 4th century. If this assumption is correct, Archemachus might have used his work in his research. Archemachus of Euboea certainly was not one of the most important or original Hellenistic authors, and his work, the Euboika, was in keeping with the then-popular trend of interest in local history. Facing the lack of sufficient information, he willingly combined various mythical traditions, trying to create a consistent picture of the past. The surviving fragments indicate that he did not limit himself to issues strictly connected to the island but digressed freely. His particular interest was in finding etymologies of names. Putting forward his own proposals he strove for originality and opposed commonly accepted views. As it turned out, it was these fragments that proved the most interesting to later authors, who preserved them for us.

Concordance of Archemachus’ fragments Jacoby, FGrHist 424 F1 F2

Müller, FHG

F3 F4 F5 F6 F7

F2 F4 F5 F7 F6

F8

F9

F9

F8

F1 F3

Source Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae 6.85, p. 264A-B a) Harpocratio, Lexicon s.v. ‘Kotylaion’ b) Stephanus Byzantinus s.v. ‘Kotylaion’ Clemens Alexandrinus, Stromateis 1.117.4 Harpocratio, Lexicon s.v. ‘Halonnesos’ Plinius, Naturalis historia 7.207 (cf. 1.7) Plutarchus, De Iside et Osiride 27, p. 361E Scholia in Apollonii Rhodii Argonautica 4.257-62c a) Scholia in Pindari Pythia 3.120c b) Scholia in Dionysium Periegetam 94 Strabo, Geographica 10.3.6

CHAPTER NINE SOURCE OR SOURCES OF DIODORUS’ ACCOUNT OF INDIAN SATƮ/SUTTEE (DIOD. SIC. 19.33-34.6)? PRZEMYSàAW SZCZUREK

The motif of an Indian widow ascending the funeral pyre of her dead husband and dying there by burning alive with the husband’s body was a popular subject in both Greek and Roman literature. The topos, one of those describing incredible customs of remote people, belonged to the type of stories which have evoked extreme feelings—dismay on the one hand while pity and admiration on the other.1 The widow burning on the pyre is commonly referred to with the Sanskrit term satƯ (f.) ‘good (pious, righteous, faithful) woman/wife,’ which has often been anglicized in modern publications as suttee and referred to the practice, ritual or custom of widow self-immolation itself.2 The significance of the classical sources seems appreciable considering the fact that, chronologically, the very first accounts of the Indian practice come from Greek authors, not Indian ones. The two oldest sources, dating from the end of the 4th century BC, were passed on by Strabo (1st cent. BC-1st cent. AD), the Greek geographer, who refers to the historians of Alexander the Great, Onesicritus (FGrHist

1

On the Greek and Latin sources on Indian widows’ self-immolation, see Heckel and Yardley 1981; Arora 1982; Vofchuk 1988; Karttunen 1989, 223-5 and 1997, 64-7; Garzilli 1997. 2 In Sanskrit literature there are different expressions designating the act, rite or custom of widows’ self-immolation: anv¿rohaŷa ‘ascension [of the pyre of a dead husband],’ sahagamana ‘going with [a dead husband]’ or sahamaraŷa ‘dying with,’ anugamana ‘going after/following [a dead husband]’ or anumaraŷa ‘dying after.’ Cf. e.g. Fisch 2006, 215.

120

Chapter Nine

134 F 21 = Strabo 15.1.30) and Aristobulus (FGrHist 139 F 42 = Strabo 15.1.62). Among more than ten Greek and Latin accounts of an Indian satƯ which have survived to our times, there is one uniquely uncommon description. It is included in the work by Diodorus of Sicily, a historian from the 1st century BC. His account is the most profound and detailed of all found in ancient literature. And it comprises a description of the ceremony accompanying the heroic death of a widow. Diodorus was the author of a large 40-volume universal history entitled BibliothƝkƝ (The Library of History). Only books 1-5 and 11-20 have been preserved as a whole. Only fragments and epitomes of the remaining volumes have survived. In the introduction to his work (1.4.1), Diodorus remarks that he has been collecting his material for 30 years. Diodorus maintains (1.3, and the title of his work seems to indicate this) that his purpose was to comprise a whole library of different fields in one piece of work which would be historically framed. BibliothƝkƝ was thus a huge historical compilation based on various works. It included the period from mythical times until the war of Julius Caesar in Gaul and his campaign against the Britons in 54 BC. Unfortunately, Diodorus (unlike Strabo or Arrian a little later, to limit oneself to the authors writing on India) hardly anywhere gives the names of the authors whom he uses as his sources.3 The passage which interests us is to be found in chs. 33 and 34 (1-6) of book 19. Books 18-20 of BibliothƝkƝ describe the years 323-302 BC and are devoted to the history of the Diadochi, the successors of Alexander the Great, and the struggles for the inheritance of the great conqueror. In book 19 Diodorus describes, among others, battles between Eumenes of Cardia and Antigonus the One-Eyed (Monophthalmos). The former was the chief secretary of Alexander during his campaign while the latter was the commander of his army in Asia Minor. Towards the end of the year 317 there was a battle between the armies of Eumenes and Antigonus on a plain called Paraetacene (in the middle of Iran). Eumenes was supported by a contingent of Indian soldiers under the command of Ceteus/Keteus. After the battle, an event took place which surprised and even shocked some of the Greek soldiers present with its uncommonness. Diodorus’ text runs as follows (19.32.3-34.6): [32.3] ˃Ǧǡǚ ǝ̑ ǬǮǦǖǛǠ ǜǞǦǖǬǡǚǢ ǩǪ͐ǜǥǚ ǩǚǪǕǝǨǧǨǦ ǣǚ̓ ǩǨǤ̗ ǭΉǦ ǩǚǪ' ˄ǤǤǠǬǢ ǦǨǥǘǥDzǦ ʹǧǠǤǤǚǜǥǖǦǨǦ.

3

On Diodorus Siculus, his work and his sources, see e.g. Schwartz 1905, 663-704; Witkowski 1927, 202-20; Drews 1962; Hornblower 1981, 18-39.

Source or Sources of Diodorus’ Account of Indian satƯ/Suttee [33.1] DŽǠǭǞ̗ǫ ǜ̍Ǫ ˦ ǭΉǦ ʹǣ ǭ͟ǫ ˝ǦǝǢǣ͟ǫ ʩǩǠǦǭǠǣǵǭDzǦ ǬǭǪǚǭǠǜ̕ǫ ʩǦ͝ǪǖǡǠ ǥ̏Ǧ ʹǦ ǭ͠ ǥǕǰ͝ ǤǚǥǩǪΉǫ ʩǜDzǦǢǬǕǥǞǦǨǫ, ʩǩǖǤǢǩǞ ǝ̏ ǝǶǨ ǜǮǦǚͭǣǚǫ ǬǮǦǚǣǨǤǨǮǡǨǶǬǚǫ ʹǦ ǭΊ ǬǭǪǚǭǨǩǖǝ·, ǭ̑Ǧ ǥ̏Ǧ ǦǞǵǜǚǥǨǦ, ǭ̑Ǧ ǝ̏ ˥ǤǘǜǨǢǫ ʽǭǞǬǢ ǩǪǵǭǞǪǨǦ ǬǮǦǨǢǣǗǬǚǬǚǦ, ʩǥǯǨǭǖǪǚǫ ǝ̏ ǯǢǤǨǬǭǵǪǜDzǫ ǩǪ̕ǫ ǚ˱ǭ̕Ǧ ǝǢǚǣǞǢǥǖǦǚǫ. [2] ˯ǦǭǨǫ ǝ̏ ǩǚǤǚǢǨͼ ǦǵǥǨǮ ǩǚǪ̍ ǭǨͭǫ ˝ǦǝǨͭǫ ǭǨ̗ǫ ǜǚǥǨͼǦǭǚǫ ǣǚ̓ ǭ̍ǫ ǜǚǥǨǮǥǖǦǚǫ ǩǚǪǡǖǦǨǮǫ ǥ̑ ǝǢ̍ ǭ͟ǫ ǭΉǦ ǜǨǦǖDzǦ ǣǪǘǬǞDzǫ ǩǨǢǞͭǬǡǚǢ ǭ̕Ǧ ǜǕǥǨǦ, ʩǤǤ̍ ǩǞǘǬǚǦǭǚǫ ʩǤǤǗǤǨǮǫ, ǭ̕Ǧ ǥ̏Ǧ ʽǥǩǪǨǬǡǞǦ ǰǪǵǦǨǦ ǭ͟ǫ ǥǦǠǬǭǞǘǚǫ ǜǞǦǨǥǖǦǠǫ ǝǢ̍ ǦǞDzǭǖǪDzǦ ǭǚͭǫ ˆǤǢǣǘǚǢǫ ˾ǫ ʹǩ̓ ǩǨǤ̗ ǬǮǦǖǛǚǢǦǞ ǝǢǚǩǘǩǭǞǢǦ ǭ̍ǫ ǣǪǘǬǞǢǫ ǣǚ̓ ǭǚǰ̗ ǥǞǭǚǥǞǤǨǥǖǦDzǦ ʩǥǯǨǭǖǪDzǦ ǩǨǤǤ̍ǫ ǭΉǦ ǜǮǦǚǢǣΉǦ ǝǢǚǯǡǞǘǪǞǬǡǚǢ ǣǚ̓ ǝǢ' ʩǣǪǚǬǘǚǦ ǯǢǤǨǬǭǨǪǜǞͭǦ ʺǭǖǪǨǮǫ, ǭǖǤǨǫ ǝ̏ ǥ̑ ǝǮǦǚǥǖǦǚǫ Ǟ˱ǬǰǠǥǵǦDzǫ ʩǩǨǤǢǩǞͭǦ ǭǨ̗ǫ ʹǧ ʩǪǰ͟ǫ ǩǪǨǣǪǢǡǖǦǭǚǫ ǝǢ̍ ǯǚǪǥǕǣDzǦ ʩǦǚǢǪǞͭǦ ǭǨ̗ǫ ǬǮǦǨǢǣǨͼǦǭǚǫ, ǣǚ̓ ǭ̑Ǧ ǰǷǪǚǦ ǝ' Ǩ˱ǣ ˥Ǥǘǜǚǫ ʩǯǨǪǥ̍ǫ ǚ˱ǭǚͭǫ ǝǨͼǦǚǢ, ǩǨǤǤ̍ǫ ǣǚ̓ ǩǨǢǣǘǤǚǫ ǯǖǪǨǮǬǚǦ ǯǡǚǪǭǢǣ̍ǫ ǝǮǦǕǥǞǢǫ, ʹǧ ̄Ǧ ʹǦǘǚǫ ǩǪǨǬǰǪDzǬǡǞǘǬǚǫ ǥǵǦǨǦ ǭǨͭǫ ʹǝǖǬǥǚǬǢǦ ˇ ǩǨǭǠǪǘǨǢǫ ʹǩǢǯǖǪǞǢǦ ǭ̑Ǧ ʩǩǷǤǞǢǚǦ. [3] ʿǩǢǩǨǤǚǟǨǶǬǠǫ ǝ̏ ǭ͟ǫ ͻ͎ǝǢǨǮǪǜǘǚǫ ǣǚ̓ ǩǨǤǤΉǦ ʩǦǚǢǪǨǮǥǖǦDzǦ ǭǨͼǭǨǦ ǭ̕Ǧ ǭǪǵǩǨǦ, ʹǩǞǢǝ̑ ǣǨǤǕǟǨǦǭǞǫ ǭ̍ǫ ǚ˕ǭǘǚǫ ǭΉǦ ǣǚǣΉǦ Ǩ˱ǣ ˅ǝǮǦǗǡǠǬǚǦ ʩǩǨǭǪǖDZǚǢ ǭ̍ǫ ʭǤǤǚǫ ǭΉǦ ʩǝǢǣǠǥǕǭDzǦ, ǦǵǥǨǦ ʽǡǞǬǚǦ ˪ǩDzǫ ǬǮǜǣǚǭǚǣǚǘDzǦǭǚǢ ǭǨͭǫ ǭǞǭǞǤǞǮǭǠǣǵǬǢǦ ʩǦǝǪǕǬǢǦ ǚ˖ ǜǮǦǚͭǣǞǫ ǩǤ̑Ǧ ǭΉǦ ʹǜǣǶDzǦ ˇ ǭΉǦ ʹǰǨǮǬΉǦ ǭǖǣǦǚƳ ǭ̑Ǧ ǝ̏ ǥ̑ ǛǨǮǤǨǥǖǦǠǦ ǭΊ ǝǵǜǥǚǭǢ ǩǢǡǚǪǰǞͭǦ ǰǗǪǚǦ ǥ̏Ǧ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ ǝǢ̍ ǭǖǤǨǮǫ ǣǚ̓ ǡǮǬǢΉǦ ǣǚ̓ ǭΉǦ ʭǤǤDzǦ ǦǨǥǘǥDzǦ Ǟ˙ǪǜǞǬǡǚǢ ǝǢ̍ ǩǚǦǭ̕ǫ ˾ǫ ʩǬǞǛǨͼǬǚǦ. [4] ǍǨǶǭDzǦ ǝ̏ ǦǨǥǨǡǞǭǠǡǖǦǭDzǦ Ǟ˕ǫ ǭǨ˱ǦǚǦǭǘǨǦ ǭ̑Ǧ ǩǚǪǚǦǨǥǘǚǦ ǭΉǦ ǜǮǦǚǢǣΉǦ ǥǞǭǚǛǚǤǞͭǦ ǬǮǦǖǛǠƳ ǝǢ̍ ǜ̍Ǫ ǭ̑Ǧ ˲ǩǞǪǛǨǤ̑Ǧ ǭ͟ǫ ʩǭǢǥǘǚǫ ʺǣǕǬǭǠǫ ˲ǩǨǥǞǦǨǶǬǠǫ ʺǣǨǮǬǘDzǫ ǭ̕Ǧ ǡǕǦǚǭǨǦ Ǩ˱ ǥǵǦǨǦ ǩǪǨǦǨǞͭǬǡǚǢ ǭ͟ǫ ǭΉǦ ǬǮǦǨǢǣǨǶǦǭDzǦ ʩǬǯǚǤǞǘǚǫ ˾ǫ ǣǨǢǦ͟ǫ Ǩ˵ǬǠǫ, ʩǤǤ̍ ǣǚ̓ ǩǪ̕ǫ ʩǤǤǗǤǚǫ ʪǥǢǤǤ͐ǬǡǚǢ ǣǚǡǕǩǞǪ ˲ǩ̏Ǫ ǭ͟ǫ ǥǞǜǘǬǭǠǫ Ǟ˱ǝǨǧǘǚǫ. [34.1] ˮ ǣǚ̓ ǭǵǭǞ ǬǮǦǖǛǠƳ ǭǨͼ ǜ̍Ǫ ǦǵǥǨǮ ǥǘǚǦ ǣǞǤǞǶǨǦǭǨǫ ǬǮǜǣǚǭǚǣǕǞǬǡǚǢ ǩǚǪ͟ǬǚǦ ʩǥǯǵǭǞǪǚǢ ǩǪ̕ǫ ǭ̑Ǧ ǭǨͼ DŽǠǭǖDzǫ ǭǚǯǗǦ, ˲ǩ̏Ǫ ǭǨͼ ǬǮǦǚǩǨǡǚǦǞͭǦ ˾ǫ ˲ǩ̏Ǫ ʩǪǢǬǭǘǨǮ ǬǮǥǯǢǤǨǭǢǥǨǶǥǞǦǚǢ. [2] ǍΉǦ ǝ̏ ǬǭǪǚǭǠǜΉǦ ǝǢǚǣǪǢǦǵǦǭDzǦ ˆ ǦǞDzǭǖǪǚ ǥ̏Ǧ ʩǩǞǯǚǘǦǞǭǨ ǭ̑Ǧ ʺǭǖǪǚǦ ʽǜǣǮǨǦ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ ǣǚ̓ ǝǢ̍ ǭǨͼǭǨ ǥ̑ ǝǶǦǚǬǡǚǢ ǰǪǗǬǚǬǡǚǢ ǭΊ Ǧǵǥ·, ˆ ǝ̏ ǩǪǞǬǛǮǭǖǪǚ ǝǢǣǚǢǵǭǞǪǨǦ ʩǩǞǯǚǘǦǞǭǨ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ ǭ̑Ǧ ǩǪǨǖǰǨǮǬǚǦ ǭǨͭǫ ǰǪǵǦǨǢǫ ǩǪǨǖǰǞǢǦ ǣǚ̓ ǭ͠ ǭǢǥ͠Ƴ ǣǚ̓ ǜ̍Ǫ ʹǩ̓ ǭΉǦ ʭǤǤDzǦ ʪǩǕǦǭDzǦ ǡǞDzǪǞͭǬǡǚǢ ǭǨ̗ǫ ǩǪǞǬǛǮǭǖǪǨǮǫ ǩǨǤ̗ ǩǪǨǖǰǨǦǭǚǫ ǭΉǦ ǦǞDzǭǖǪDzǦ Ǟ˕ǫ ʹǦǭǪǨǩ̑Ǧ ǣǚ̓ ǭǢǥǗǦ. [3] lj˖ ǝ' Ǩ˷Ǧ ǬǭǪǚǭǠǜǨ̓ ǝǢ̍ ǭΉǦ ǥǚǢǞǶǞǬǡǚǢ ǝǮǦǚǥǖǦDzǦ ǜǦǵǦǭǞǫ ǭ̑Ǧ ǩǪǞǬǛǮǭǖǪǚǦ ʽǜǣǮǨǦ Ǩ˷ǬǚǦ ǩǪǨǖǣǪǢǦǚǦ ǭ̑Ǧ ǦǞDzǭǖǪǚǦ. Ǩ˸ ǬǮǥǛǕǦǭǨǫ ˆ ǥ̏Ǧ ʩǩǨǭǮǰǨͼǬǚ ǭ͟ǫ ǣǪǘǬǞDzǫ ʩǩ͞ǞǢ ǥǞǭ̍ ǣǤǚǮǡǥǨͼ, ǣǚǭǚǪǪǗǧǚǬǚ ǭ̕ ǩǞǪ̓ ǭ̑Ǧ ǣǞǯǚǤ̑Ǧ ǝǢǕǝǠǥǚ ǣǚ̓ ǭ̍ǫ ǭǪǘǰǚǫ ǬǩǚǪǕǬǬǨǮǬǚ, ǣǚǡǚǩǞǪǞǘ ǭǢǦǨǫ ǬǮǥǯǨǪ͐ǫ ǥǞǜǕǤǠǫ ǩǪǨǬǠǜǜǞǤǥǖǦǠǫƳ ˆ ǝ̏ ʹǩ̓ ǭ͠ Ǧǘǣ͝ ǩǞǪǢǰǚǪ̑ǫ ʩǩ͞ǞǢ ǩǪ̕ǫ ǭ̑Ǧ ǩǮǪǕǦ, ǬǭǞǯǚǦǨǮǥǖǦǠ ǥ̏Ǧ ǥǘǭǪǚǢǫ ˲ǩ̕ ǭΉǦ Ǩ˕ǣǞǘDzǦ ǜǮǦǚǢǣΉǦ, ǣǞǣǨǬǥǠǥǖǦǠ ǝ̏ ǝǢǚǩǪǞǩΉǫ ̂ǬǩǞǪ Ǟ˙ǫ ǭǢǦǚ ǜǕǥǨǦ ǩǪǨǞǩǖǥǩǞǭǨ ˲ǩ̕ ǭΉǦ ǬǮǜǜǞǦΉǦ, ̛ǝǵǦǭDzǦ ˶ǥǦǨǦ Ǟ˕ǫ ǭ̑Ǧ ʩǪǞǭ̑Ǧ ǚ˱ǭ͟ǫ. [4] ̆ǫ ǝ̏ ʹǜǜ̗ǫ ʹǜǞǦǗǡǠ ǭ͟ǫ ǩǮǪ͐ǫ, ǩǞǪǢǚǢǪǨǮǥǖǦǠ ǭ̕Ǧ ǣǵǬǥǨǦ ʺǚǮǭ͟ǫ ǝǢǞǝǘǝǨǮ ǭǨͭǫ Ǩ˕ǣǞǘǨǢǫ ǣǚ̓ ǯǘǤǨǢǫ, ˾ǫ ʫǦ Ǟ˙ǩǨǢ ǭǢǫ,

121

122

Chapter Nine ǣǚǭǚǤǞǘǩǨǮǬǚ ǭǨͭǫ ʩǜǚǩΉǬǢ ǥǦǠǥǞͭǨǦ. ˦ ǝ̏ ǣǵǬǥǨǫ ˋǦ ǩǞǪ̓ ǥ̏Ǧ ǭ̍ǫ ǰǞͭǪǚǫ ǝǚǣǭǮǤǘDzǦ [ǭǞ] ǩǤ͟ǡǨǫ ʹǦǝǞǝǞǥǖǦDzǦ ǤǘǡǨǢǫ ǩǨǤǮǭǞǤǖǬǢ ǣǚ̓ ǝǢǠǤǤǚǜǥǖǦǨǢǫ ǭǨͭǫ ǰǪǷǥǚǬǢ, ǩǞǪ̓ ǝ̏ ǭ̑Ǧ ǣǞǯǚǤ̑Ǧ ǰǪǮǬΉǦ ʩǬǭǞǪǘǬǣDzǦ Ǩ˱ǣ ˥ǤǘǜǨǫ ʩǪǢǡǥ̕ǫ ǩǚǦǭǨǝǚǩǨͭǫ ǤǘǡǨǢǫ ǝǢǞǢǤǠǥǥǖǦDzǦ, ǩǞǪ̓ ǝ̏ ǭ̕Ǧ ǭǪǕǰǠǤǨǦ ˪ǪǥDzǦ ǩǤ͟ǡǨǫ, ǭΉǦ ǥ̏Ǧ ʹǤǚǬǬǵǦDzǦ, ǭΉǦ ǝ'ʹǣ ǭǨͼ ǣǚǭ' ˥ǤǘǜǨǦ ʩǞ̓ ǣǚǡ' ˲ǩǖǪǡǞǬǢǦ ǥǞǢǟǵǦDzǦ. [5] Ǎ̕ ǝ̏ ǭǞǤǞǮǭǚͭǨǦ ʩǬǩǚǬǚǥǖǦǠ ǭǨ̗ǫ Ǩ˕ǣǞǘǨǮǫ ˲ǩ̕ ǭʩǝǞǤǯǨͼ ǥ̏Ǧ ʹǩ̓ ǭ̑Ǧ ǩǮǪ̍Ǧ ʩǦǞǛǢǛǕǬǡǠ, ˲ǩ̕ ǝ̏ ǭǨͼ ǬǮǦǝǪǚǥǵǦǭǨǫ ʹǩ̓ ǭ̑Ǧ ǡǖǚǦ ǩǤǗǡǨǮǫ ǡǚǮǥǚǬǡǞͭǬǚ ǣǚǭǖǬǭǪǞDZǞǦ ˆǪDzǢǣΉǫ ǭ̕Ǧ ǛǘǨǦƳ [6] ˆ ǥ̏Ǧ ǜ̍Ǫ ǝǶǦǚǥǢǫ ʹǦ ǭǨͭǫ ˪ǩǤǨǢǫ ǩ͐Ǭǚ ǩǪ̓Ǧ ʮǩǭǞǬǡǚǢ ǭ̑Ǧ ǩǮǪ̍Ǧ ǭǪ̓ǫ ǩǞǪǢ͟ǤǡǞǦ, ǚ˱ǭ̑ ǝ̏ ǭʩǦǝǪ̓ ǩǚǪǚǣǤǢǡǞͭǬǚ ǣǚ̓ ǣǚǭ̍ ǭ̑Ǧ ǭǨͼ ǩǮǪ̕ǫ ˦Ǫǥ̑Ǧ Ǩ˱ǝǞǥǘǚǦ ǯDzǦ̑Ǧ ʩǜǞǦǦ͟ ǩǪǨǞǥǖǦǠ ǩǪǨǞǣǚǤǖǬǚǭǨ ǭΉǦ ˦ǪǷǦǭDzǦ ǭǨ̗ǫ ǥ̏Ǧ Ǟ˕ǫ ʽǤǞǨǦ, ǭǨ̗ǫ ǝ̏ Ǟ˕ǫ ˲ǩǞǪǛǨǤ̑Ǧ ʹǩǚǘǦDzǦ. lj˱ ǥ̑Ǧ ʩǤǤ' ʽǦǢǨǢ ǭΉǦ ˀǤǤǗǦDzǦ ʹǩǞǭǘǥDzǦ ǭǨͭǫ ǦǨǥǘǥǨǢǫ ˾ǫ ʩǜǪǘǨǢǫ Ǩ˷ǬǢ ǣǚ̓ ǰǚǤǞǩǨͭǫ. [32.3] Then an event took place that was amazing and very different from Greek custom. [33.1] Ceteus, the general of the soldiers who had come from India, was killed in the battle after fighting brilliantly, but he left two wives who had accompanied him in the army, one of them a bride, the other married to him some years before, but both of them loving him deeply. [2] It is an ancient custom among the Indians that the men who marry and the maidens who are married do not do so as a result of the decision of their parents but by mutual persuasion. Formerly, since the wooing was done by persons who were too young, it often happened that, the choice turning out badly, both would quickly regret their act, and that many wives were first seduced, then through wantonness gave their love to other men, and finally, not being able without disgrace to leave the mates whom they had first selected, would kill their husbands by poison. The country, indeed, furnished no few means for this, since it produced many and varied deadly poisons, some of which when merely spread upon the food or the wine cups cause death. [3] But when this evil became fashionable and many were murdered in this way, the Indians, although they punished those guilty of the crime, since they were not able to deter the others from wrongdoing, established a law that wives, except such as were pregnant or had children, should be cremated along with their deceased husbands, and that one who was not willing to obey this law should not only be a widow for life but also be entirely debarred from sacrifices and other religious observances as unclean. [4] When these laws had been established, the lawlessness of the women changed into opposite, for as each one because of the great loss of caste willingly met death, they not only cared for the safety of their husbands as if it were their own, but they even vied with each other as for a very great honour. [34.1] Such rivalry appeared on this occasion. Although the law ordered only one of Ceteus’ wives to be cremated with him, both of them appeared at his funeral, contending for the right of dying with him as for a prize of

Source or Sources of Diodorus’ Account of Indian satƯ/Suttee

123

valour. [2] When the generals undertook to decide the matter, the younger wife claimed that the other was pregnant and for that reason could not take advantage of the law; and the elder asserted that more justly should the one who had the precedence in years have precedence also in honour, for in all other matters those who are older are regarded as having great precedence over the younger in respect and in honour. [3] The generals, ascertaining from those skilled in midwifery that the elder was pregnant, decided for the younger. When this happened, the one who had lost the decision departed weeping, rending the wreath that was about her head and tearing her hair, just as if some great disaster had been announced to her; but the other, rejoicing in her victory, went off to the pyre crowned with fillets that her midservants bound upon her head, and magnificently dressed as if for a wedding she was escorted by her kinsfolk, who sang a hymn in honour of her virtue. [4] As she drew near the pyre, she stripped off her ornaments and gave them to her servants and friends, leaving keepsakes, as one might say, to those who loved her. These were the ornaments: upon her hands a number of rings set with precious stones of various colours, about her head no small number of golden stars interspersed with stones of every kind, and about her neck numerous necklaces, some of them smaller, the others each a little larger in a constant progression. [5] Finally, after taking leave of the household, she was assisted to mount the pyre by her brother, and while the multitude that had gathered for the spectacle watched with amazement, she ended her life in heroic fashion. [6] For the entire army under arms marched three times about the pyre before it was lighten, and she herself, reclining beside her husband and letting no ignoble cry escape her during the onset of the fire, stirred some of those who beheld her to pity, others to extravagant praise. Nevertheless some of the Greeks denounced the custom as barbarous and cruel (trans. by R.M. Geer).

The account given by Diodorus can be divided into two parts corresponding to the division into chapters 33 and 34 in the standard editions. The first part (after the introductory information about an Indian commander’s death and his two wives) contains remarks on the origin of the custom in question. The second part is a description of the ritual which took place during Ceteus’ funeral. One can have the impression that the Greek author’s intention was to upgrade the unusual historical event, thus equipping it with a kind of theoretical introduction. The analysis of those chapters raises some questions, two of which seem of the utmost importance. Firstly there arises the problem of the account’s reliability, with reference to both the description of the ritual and the information about the custom’s origin. Secondly, the source or sources Diodorus was basing on while writing in the 1st century BC about events taking place towards the end of the 4th century BC need to be identified and defined (Diodorus himself, as was his usual practice, did not make it known).

124

Chapter Nine

Modern authors who refer to Diodorus’ account do not question the reliability of his evidence, especially as far as its second part is concerned, i.e. Ceteus’ funeral and the heroic act of self-immolation of one of his wives. It has already been suggested that while describing the ceremony the Greek historian gave details which can be found—owing to the lack of earlier or contemporary sources—in the later sources, partly Indian (i.e. Sanskrit), beginning with the first centuries AD, and, more frequently, though much later, in non-Indian, i.e. Arabic, Persian and mostly the Western, i.e. European ones.4 It has also been suggested that the account can be acknowledged to have come from an eye-witness to the event.5 Diodorus’ description is embedded in a precise historical context, its protagonists have precise identity (even the name of the Indian dead commander has been given; cf. Garzilli 1997, 345), which makes its historicity even more credible. When compared to other existing accounts concerning suttee it becomes obvious that it is chronologically the first description of the ceremony accompanying the picture of the widow approaching the funeral pyre. It is, moreover, the most detailed description of this kind preserved in ancient sources. Its value cannot therefore be doubted. In the surviving literature of ancient India the first accounts, not even describing but only mentioning the custom of widow-burning, can be found in those pieces of literature which are later by a few centuries than Diodorus’ account. More detailed Sanskrit descriptions are much later. What is interesting, however, in the context of this chapter is that some of the Sanskrit sources contain elements which correspond more or less to particular elements in Diodorus’ description.6 A few examples will serve our purpose. One must notice that the Greek text (Diod. Sic. 19.33.3) reflects more or less the general condition of widows, as it is depicted in Sanskrit texts since the first centuries AD. After her husband’s death the woman should 4

Attention has been drawn, though either on a general level or only partially, to the similarity between the ceremony details in Diodorus’ description and in later Sanskrit as well as reliable non-Indian accounts; see especially Zachariae 1904, 204f.; Winternitz 1920, 71; Garzilli 1997, 345 and 348f.; Karttunen 1997, 66f.; Fisch 2006, 218. 5 This is suggested or acknowledged by Zachariae 1904, 204f.; Winternitz 1920, 69-71; Brown 1946-47, 688 n. 39; Heckel and Yardley 1981, 308; Vofchuk 1988, 147; Altekar 1991, 122; Garzilli 1997, 345 and 348f.; Fisch 2006, 217f. 6 On satƯ in Sanskrit literature, cf. Jolly 1897, 67-71; Winternitz 1920, 55-85; Kane 1941, 624-36; Rao 1932-33, 219-40; Thakur 1963, 126-84; Sharma et al. 1988, 157, 29-38; Narasimhan 1990, 11-27; Altekar 1991, 115-42; Garzilli 1997, 209-14; Bose 2000, 21-32.

Source or Sources of Diodorus’ Account of Indian satƯ/Suttee

125

either enter the fire or remain a widow till the end of her life, her social status changing for the worse.7 This widow’s alternative is firstly noticed in the dharmaĞƗstras (i.e. codes of law, conduct, religious practices, penances, customs, manners, etc.) composed most probably between the 2nd and 5th centuries AD (ViƅŷusmǓti 25.14; BǓhaspatismǓti 24.11; Vy¿smǓti 2.53). Some later juridical codes, commentaries and digests extolling death during the husband’s funeral as a way recommended for the widow refer often to these earlier dharmaĞƗstras and the alternative presented there.8 In the Mah¿bh¿rata, the great Indian epic, one finds a few examples of widows following one of the two recommended ways.9 In a few late Sanskrit texts (after the 10th century) there are passages forbidding pregnant widows and those having small children to ascend the funeral pyre of their husbands (even though otherwise these texts propagate the idea of widow self-immolation). This restriction is then in agreement with what Diodorus says in 19.33.3 and 19.34.2. Vijñ¿nečvara, a 12th century author of the commentary to Y¿jñavalkyasmǓti entitled Mit¿kƅar¿, in his commentary on line 1.86 forbids pregnant widows and those with small children to immolate themselves, although his general opinion is that following a dead husband should be regarded as the common duty of all women of all castes, down to c¿ŷŝalas’ (i.e. outcastes’) women. Vijñ¿nečvara’s words are then repeated by some later authors of dharmaĞƗstras.10 Quite similar restriction directed towards pregnant widows and mothers of little children 7

On the status of widows in ancient India, see e.g. Kane 1941, 583-623; Altekar 1991, 143-65. 8 Cf. above all: Par¿čarasmǓti 4.30-3 (4th-6th cent.), Vijñ¿nečvara (12th cent.), the author of the commentary to Y¿jñavalkyasmǓti (Mit¿kƅar¿, comm. to 1.86); Apar¿rka (12th cent.) in his commentary to Y¿j. (Apar¿rkaY¿jñavalkya-dharmač¿stra-nibandha, on 1.87); M¿dhav¿c¿rya (14th cent.), the author of the commentary to Par¿čarasmǓti (Par¿čara-m¿dhavåya, on 2.1). The earliest dharmaĞƗstras, ManusmǓti and Y¿jñavalkyasmǓti (dated at the turn of the BC era or the first centuries AD), do not notice the practice of selfimmolation, but they recommend to widows a life of celibacy, self-restraint and ascetism (Manu 5.156-61; Y¿j. 1.75). 9 After the death of the king P¿ŷŝu, one of his wives entered the funeral pile (MBh. 1.116) while the other remained in life as a widow bringing up their five sons. After the death of Vasudeva, KǓƅŷa’s father, four of his wives ascended the funeral pyre (MBh. 16.8.18 and 24), but the widows of Vasudeva’s brother, Akrěra, chose the ascetic life. After the death of KǓƅŷa himself, five of his wives ascended the funeral pyre (MBh. 16.8.71), others remained in life leading ascetic life in a forest. 10 E.g. by VičvečvarabhaƇƇa, the 14th cent. author of a dharmaĞƗstra called Madanap¿rij¿ta; Vidyan¿thadåkƅita, the author of SmǓtimukt¿phala, from about 1600 r., the dharmaĞƗstra code popular in South India.

126

Chapter Nine

has been expressed in Garuŝa-Pur¿ŷa (2.4.100), nota bene in a stanza closing the passage propagating the idea of widow self-immolation.11 In Sanskrit texts referring to cases of sahagamana (i.e. the ceremony of going with a dead husband into the funeral pyre, cf. n. 2 above) one can find several elements of the ceremony itself which correspond to particular elements presented in Diodorus’ testimony in 19.34. A few times a reference is made to the richly decorated attire of satƯ (cf. Diod. Sic. 19.34.3f.). Daŷŝin in his romance written in prose, Dačakum¿racarita (ca. 600 AD) mentions this decorated attire put on by the wife who is to mount her husband’s funeral pyre (9.63: anumaraŷa-maŷŝana, “decorations characteristic for anumaraŷa [i.e. following husband to death]”; 9.77: maraŷa-maŷŝana, “decorations characteristic for the death [of widow on pyre]”).12 B¿ŷa, the 7th century author of a historical novel, Harƅacarita, mentions even more elements common to the description of the ceremony in Diodorus while describing the queen Yačomatå’s voluntary death by fire.13 B¿ŷa describes, among others, the queen’s affectionate farewell to her relations, friends, courtiers and maidservants, describing the whole event as a sort of funeral spectacle with the public gathered in great numbers (cf. Diod. Sic. 19.34.5). After the ritual bath, Yačomatå put on a dress ornamented with jewels and garlands of flowers, which was not to resemble a widow’s attire. While bidding farewell to her relatives she gave away all her possessions, and walking towards the pyre she was throwing her jewels about, which were sort of farewell gifts (cf. Diod. Sic. 19.34.4). One can find fuller descriptions of the sahagamana ceremony in a passage of the Padmapur¿ŷa (from around the turn of the 10th cent.) and in a later work, the Čuddhitattva (16th cent.). Especially the first of the two texts seems to be interesting in the context of the above remarks.14 In a 11

M¿dhav¿c¿rya (14th cent.) even extends this restriction, directing in two stanzas the prohibition of self-immolation not only to pregnant widows and those with little children, but also to those who have not yet reached the age of puberty and those who, at the time of their husbands’ funeral, are at their menstrual period, as well as the widows lying in. The first of these stanzas (being a quotation from the late pur¿ŷa, Bſhannaradiyapur¿ŷa) is then repeated in the Čuddhitattva (16th cent.) and the SmǓtimukt¿phala. The second (ascribed originally to Bſhaspati) is also repeated in the Čuddhitattva (cf. Kane 1941, 633 and n. 1482). 12 Onians 2005, 344f., 348f. 13 Cowell and Thomas 1897, 150f. The queen Yačomatå entered the fire when she heard that there was no hope for her dying husband, the king Prabh¿karavardhana, i.e. still before the king’s death, which is not a typical act of a widow’s self-immolation (cf. Aiyangar 1941, 187; Kane 1941, 628; Sharma et al. 1988, 41; Narasimhan 1990, 20f.; Altekar 1991, 127; Garzilli 1997, 226 n. 2). 14 See Deshpande 1988-92, vol. 5, 2174-9.

Source or Sources of Diodorus’ Account of Indian satƯ/Suttee

127

story of the Padmapur¿ŷa 5.106 (= P¿t¿lakhaŷŝa 106), the sage N¿rada induces a brahmin widow to enter fire after the death of her husband (5.106.60) and introduces her to the details of the ritual which purifies women from all sins (5.106.70b-75a). Among the ritual deeds recommended to widows at the time of entering the fire, the following are mentioned: a purifying bath, embellishing themselves by putting on ornaments and flowers, applying unguents and red laquer to their feet (cf. Diod. Sic. 19.34.3), distributing gifts according to their capacity (cf. Diod. Sic. 19.34.4), speaking ageeable words and keeping up a pleasing face (cf. Diod. Sic. 19.34.3), listening to the melody of many auspicious musical instruments and songs (cf. Diod. Sic. 19.34.3). In the following part, ritual deeds performed by the widow herself just before her entering the fire are presented (PdP 5.106.85-97). The decorated lady, among others, saluted the sage by going round him three times and dedicated her mind to the goddess P¿rvatå (who herself, especially for that ceremony, bestowed the widow with most of the ornaments, flowers and unguents, cf. 5.106.7683). She touched one by one all the gifts (auspicious thread, turmeric, sacred grains of rice, flowers, garments, musk, sandal, golden comb and various fruits) and gave them all to eldery married women (cf. again Diod. Sic. 19.34.3). Then she went three times round the blazing pyre (in an auspicious way keeping it to her right) (cf. Diod. Sic. 19.34.6) and with a smiling face directed her words to the gods (5.106.90-3). Finally she entered the burning fire and immediately obtained all the celestial rewards promised to chaste ladies for such heroical acts. There are some other Sanskrit sources alluding to demonstrations of joy or smiling faces by widows which are to enter the fire.15 Čuddhitattva (16th cent.), the work by Raghunandana, while describing the funeral ceremony speaks of, among other things, a widow making a declaration of resolve (saűkalpa) as well as her walking three times round the pyre just before following her husband onto the funeral pyre.16 The practice of circumambulation has been widespread in India

15

B¿ŷa in ch. 5 of the Harƅacarita, after narrating the volountary death of the queen Yačomatå, depicts in a vivid way the coming of the night and presents night lotuses (i.e. the ones opening their petals at night) as having smiling faces, adorned in ivory-petalled buds and forming “for themselves white garlands of wreathed filaments, like wives in readiness to follow their lord to death” (Cowell and Thomas 1897, 157). The case of the queen Sěryamatå leaping with a bright smile into the flaming pyre of her husband (in the year 1081, in Kashmir) was described by Kalhaŷa (12th cent.) in his historical work R¿jataraŵgiŷå (7.478; cf. also 8.368, mentioning the jewels of a widow ascending the pyre). 16 Cf. Kane 1941, vol. 2, part 1, 633f. (translation) and vol. 2, part 2, 1268 (appendix with the original Sanskrit text).

128

Chapter Nine

since ancient times.17 One of the most important aspects of this practice was to pay respect to the circumambulated person or sacred element of a ritual (e.g. the circumambulation of an image of a god, a holy person, a tempel or chaitya [sacred place], a sacred plant or tree, the fire—including the groom’s and bride’s walking around the fire during the wedding ceremony as well as mourners going round the corpse lying on a funeral pyre, etc.). The Greek account somehow seems to reflect this practice (in Diod. Sic. 19.34.6), even if the Greek and Sanskrit sources differ in details (i.e. Diodorus speaks of the army circumambulating the pyre with the widow on it while the Sanskrit as well as the later non-Indian sources (cf. below) draw attention to the circumambulation of the pyre by the widow herself).18 A true storehouse of knowledge about widows’ death on pyre are manifold non-Indian accounts of travels, medieval and modern, above all Western (European), more rarely Arabic or Persian, mostly in the form of travel accounts or diaries (in a few cases, letters). They were written by foreigners visiting India, i.e. by merchants, Christian missionaries, soldiers, politicians and civil servants, travellers and adventurers. In this kind of literature, long and detailed descriptions of ceremonies accompanying the acts of widow-burning can often be found.19 It is obvious that not all of those accounts are reliable, even if their authors visited India. Some of the authors base their descriptions on, or even openly refer to, the ancient Greek and Latin sources. Some others follow their modern predecessors. If one would like to compare these descriptions to the one by Diodorus and to draw any conclusions on the Greek account’s reliability on that basis, one should, of course, make sure that the later descriptions are independent of the Greek author. That means one should take into consideration only the accounts of eye-witnesses to particular events, accounts confirmed by a definite date and place of the event, by mentioning other witnesses or accompanying persons, by giving detailed characteristics of the main actors of the unusual spectacle or by other details (for example by giving details characterizing both a widow’s and her family members’ behaviour, by describing authors’ own participation as viewers or their reactions to what they observed). Among tens of accounts of this kind (mostly the ones from between the 14th and 18th centuries) I have succeded in gathering, there are some revealing a 17

Cf. Hillebrandt 1987, 187-9. Cf. also Garzilli 1997, 361 n. 145. 19 The number of reliable accounts coming from European travellers to India in the 17th and 18th centuries may be taken as evidence that being present at the ceremony of a widow’s self-burning became, at that time, a sort of a “tourist attraction.” 18

Source or Sources of Diodorus’ Account of Indian satƯ/Suttee

129

quite surprising similarity to Diodorus’ account. Quite often they are even more thorough, i.e. they include other, additional details of the ritual, not mentioned by Diodorus. But as far as the Greek account is concerned, they authenticate most of the elements comprised in Diodorus’ description. All of the elements of the ceremony described in Diod. Sic. 19.34 can thus be confirmed as coming from an eye-witness account.20 Similarly to Diodorus and then some Sanskrit sources, most of the non-Indian accounts refer to the decorated attire of a widow (some of them even compare it to the nuptial attire), songs (or hymns) sung in the presence of satå or in honour of her during a solemn procession to the pyre, the distribution of jewels by the widow, circumabulation of the pyre three times, loud praises and cries when the widow’s body was consumed by the fire. Some of the travellers (though not all of them) witnessed and then pointed to a widow’s determination or even her manifestation of joy with her smiling face during the ceremony. All of the eye-witnesses emphasize, generally speaking, the public character of the ceremony, a peculiar spectacle with attendants gathered in great number. What must be emphasized here is the fact that the whole ceremony of a woman’s following, i.e. going to accompany, her dead husband to the other world was to appear as a repetition of a wedding ceremony. And the widow wishing to join her husband in death was once again taking the part of a bride.21 Diodorus’ account fits perfectly into this whole context22 appearing to be the first historical account of this most cruel “wedding.”

20

There is no space in this chapter to support the above remarks by referring to particular travellers’ accounts and presenting details of their descriptions. (Some references to, quotations from, and analyses of, the non-Indian accounts of suttee can be found in e.g. Johns 1816; Yule and Burnell 1886, 666-71; Zachariae 190405; Winternitz 1920, 71-85; Penzer 1925, 255-72; Thompson 1928, 145-58; Sharma et al. 1988, 1-13; Weinberger-Thomas 2000; Fisch 2006, 211-362; Major 2007, 20-96.) Let me only mention the names of the authors of some most important and, as it seems, reliable accounts of satå: Alberuni (report from about 1030), Ibn Battuta (1325), Nicolo de Conti (ca. 1430), Ludovico di Varthema (ca. 1505), Duarte Barbosa (1518), Fernão Nuniz (ca. 1535-1537), Gasparo Balbi (1583), François Pyrard (1607), Nicholas Withington (1612-1616), Pietro della Valle (1623), Francisco Pelsaert (ca. 1626), Peter Mundy (1630), Abraham Roger (first half of the 17th cent.), Albert de Mandelslo (1640), Jean Baptiste Tavernier (1649 and ca. 1661), François Bernier (ca. 1666), Thomas Bowrey (1672), John Fryer (ca. 1675), John Francis Gemelli Careri (1695), Niccolao Manucci (ca. 1700), John Zephaniah Holwell (1742), Stavorinus (1770), William Hodges (1781), Thomas Twining (1792), Abbé Jean Antoine Dubois (1794 and ca. 1800). 21 Cf. esp. Zachariae 1904, 209f.

130

Chapter Nine

It should, however, be noticed that not all elements of the whole Diodorus account of suttee can be confirmed by reliable sources. This refers mainly to the first part of the account, i.e. to considerations preceding the description of Ceteus’ funeral, which mention “the history” of the custom and are included in ch. 19.33. There is no clue about the supposed origin of the custom, i.e. poisoning husbands by their unfaithful wives (19.33.2). This information can in no way be confirmed either by Sanskrit sources or by non-Indian travellers’ accounts.23 The reliability of the information about the consequences brought about by imposing on women the duty to burn with the dead husbands (19.33.4) can also be questioned. The consequences that followed were, firstly, women’s “automatic” eagerness to die after the law was established (which resulted from enormous disgrace in the case of refusal), secondly, their concern about their husbands’ security and, thirdly, competition for a place on the pyre as though for fame (which a woman burned with her husband might be expecting).24 One can have the impression that these two “theoretical” parts of the text are accompanied by a considerable amount of moralizing if compared to the remaining parts of the account. Ch. 33 seems to be different from 34 as far as reliability (and also style) is concerned. That is why a question arises whether Diodorus, while composing his account, made use of only one source or of more sources. There is a general agreement among the scholars of Diodorus as to his main source for the history of Alexander the Great’s successors, the Diadochi and Epigoni, which is presented by him in books 18-20 (covering the years 323-302). Diodorus was basing here on the lost work of Hieronymus of Cardia, entitled most probably (as may be inferred from the ancient testimonies) ˎ ǭΉǦ ǝǢǚǝǵǰDzǦ [ǣǚ̓ ʹǩǢǜǵǦDzǦ] ˖ǬǭǨǪǘǚ,25 being the fundamental work in antiquity on the history of Alexander’s 22

Cf. esp. Diod. 19.34.3: ...ǣǞǣǨǬǥǠǥǖǦǠ ǝ̏ ǝǢǚǩǪǞǩΉǫ ̂ǬǩǞǪ Ǟ˙ǫ ǭǢǦǚ ǜǕǥǨǦ ǩǪǨǞǩǖǥǩǞǭǨ ˲ǩ̕ ǭΉǦ ǬǮǜǜǞǦΉǦ... 23

Cf. Arora 1982, 475f.; Fisch 2006, 341-4. One has to notice, however, that some of the eyewitnesses remark that one of the main motives stimulating widows to enter their husbands pyres was the prospect of their low social status after their husbands’ death. Earlier and contemporary Sanskrit sources corroborate those travellers’ remarks (cf. e.g. Kane 1941, 583623; Altekar 1991, 143-65). Both Indian and non-Indian sources not infrequently mention the fame which followed satå burned in fire. Thus, Diodorus’ information about burned widows’ fame (as well as that of their disgrace, or rather low social position, in the case of their remaining alive), taken out of its moralistic context, can find confirmation in the Indian reality. 25 Cf. Jacoby 1913b, 1547; Hornblower 1981, 76-80. 24

Source or Sources of Diodorus’ Account of Indian satƯ/Suttee

131

successors.26 It has been demonstrated that Diodorus, while describing the history of the Diadochi and Epigoni, absorbed a considerable part of Hieronymus’ work into his own compendium of world history (most probably by summarizing or epitomizing Hieronymus’ work), rather than making use of it occasionally (i.e. to present an episode, biography, regional history, some strategic examples, geographical or ethnographical passages, etc.).27 Hieronymus of Cardia, who lived at the turn of the 4th century BC (around 364-260),28 was a relative of Eumenes of Cardia (perhaps his nephew), one of the Diadochi, and was serving under the command of Eumenes.29 He participated with Eumenes in the Asian campaign as well as in the battle against Antigonus the One-Eyed on the Paraetacene plain in 317 BC. It was in this battle, according to Diodorus, that Ceteus, the commander of the Indian contingent, was killed.30 The analyses of the surviving fragments of Hieronymus (FGrHist 154), and—most of all—of Diodorus’ books 18-20, as well as some other sources,31 allow us to regard Hieronymus as a very significant and reliable historian. In his work, he 26

On Hieronymus of Cardia and his work, see Jacoby 1913b, 1540-60; Witkowski 1927, 63-7; Brown 1946-47; Hornblower 1981. 27 Cf. esp. Hornblower 1981, passim, esp. 3, 17, 32-9, 62f., 75. Cf. also e.g. Schwartz 1905, 684f.; Jacoby 1913b, 1547-50; Brown 1946-47, 692-6; Simpson 1959, 370; Bizière 1975, XV. 28 According to Agatharchides (quoted by Pseudo-Lucian in Macr. 22) Hieronymus was to live 104 years (cf. the interpretation of this testimony and suggestions as to the age of Hieronymus in Jacoby 1913b, 1542f.; Brown 1946-47, 685f.; Hornblower 1981, 5f.). 29 Hieronymus was most probably Eumenes’ secretary and with no doubt must have enjoyed his confidence, if the latter charged him with delicate diplomatic missions (cf. Jacoby 1913b, 1540f.; Brown 1946-47, 684, 689f.; Hornblower 1981, 5, 10f.). 30 A few months later, after the battle of Gabiene (316 BC) and the defeat of Eumenes’ army, Hieronymus found himself in Antigonus’ camp among wounded war prisoners. After the execution of Eumenes, together with the rest of the defeated army Hieronymus passed over into Antigonus’ service (this practice, i.e. passing over of a defeated commander’s soldiers into the victor’s orders, was at that time widespread). Under Antigonus’ command Hieronymus was to enjoy his confidence, too (Diod. Sic. 19.44). Testimonies indicate that he played a significant role also under the rules of two next Antigonids, Demetrius Poliorcetes and Antigonus Gonatas (cf. Jacoby 1913b, 1541f.; Brown 1946-47: 684-7; Hornblower 1981, 11-5). 31 I.e. the fragmentarily preserved work by Arrian Ǎ̍ ǥǞǭ̍ ʱǤ̐ǧǚǦǝǪǨǦ (History of Times after Alexander) as well as suplementary data coming from such authors as Plutarch, Justinus and Nepos (Hornblower 1981, 63-75).

132

Chapter Nine

used his good knowledge of political and military matters, giving the details (e.g. statistics or strategical information) in a precise way. The position he occupied under Eumenes and, later on, under the first of the three Antigonids gave him easy access to official correspondence and other documents as well as information coming from other sources (e.g. reliable oral accounts) either first or second-hand. The main narratives in his work were, most of all, based on events in which the historian himself participated.32 In his history of the Diadochi and Epigoni, the author also displayed interests other than strictly historical, namely antiquarian, geographical, not to mention ethnographical.33 It is more than likely that Hieronymus himself was the author of the reliable description of the heroic death by fire of the Indian commander’s wife. There seems to be no denying the fact that Hieronymus, as one of Eumenes’ soldiers, was an eye-witness at this event, so unusual to the Greeks, taking place after the battle on the Paraetacene plain. Hence the main source of his description was autopsy.34 This conclusion must refer at least to the part included by Diodorus in chapter 19.34.35 32

Cf. Jacoby 1913b, 1547-51; Brown 1946-47, 687-9; Hornblower 1981, 1, 16f., 35-40, 120-37. 33 Cf. Jacoby 1913b, 1548f., 1557-9; Witkowski 1927, 64-6; Brown 1946-47, 688 and n. 34; Hornblower 1981, 47-9, 80-7, 137-53. 34 Such is the opinion of e.g. Jacoby 1913b, 1559; Brown 1946-47, 688 n. 39; Heckel and Yardley 1981, 308 (and literature cited by the authors in n. 7; Heckel and Yardley acknowledge Diodorus’ relation to be an abbreviation of Hieronimus); Hornblower 1981, 94 n. 71, 121, 151; Fisch 2006, 217 (cf. also Simpson 1959, 378 and n. 39). Garzilli’s (1997, 349f.) hesitation and doubts regarding the probability of Hieronymus’ direct influence on the description retained in Diodorus’ work seem to me to be too excessive. I am also sceptical about her supposition (1997, 249) that: “Whether Hieronymus of Cardia was the main source, directly or not, he would follow an antecendent historian, perhaps an eye-witness.” All the traces seem to lead one to the conclusion that it was most probably Hieronymus himself who eye-witnessed the ceremony of sahagamana in 317 BC. Garzilli (1997, 347f.) very accurately notices that in Diodorus’ description one can find both the elements that appear in Indian accounts of sahagamana and the same elements as those reported by Onesicritus, thus, the historical narration here is mixed with the taste for paradoxon. But on that basis she also considers it possible to hypothesize that (besides the hypothesis about Hieronymus’ authorship) the original authorship of Diodorus’ account can be attributed to another historian like Clitarchus or even “to a source antecedent to Onesicritus and Aristobulus” such as Ctesias of Cnidus (1997, 349f.), which seems to be hardly justified supposition. 35 Hornblower (1981, 121) supposes that in the last sentence of the account (Diod. Sic. 19.34.6) Hieronymus might have expressed his own opinion about the cruelty of the foreign custom.

Source or Sources of Diodorus’ Account of Indian satƯ/Suttee

133

The question of a possible source, or maybe sources, of the preceding chapter 19.33 seems less self-evident. The unconfirmed information about the genesis of the custom which was supposed to have been introduced due to poisoning committed by the unfaithful wives, draws our attention to another preserved source, i.e. a fragment ascribed to Onesicritus, where similar information can be found. The comparison of the relevant passages from Onesicritus and Diodorus (19.33.2, quoted above) seems to be fruitful here. Onesicritus, FGrHist 134 F 21 = Strabo 15.1.30: The following too is reported as a custom peculiar to the Cathaeans: the groom and bride choose one another themselves, and wives are burned up with their deceased husbands for a reason of this kind—that they sometimes fell in love with young men and deserted their husbands or poisoned them; and therefore the Cathaeans established this as a law, thinking that they would put a stop to the poisoning. However, the law is not stated in a plausible manner, nor the cause of it either (trans. by H.L. Jones).36

Similar information in both sources (free mutual choice of a spouse, unfaithfulness of wives resulting from falling in love with other men, poisoning of husbands as the reason for introducing concremation of widows) is a conspicuous clue to assume that this part of Diodorus’ account is closely connected to or eventually springs from Onesicritus.37 Also in his book 17 (devoted to the history of Alexander the Great) Diodorus includes information which in a far more direct way refers to Onesicritus’ account. In the same way as Onesicritus, Diodorus mentions the custom common among the Indian people called Cathaeans/Kathaioi (DŽǚǡǚǘǨǢ), though, while explaining the origin of Indian widow burning, he refers to one vicious woman, not women in general (Onesicritus’ account may have been transmitted here via Clitarchus whose lost history of Alexander was most probably the main source of Diodorus’ book 17).

36

ˡǝǢǨǦ ǝ̏ ǭΉǦ DŽǚǡǚǘDzǦ ǣǚ̓ ǭǨͼǭǨ ˖ǬǭǨǪǞͭǭǚǢ ǭ̕ ǚ˖ǪǞͭǬǡǚǢ ǦǮǥǯǘǨǦ ǣǚ̓ ǦǶǥǯǠǦ ʩǤǤǗǤǨǮǫ ǣǚ̓ ǭ̕ ǬǮǜǣǚǭǚǣǚǘǞǬǡǚǢ ǭǞǡǦǞΉǬǢ ǭǨͭǫ ʩǦǝǪǕǬǢ ǭ̍ǫ ǜǮǦǚͭǣǚǫ ǣǚǭ̍ ǭǨǢǚǶǭǠǦ ǚ˕ǭǘǚǦ, ˪ǭǢ ʹǪΉǬǚǘ ǩǨǭǞ ǭΉǦ ǦǖDzǦ ʩǯǘǬǭǚǢǦǭǨ ǭΉǦ ʩǦǝǪΉǦ ˇ ǯǚǪǥǚǣǞǶǨǢǞǦ ǚ˱ǭǨǶǫƳ ǦǵǥǨǦ Ǩ˷Ǧ ǡǖǬǡǚǢ ǭǨͼǭǨǦ ˾ǫ ǩǚǮǬǨǥǖǦǠǫ ǭ͟ǫ ǯǚǪǥǚǣǞǘǚǫƳ Ǩ˱ ǩǢǡǚǦΉǫ ǥ̏Ǧ Ǩ˷Ǧ ˦ ǦǵǥǨǫ Ǩ˱ǝ' ˆ ǚ˕ǭǘǚ ǤǖǜǞǭǚǢ. 37 Cf. similar suppositions in Hornblower 1981, 94 n. 71; Heckel and Yardley 1981, 308; Fisch 2006, 341-4.

134

Chapter Nine Diodorus 17.91.3: ...among them [= Cathaeans] it was the custom for wives to be cremated together with their husbands. This law had been put into effect there because of a woman who had killed her husband with poison (trans. by C.B. Welles).38

While comparing Diodorus’ passage 19.33.2 with Onesicritus’ fragment one’s attention must be drawn not only to similarities but also to differences in presenting the same issue. Describing the customs of the Cathaeans, Onesicritus in his laconic and more moderate account speaks, firsty, about the mutual choosing of spouses and, secondly, about widows being burned together with their dead husbands (and adds the origin of the custom). He treats both customs as two independent pieces of information. Moreover, while referring to the unfaithfulness of wives he says that they either left their husbands or poisoned them. But in Diodorus all the information was used to create a quite developed picture of the origin of the shocking custom, comprised in a cause-result form as a chain of selflinked elements of the description (the picture looks quite naïve, though, particularly when compared with its original source). Thus, in Diodorus it is the mutual choosing of spouses, made at too young an age (this particular information seems to have been added by Diodorus; it does not appear in Onesicritus39), that brings about the unfaithfulness of women, who cannot leave their husbands with dignity (according to Diodorus, they do not even try to do it), and so they poison them.40 It was probably Strabo himself who, passing on Onesicritus’ account, ended it with a remark showing his sceptical attitude towards the reliability of both the very

38

NJǚǪ̍ ǝ̏ ǭǨǶǭǨǢǫ ǦǵǥǢǥǨǦ ˋǦ ǭ̍ǫ ǜǮǦǚͭǣǚǫ ǭǨͭǫ ʩǦǝǪǕǬǢ ǬǮǜǣǚǭǚǣǚǘǞǬǡǚǢƳ ǭǨͼǭǨ ǝ' ʹǣǮǪǷǡǠ ǭ̕ ǝǵǜǥǚ ǩǚǪ̍ ǭǨͭǫ ǛǚǪǛǕǪǨǢǫ ǝǢ̍ ǥǘǚǦ ǜǮǦǚͭǣǚ ǯǚǪǥǕǣǨǢǫ ʩǦǞǤǨͼǬǚǦ ǭ̕Ǧ ʭǦǝǪǚ. 39 Cf. Megasthenes’ information that in the country called Pandaea (NJǚǦǝǚǘǠ) girls reach the age suitable for marriage at 7 (FGrH 715 F 13a = Arr. Ind. 9.8). 40 In Diodorus there is a piece of additional information about the abundance of poisonous substances in India. This could be a gloss inserted (by Diodorus himself?) on the basis of earlier Greek authors’ accounts of Indian poisons. Such information is found in the summary of Ctesias of Cnidus’ Indika by Photius. Aristobulus also spoke of Indian poisons; cf. Strabo 15.1.21: “Aristobulus mentions also another tree, not large, with pods, like the bean, ten fingers in length, full of honey, and says that those who eat it cannot easily be saved from death.” Also 15.1.22: “Both he [scil. Aristobulus] and other writers speak of this country as abounding in herbs and roots both curative and poisonous, and likewise in plants of many colours” (trans. by H.L. Jones).

Source or Sources of Diodorus’ Account of Indian satƯ/Suttee

135

custom and its genesis. In Diodorus’ account there is no doubt whatsoever.41 The second passage the reliability of which cannot be demonstrated is the last sentence of ch. 33 (19.33.4). Owing to another preserved fragment from the lost work of Aristobulus, being the second oldest account of satƯ, it can be supposed also in this case that the information contained in Diodorus’ sentence originated from a supplementary source. The comparison of this sentence with Aristobulus’ fragment describing customs in Taxila makes such a supposition probable. Aristobulus, FGrHist 139 F 42 = Strabo 15.1.62: ...and to have several wives is a custom common to others. And he [=Aristobulus] further says that he heard that among certain tribes wives were glad to be burned up along with their deceased husbands, and that those who would not submit to it were held in disgrace; and this custom is 42 also mentioned by other writers (trans. by H.L. Jones).

In Aristobulus’ quite restrained account (ǩǚǪǕ ǭǢǬǢ ǝ' ʩǣǨǶǞǢǦ ǯǠǬǘ) there are two pieces of information following one another. The first one is about the joy of the dead husbands’ wives while ascending the funeral pyre, the second is about the disgrace of those refusing to follow the custom. In Diodorus’ account these two pieces were placed in the opposite order. What is more, Diodorus’ passage was composed in such a way that Aristobulus’ second piece of information becomes the cause of his first one. It is the widows’ life in disgrace, Diodorus says, that makes them eager to die. Again, as was the case with Onesicritus’ account, separate pieces of information were used to create a passage of moralizing tendency with the cause-effect connection (quite an unusual one in Diodorus’ account, one might say, especially since according to him the women’s behaviour changed somehow automatically, just after the introduction of the concremation law). 41

Unfortunately, we are not able to find any closer verbal resemblances between the passages compared, i.e. the passage of Diodorus and Onesicritus’ fragment quoted by Strabo. It is not impossible that Strabo as well as Diodorus changed the phraseology of authors they quoted. (Cf. only obvious verbal resemblances: Strabo 15.1.30: ˖ǬǭǨǪǞͭǭǚǢ...ǭ̕ ǬǮǜǣǚǭǚǣǚǘǞǬǡǚǢ ǭǞǡǦǞΉǬǢ ǭǨͭǫ ʩǦǝǪǕǬǢ ǭ̍ǫ ǜǮǦǚͭǣǚǫ...ǦǵǥǨǦ Ǩ˷Ǧ ǡǖǬǡǚǢ ǭǨͼǭǨǦ... ~ Diod. Sic. 19.33.3: ǦǵǥǨǦ ʽǡǞǬǚǦ ˪ǩDzǫ ǬǮǜǣǚǭǚǣǚǘDzǦǭǚǢ ǭǨͭǫ ǭǞǭǞǤǞǮǭǠǣǵǬǢǦ ʩǦǝǪǕǬǢǦ ǚ˖ ǜǮǦǚͭǣǞǫ; cf. also Diod. Sic. 17.91.3: ǦǵǥǢǥǨǦ ˋǦ ǭ̍ǫ ǜǮǦǚͭǣǚǫ ǭǨͭǫ ʩǦǝǪǕǬǢ ǬǮǜǣǚǭǚǣǚǘǞǬǡǚǢ.) 42 Ǎ̕ ǝ̏ ǩǤǞǘǨǮǫ ʽǰǞǢǦ ǜǮǦǚͭǣǚǫ ǣǨǢǦ̕Ǧ ǣǚ̓ ʭǤǤDzǦ. NJǚǪǕ ǭǢǬǢ ǝ' ʩǣǨǶǞǢǦ ǯǠǬ̓ ǣǚ̓ ǬǮǜǣǚǭǚǣǚǢǨǥǖǦǚǫ ǭ̍ǫ ǜǮǦǚͭǣǚǫ ǭǨͭǫ ʩǦǝǪǕǬǢǦ ʩǬǥǖǦǚǫ, ǭ̍ǫ ǝ̏ ǥ̑ ˲ǩǨǥǞǦǨǶǬǚǫ ʩǝǨǧǞͭǦ. Ǟ˙ǪǠǭǚǢ ǣǚ̓ ʭǤǤǨǢǫ ǭǚͼǭǚ.

136

Chapter Nine

In the last sentence of ch. 33, Diodorus’ passage is enriched with two pieces of information absent from both Onesicritus and Aristobulus. Wives’ care for their husbands’ security and their competition for the honour of ascending the pyre complete the picture of the origin of the custom. It is difficult to say something more detailed about the first piece of information from the point of view of source criticism (unless we suppose that this is Diodorus’ own moralizing gloss), but the second one allows us to put forward a hypothesis as regards its source. It could be assumed that the information about the competition among widows in ch. 33 is simply a generalization from what is said about Ceteus’ funeral in the next chapter (when the two wives argued). But it is also quite probable to assume that the account of Diodorus owed this particular piece of information to one more supplementary source, namely Herodotus’ account of the Thracians’ funeral customs which included sacrificing one of the dead man’s wives by his grave (5.5). It should be noticed that apart from Diodorus, two other accounts of Indian widow-burning written in the 1st century BC, thus more or less contemporary to Diodorus, have been preserved. One is in Latin and it comes from Cicero while the other one is a fragment of a lost Greek work by Nicolaus of Damascus.43 It can be presumed that they wrote on Indian widows independently of Diodorus.44 What is significant is that both authors also mention wives’ competition for the privilege of being burned after their husbands’ death. Cicero, Tusc. 5.77f.: mulieres vero in India, cum est cuius earum vir mortuus, in certamen iudiciumque veniunt, quam plurimum ille dilexerit—plures enim singulis solent esse nuptae; quae est victrix, ea laeta prosequentibus suis una cum viro in rogum imponitur, illa victa maesta discedit.

43 Also Propertius (2nd half of the 1st cent. BC) transposed the motif of Indian widows’ competition into a more general picture in his poetic account (3.13.1524). 44 Cicero (106-43 BC) included the account of Indian widows in his Tusculanae disputationes, published in 45 BC. The account of Nicolaus of Damascus (born in 64 BC), coming from his lost work Ethǀn synagogƝ, was transmitted as one of extracts constituting Stobaeus’ (1st half of the 5th cent.) work Anthologia (thus according to Suda; according to Photius the title was Eklogai, apophthegmata, hypothƝkai). As for the date of composition of Diodorus’ work there is an agreement that he was writing his large compendium in between 60-30 BC (cf. e.g. Rubincan 1987, 324). Diodorus himself, in the introduction to his work (1.4.1), states that he spent 30 years working on it.

Source or Sources of Diodorus’ Account of Indian satƯ/Suttee

137

Nicolaus of Damascus, FGrHist 90 F 124 = Stobaeus, Anth. 4.55.18: Indians, when they die, burn up the most beloved of wives together [with the dead husband]. There is a big competition among the women themselves while their friends support each one to win. And Herodotus, in the fifth book of Historiae, says that the same happens among the Scythians who dwell above the Crestonaeans.45

Three accounts from the first century BC, independent from each other, about widows’ customary competition, a fact which finds no confirmation in Indian reality, make one think rather of a topos, widespread in classical literature.46 Seeking the origins of the topos (not mentioned by either Onesicritus or Aristobulus) one is inclined to refer to Herodotus’ account about Thracians dwelling above the Crestonaeans.47 Herodotus 5.5: Those who dwell above the Crestonaeans have a custom of their own: each man having many wives, at his death there is great rivalry among his wives, and eager contention on their friends’ part, to prove which wife was best loved by her husband; and she to whom the honour is adjudged is praised by men and women, and then slain over the tomb by her nearest of kin, and after the slaying she is buried with the husband. The rest of the 45

˝ǦǝǨ̓ ǬǮǜǣǚǭǚǣǚǘǨǮǬǢǦ, ˪ǭǚǦ ǭǞǤǞǮǭǗǬDzǬǢ, ǭΉǦ ǜǮǦǚǢǣΉǦ ǭ̑Ǧ ǩǪǨǬǯǢǤǞǬǭǕǭǠǦ. ƻ˱ǭΉǦ ǝ̏ ʹǣǞǘǦDzǦ ʩǜ̙Ǧ ǥǖǜǢǫǭǨǫ ǜǘǜǦǞǭǚǢ, ǬǩǨǮǝǚǟǵǦǭDzǦ ʺǣǕǬǭǠǦ ǦǢǣ͟ǬǚǢ ǭΉǦ ǯǘǤDzǦ. Ǎ̕ ǚ˱ǭ̕ ǣǚ̓ ˎǪǵǝǨǭǨǫ ʹǦ ǩǖǥǩǭ͝ ˖ǬǭǨǪǢΉǦ ǩǚǪ̍ njǣǮǡΉǦ ǭΉǦ ˶ǩǞǪǡǞǦ DŽǪǠǬǭǨǦǚǘDzǦ ǜǘǜǦǞǬǡǚǢ ǤǖǜǞǢ. The sentence summing up the account of Nicolaus of Damascus draws readers’ attention to book 5 of Herodotus’ Historiae, wrongly comparing Indian widows with the Scythian ones. This mistake is easy to explain as a confusion of two Herodotean passages concerning women’s deaths after their husbands’ deaths. Apart from the account about the Thracians, Herodotus speaks of the custom of slaughtering and burying one of the concubines of the dead kings among the Scythians (4.71). 46 Among Greek and Roman accounts of Indian satƯ the motif of widows’ competition was repeated by Propertius (3.13.15-24; cf. n. 42 above), Valerius Maximus (2.6.14; 1st cent. AD), Plutarch (Mor. 499; before 50-after 120), Aelian (VH 7.18; ca. 175-ca. 235), Solinus (52.30; 3rd cent.) and Servius (Comment. in Verg. Aen. 5.95; 4th cent.). 47 The similarity of the descriptions by Diodorus and by Herodotus was mentioned by Winternitz 1920, 71 (who, however, noticed also an Indian colour in the depiction of the competition of both wives of Ceteus, referring to MBh. 1.116); Thompson 1928, 21; Hornblower 1981, 151 n. 200. Heckel and Yardley (1981, 306, 308, 310) reject the hypothesis of Herodotus’ influence on Greek and Latin sources about satƯ including Diodorus’ account. They are followed by Garzilli (1997, 215, 341). For an opposite view, see Fisch 2006, 218-20 who emphasizes the probability of Herodotus’ impact on Diodorus’ account (in 19.33).

138

Chapter Nine wives take this sorely to heart, deeming themselves deeply dishonoured (trans. by A.D. Godley).48

Heckel and Yardley (1981, 306) in their paper on suttee in classical sources are not inclined to accept the influence of Herodotus’ account on descriptions of Indian suttee, Diodorus’ among them, and support their view by pointing to three basic differences between Herodotus and later texts. The description in Herodotus refers to the Thracian and not the Indian custom, to burial and not cremation, to slaughter at the grave and not to self-immolation on the pyre.49 The differences cannot be neglected, but still it seems that similarities between Herodotus’ account on the one hand and those of Diodorus, Cicero and Nicolaus on the other, are more important. There are the following similarities: (1) information about polygamy (Herodotus ~ Diodorus, Cicero and Nicolaus; cf. also Aristobulus = Strabo 15.1.62); (2) the competition among women after their husband’s death (Herodotus ~ Diodorus, Cicero and Nicolaus; the wife most loved by her husband should become the winner: Herodotus ~ Cicero, Nicolaus; friends participate in the competition: Herodotus ~ Nicolaus); (3) victory in the competition is regarded as most honourable and is the source of great joy (Herodotus ~ Diodorus, Cicero); (4) losing in the competition is perceived as the utmost disgrace (Herodotus ~ Diodorus), or the cause of sorrow (Herodotus ~ Cicero). These similarities seem to support the supposition about the possible influence (direct or indirect) of the Father of History on the accounts of Indian widows. Sources contemporary to Diodorus also indicate that the probable adaptation of the account about the Thracians to Indian realities could have been made, most probably, at an earlier stage, independently of the literary activity of Diodorus himself. An intermediate source might therefore be taken into consideration.50 48

lj˖ ǝ̏ ǣǚǭǶǩǞǪǡǞ DŽǪǠǬǭDzǦǚǘDzǦ ǩǨǢǞͼǬǢ ǭǨǢǕǝǞ. ˃ǰǞǢ ǜǮǦǚͭǣǚǫ ʾǣǚǬǭǨǫ ǩǨǤǤǕǫƳ ʹǩǞ̍Ǧ ̃Ǧ ǭǢǫ ǚ˱ǭΉǦ ʩǩǨǡǕǦ͝, ǣǪǘǬǢǫ ǜǘǦǞǭǚǢ ǥǞǜǕǤǠ ǭΉǦ ǜǮǦǚǢǣΉǦ ǣǚ̓ ǯǘǤDzǦ ǬǩǨǮǝǚ̓ ˕ǬǰǮǪǚ̓ ǩǞǪ̓ ǭǨͼǝǞ, ˊǭǢǫ ǚ˱ǭǖDzǦ ʹǯǢǤǖǞǭǨ ǥǕǤǢǬǭǚ ˲ǩ̕ ǭǨͼ ʩǦǝǪǵǫƳ ˈ ǝ' ʫǦ ǣǪǢǡ͠ ǣǚ̓ ǭǢǥǠǡ͠, ʹǜǣDzǥǢǚǬǡǞͭǬǚ ˲ǩǵ ǭǞ ʩǦǝǪΉǦ ǣǚ̓ ǜǮǦǚǢǣΉǦ ǬǯǕǟǞǭǚǢ ʹǫ ǭ̕Ǧ ǭǕǯǨǦ ˲ǩ̕ ǭǨͼ Ǩ˕ǣǠǢǨǭǕǭǨǮ ʺDzǮǭ͟ǫ, ǬǯǚǰǡǞͭǬǚ ǝ̏ ǬǮǦǡǕǩǭǞǭǚǢ ǭΊ ʩǦǝǪǘƳ ǚ˖ ǝ̏ ʭǤǤǚǢ ǬǮǥǯǨǪ̑Ǧ ǥǞǜǕǤǠǦ ǩǨǢǞͼǦǭǚǢƳ ˩ǦǞǢǝǨǫ ǜǕǪ ǬǯǢ ǭǨͼǭǨ ǥǖǜǢǬǭǨǦ ǜǘǦǞǭǚǢ. 49 The opinion of Heckel and Yardley is shared by Garzilli 1997, 215 and 341. 50 Cicero’s and Nicolaus’ accounts do not show any acquaintance with the details included in Diodorus’/Hieronymus’ description, their accounts differ considerably from those by Onesicritus and Aristobulus, which allows one to speculate about their direct dependence on some other, most probably Hellenistic, lost account(s) (cf. either Aristobulus’ or Strabo’s remark at the end of the account of satƯ in

Source or Sources of Diodorus’ Account of Indian satƯ/Suttee

139

One more observation about Herodotus’ possible influence on Diodorus may be made. If such an influence is accepted, as it is in this chapter, one must notice that the account of Diodorus might have been based on two sources of information, independent of each other, about the competition among widows. The first one was the actual event which happened after the battle on the Paraetacene plain (the competition between the two wives of Ceteus, 19.34). The second one is the result of the adaptation of Herodotus’ account to Indian realities (general remarks on the widows’ competition, 19.33). The competition among Ceteus’ wives was an individual case and as such it should not determine our view on widows’ competition as customary in India or elsewhere.51 Such competition among widows after the death of their common husband is not confirmed as customary in Indian reality. It is true that in the Sanskrit epic, the MahƗbhƗrata (1.116), there is also a story of two widows discussing with each other about the priority of the place on the funeral pyre of their 15.1.62: Ǟ˙ǪǠǭǚǢ ǣǚ̓ ʭǤǤǨǢǫ ǭǚͼǭǚ). These accounts might have come from such more sensational authors as Clitarchus, Duris, Phylarchus, Agatharchides and the like (cf. Heckel and Yardley 1981, 309). Another example of contaminating Thracian and Indian elements while presenting the topos of widows dying after their husbands’ death is provided by Pomponius Mela in his work De chorographia. Describing the practice of slaughtering of Thracian women at their husbands’ graves (preceded by the women’s competition) Mela follows Herodotus’ account. But the phraseology of his own narrative shows that he was directly inspired by the Latin account of Indian widows by Cicero (Tusc. 5.77f., quoted above; cf. also Val. Max. 2.6.14). Mela 2.19f.: “Super mortuorum virorum corpora interfici simulque sepeliri votum eximium habent, et quia plures simul singulis nuptae sunt, cuius id sit decus apud iudicaturos magno certamine adfectant. Moribus datur estque maxime laetum, cum in hoc contenditur vincere. Maerent aliae vocibus, et cum acerbissimis planctibus efferunt.” (Cf. Heckel and Yardley 1981, 310 n. 14.) 51 Fish 2006, 41f. seems to aptly notice that in the case of Herodotus’ account of the Thracian widows (5.5) one has to deal with stereotypical portraying of the custom as well as with evident “artistic simplification.” Neither the statement about men commonly having many wives nor that about women being eager to be slain over their husbands’ tomb can hold to be reliable. The former could at best be limited to a small group with an upper-class members. The latter is “more male fantasy than reality.” The passage allows one at the utmost to suppose the possibility that sometimes during the funeral of a leading personality one of his wives was killed, or that “she was allowed herself to be killed.” The account of widow-killing was incorporated by Herodotus into his wider narrative about the Thracians’ strange and sometimes barbaric customs (Hdt. 5.3-10), which most probably was to create a sort of a counter-world to the Greeks. And it is not impossible that for this purpose Herodotus took the motif of widows’ suicide from another context (Fish 2006, 42).

140

Chapter Nine

dead husband. But this must also be treated as an individual case and not as something representative of a usual way of conduct or a custom.52 It was most probably the interpretation of the Greek authors (based on unconfirmed information in Herodotus’ account of the Thracians) that was responsible for the generalization. In the case of Diodorus’ account it might be the actual, particular way of conduct of the dead Indian commander’s two wives, observed, reported and interpreted by the eyewitness, that additionally induced him to formulate (or just to repeat) such a general reflection—especially if we take into account that this general reflection was already well established in classical sources in Diodorus’ times, independently of Diodorus.53 Regarding the historical event recounted in Diod. Sic. 19.34 and the description of the surviving widow’s (i.e. the older’s of Ceteus’ two wives) spectacularly expressed despair (“weeping, rending the wreath that was about her head and tearing her hair”), one should also not exclude the possibility that the typical behaviour of Indian widows might have been at the base of this description. Not only (or maybe not at all) losing in the competition but also natural sorrow after the sudden death of their husbands as well as the Indian (or generally Eastern) manner of spectacularly expressing one’s despair might make widows act in such a way.54 52 According to some scholars’ suggestions (Jolly 1897, 68f.; Zachariae 1904, 205; Winternitz 1920, 71), the comparison to Mah¿bh¿rata 1.116 allows us to acknowledge the general information about the widows’ competition in Diod. Sic. 19.33 as reliable and to consider the contention of Ceteus’ two wives (in Diod. Sic. 19.34) to be a typical Indian element of the custom. For my part, I do not accept these suppositions. In other parts of the Mah¿bh¿rata itself cases of more than one wife ascending the funeral pyre of their common husband are mentioned (cf. n. 9 above). In some European eye-witness accounts examples of common widows’ self-immolation on the same pyre are also not infrequently recounted. 53 Cf. also Fish’s (2006, 220) interesting remarks: “The fact that a dispute between the wives is found in the Mah¿bh¿rata does not make it more credible. One can easily imagine how such a legend arises. It is a typical product of the wishful thinking and the vanity of men: a quarrel of this kind is the strongest proof of the love and devotion for the deceased. In this way, even those who did not die could be included in the custom: they had wanted to, but were not allowed to.” 54 There are examples in Sanskrit literature in which women mourning after the slain men have been pictured in a more or less similar way. Thus, for instance, in MBh. 3.170.56f., the D¿nava women mourning for their slain sons, fathers and husbands are presented as having dishevelled hair, falling down on the ground, weeping loudly, beating their breasts with their hands, throwing off garlands and ornaments. Among descriptions of women’s lamentations after the heroes slain on the Kurukƅetra, in book 11 of the Mah¿bh¿rata, the picture of a woman losing

Source or Sources of Diodorus’ Account of Indian satƯ/Suttee

141

The above considerations lead to the conclusion that Diodorus’ account of Indian widows’ self-immolation as a whole, given in 19.33-34.6, may be viewed as a peculiar contamination of a few sources adapted and tranformed into one longer description. In fact, the account of Indian satƯ found in Diodorus covers all other satƯ accounts found in other Greek and Latin authors. The supposition about the contamination of sources refers to the first of the two chapters. Only in this case is it possible to compare particular elements in Diodorus’ description with the preserved earlier or contemporary texts. Older Greek sources gathered and confronted with one another provide us with quite detailed considerations about the origin of the Indian custom, although there are some parts curious and not confirmed by Indian reality. These considerations, in turn, have been combined with the description of the actual funeral ceremony of 317 BC. It is difficult to deny that the description itself is historically reliable and authentic. Its authorship should most probably be attributed to Hieronymus of Cardia, as stated above. One may consider whether Hieronymus himself preceded his historical account with some kind of “theoretical” introduction from which Diodorus could take the information found in his ch. 33. Such assumption seems more than probable, especially since the passage 19.33.3 (as the whole chapter 34) supplies two pieces of information not to be found in any other Greek or Latin source but confirmed by Indian and other reliable later sources (as remarked above). Firstly, Diodorus speaks about a category of widows (pregnant or having little children) which is excluded from the duty of dying on the pyre. Secondly, he gives information about the poor social status of widows staying alive (there is a slight suggestion of this in Aristobulus)—they remain widows for the rest of their life and are excluded from any social/religious events as unclean. However, one cannot rule out the possibility that what we have in ch. 33 (both the content of the chapter as a whole and, especially, the way of presentation) should be attributed to Diodorus himself—in particular, the somewhat too excessive dose of moralizing which is so characteristic of his account. Research on the lost work of Hieronymus of Cardia allows us to recognize him as one of the most significant representatives of Greek historiography.55 Despite the obvious sympathy towards the Antigonids, her senses and falling down on the ground, tearing her hair (or just having it dishevelled), beating her hair with her hands, uttering loud wails etc., appears again and again, e.g. MBh. 11.16.11ff.; 11.18.2ff. (Cf. also e.g. Atharvaveda 11.9.14; Kum¿rasaűbhava 4.4 and 26; Raghuvaűča 4.68; Čivapur¿ŷa 2.3.19.24.) 55 Cf. the above remarks on Hieronymus and bibliographical reference in nn. 2534.

142

Chapter Nine

his work was to a great extent objective. As a historian and a writer he showed much restraint and was not susceptible to excessive rhetoric (although, for instance, he inserted speeches) and undue moralizing. Most importantly for our purpose here, he based most of his information, including that provided in geographical or ethnographical excurses, on autopsy (as a result, the great reliability of his accounts is frequently emphasized). This last fact stands in contrast to the literary activity of Diodorus of Sicily whose historical narrative is based on earlier sources (although he only rarely discloses this).56 The value and reliability of Diodorus’ work has been evaluated differently, depending on the sources he used. As regards books 18-20, their historical value and general reliability is often emphasized. It has been demonstrated that in those books Diodorus inserted large continuous portions of Hieronymus’ history (although not infrequently in an abbreviated form).57 But analysis of various parts of his work shows that Diodorus was inclined to use also works of minor historical value which were, instead, characterized by their rhetorical or sensational orientation. Diodorus himself is highly susceptible to moralizing and moralistic interpretation of history, and he makes this explicit in the introduction to his work.58 It is also for this reason, one can suppose, that he does not hesitate to supplement his major sources with additional material taken from other authors. Generally speaking, scholars of Diodorus not infrequently come to conclusions about interpolations made on the basis of secondary sources within the account derived from the main source. He is also described as a historian who was inclined to combine, contaminate or mix his sources, and occasionally even to manipulate them.59 Therefore the hypothesis put forward in this 56

Although Diodorus writes in the introductory part of his work (1.4.1) that he travelled a lot across Europe and Asia while writing it for 30 years, this information cannot be considered reliable and should be treated rather as a literary convention, a topos used in historical prefaces. Only Diodorus’ visit to Egypt is attested (cf. Hornblower 1981, 24f., 44, 55). 57 Cf. nn. 25 and 26 above. 58 Cf. Diod. Sic. 1.2.2: “For we must look upon it [scil. history] as constituting the guardian of the high achievements of illustrious men, the witness which testifies to the evil deeds of the wicked, and the benefactor of the entire human race. For if it be true that the myths which are related about Hades, in spite of the fact that their subject-matter is fictitious, contribute greatly to fostering piety and justice among men, how much more must we assume that history, the prophetess of truth, she who is, as it were, the mother-city of philosophy as a whole, is still more potent to equip men’s character for noble living!” (trans. by C.H. Oldfather). 59 Cf. e.g. Schwartz 1905, 669-704; Jacoby 1913b, 1552-5; Brown 1946-47, 692f.; Hornblower 1981: 20-2, 33, 44, 49-62, 92-7, 101f. Drews (1962) analyses a few

Source or Sources of Diodorus’ Account of Indian satƯ/Suttee

143

chapter, according to which Diodorus 19.33 is a combination of various sources, should not be considered improbable. As it seems, in this case one could even speak of a routine procedure on the part of Diodorus.60 It is worth remembering, however, that the preserved accounts, which allow us to corroborate the thesis of the compilatory character of the chapter in question, provide us also, at the same time, with evidence pointing to some limits of freedom in the historian’s handling of his sources. Diodorus, even though he can be suspected of contaminating several sources, did not supplement them with any “facts” invented by himself for the sake of his narrative. And besides, he handed down to posterity the first reliable account of the blazing love of an Indian satƯ.

passages from different parts of Diodorus’ work where more noticeable cases of contaminating or mixing sources occur. This sort of Diodorus’ compositional activity is often connected with giving to a passage taken from his source a different meaning than the original one or with interpreting the facts differently. Some of the cases are referred by Drews to Diodorus’ desire to underline a point which, according to him, may have been inadequately expressed by his main source, as well as to his moralistic tendency. 60 If one considers the hypothesis put forward in this chapter (about the supplementary sources used, or at least partly used, by Diodorus himself in 19.33) probable, one should reconsider the view expressed by Heckel and Yardley (1981, 308f.) that Diodorus’ account was “an abbreviation of Hieronymus.” Such a supposition follows, most probably, the more general view of Diodorus’ method of the adaptation of Hieronymus’ work in books 18-20, namely of his abbreviating and generalizing upon his source (see e.g. Simpson 1959; Heckel and Yardley 1981, 308 n. 7; Hornblower 1981, passim, e.g. 39, however, tries to demonstrate that Diodorus’ activity in relation to Hieronymus’ work should rather be characterized as extensive epitomizing or producing a series of extracts from the Hellenistic historian). In the case of chs. 19.33f. Diodorus’ method seems to be different from what Heckel and Yardley imply and his account may be recognized as an extension of that of Hieronymus.

CHAPTER TEN UNIVERSAL HISTORY AND CULTURAL GEOGRAPHY OF THE OIKOUMENE IN HERODOTUS’ HISTORIAI AND STRABO’S GEOGRAPHIKA JOHANNES ENGELS

I. Herodotus’ Manifold Influences on Ancient Historiography, Geography and Other Related Genres In the years 1885-1889 at the beginning of his academic career Eduard Meyer taught ancient history at the famous university of Wrocáaw (Breslau). Soon he was to become one of the leading scholars who studied universal history in ancient times. Surely he would have been pleased to hear of the topic of our conference on The Children of Herodotus. For Meyer perhaps was the last classical scholar who ventured to write as an individual historian a monumental Geschichte des Altertums1 with a thematic scope comparable to Herodotus’ Histories or Strabo’s Historika Hypomnemata and Geographika. The following presentation will discuss one aspect of the manifold influences which Herodotus exercised over later writers in Greek and Roman antiquity. I shall focus on Strabo of Amasia and his Geographika. Greek and Roman antiquity saw an impressively long series of children of the pater historiae among the authors of universal histories and descriptions of the oikoumene. In a brillant recent survey of Herodotus’ ancient Nachleben Simon Hornblower righly stated: “charming beyond all 1

On Eduard Meyer’s importance as an ancient historian and for the study of ancient Universalgeschichte, see recently, for instance, Christ 1989, 286-333; Christ 2006, 34-7; Hatscher 2003, 53-76.

Universal History and Cultural Geography in Herodotus and Strabo

145

other ancient authors, Herodotus surely never sank from view.”2 And in his special study on the influences of Herodotus in the classical and Hellenistic periods Karl-August Riemann agreed with this opinion when he maintained: “Nur wenige Prosawerke der Antike haben auf den verschiedensten Gebieten so anregend zu wirken vermocht wie das Geschichtswerk des Herodot von Halikarnassos.”3 Manifest influences have been demonstrated on different genres of ancient historiography reaching from universal history and contemporary history to local histories, cultural geographies and ethnographical works, ancient collections of paradoxa and mirabilia or poliorcetic treatises. If one looks at general Greek views of mankind, patterns and motifs of narration or at the characterization of famous persons, eminent Greek poets (beginning with Sophocles) and philosophers are clearly influenced by Herodotus’ opinions and stories, too. Studies on Herodotus and on Greek and Roman historiography are thriving in the last decade and this conference testifies to this observation too.4 After almost 2500 years Herodotus’ Histories apodeixis still meets with a great readership not merely among professional classicists. More intensively than other ancient classics this work puts a spell on many general readers. Herodotus’ astonishing popularity may be explained by the broad thematic scope of his work, his pleasant style of prose and other characteristic features which attract modern readers. For instance, Herodotus is significantly less prejudiced against non-Greek, ‘barbarian’ peoples than most of his contemporaries. While he avoided the typical Thucydidean concentration on war and the analysis of political power structures (and a resulting narrowness of perspective),5 Herodotus may 2

Hornblower 2006, 306; on the reception of Herodotus’ work in Greece and Rome, see already Jacoby’s notes in his RE article (1913a, 504-20) and Riemann 1967; there is a useful collection of ancient testimonies on Herodotus’ Histories in the bilingual edition by Feix 1977, vol. 2, 1272-83 (“Selecta Testimonia”). On Strabo and Herodotus see, after Althaus 1941, especially Riemann 1967; Prandi 1988; Engels 1999, 121-6. 3 Riemann 1967, 1. 4 From a vast scholarly literature some collections of studies may be mentioned here exempli gratia: Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002; Karageorghis and Taifacos 2004; Giangiulio 2005; most recently Dewald and Marincola 2006; in German, Bichler 2000 and Bichler and Rollinger 2001 are very useful introductions. 5 On Thucydides’ delicate methodological relationship with Herodotus and Herodotus’ prooimion see WĊcowski 2004a and his paper in this volume, pp. 3457; see also for an overview of modern scholarship on Thucydides Brill’s Companion to Thucydides edited by Rengakos and Tsakmakis 2006, especially the

146

Chapter Ten

fairly be called an ancient precursor of historiography understood as a branch of cultural studies. The Herodotean conception of historiography shares many common themes and fields of interest with closely related modern disciplines, such as ethnology, anthropology and religious studies. As the result of a complicated process which stretched over an extended period of time several distinct ancient literary genres of prose developed, the origins of which can be traced back to Herodotus.6 Still, the boundaries between genres of prose literature remained fluid and blurred. This was especially true of the twin disciplines of geography and history and of cultural-geographical and historical works of literature. Recent research has correctly tended to question whether history and geography ever were regarded as sharply demarcated disciplines in terms of their main subject, methods, and typical representatives.7 A study of Strabo’s critical reception of Herodotus’ Histories perhaps may be helpful in illustrating some points of this discussion, too. Herodotus’ ancient descendants were a colourful clan. Its members differed considerably from one another as well as from their common ancestor. Some of them felt called to be Herodotus’ direct heirs and to continue his way of writing history by imitating even the Ionian dialect. Others however disagreed with Herodotus’ historiographical method and style or with the contents of his Histories and tried to separate themselves from the Herodotean model, although at the same time they often continued to make use of the Histories as a source. Strabo belongs to this second group, as we shall see soon.

II. Herodotus as a Canonical Author and his Influence on Strabo As early as the 2nd century BC during the reign of king Eumenes II of Pergamon, Herodotus was honoured at this capital with a statue in the royal library indicating that he was counted among the approved or ‘canonical’ authors (for the inscription on the base, see I. Perg. 199). papers by Rogkotis 2006 and Rengakos 2006 on Thucydides and the Herodotean heritage. 6 See most recently on Herodotus’ genre(s) Boedeker 2000. 7 On geography and history as twin disciplines and on the fluid boundaries between these prose genres, see recently Engels 2007a. Alonso-Núñez 1998; 1999 and 2001 studied the development of ancient Greek and Roman universal history from Herodotus’ date on to this (ancient pagan) genre’s akme during the Augustan age. For an overview over later developments including early Christian examples of this genre, see Mortley 1996.

Universal History and Cultural Geography in Herodotus and Strabo

147

Almost at the same time Aristarchus of Samothrace, a leading grammarian of his day, published in Alexandria a commentary on Herodotus’ Histories together with an edition of the complete text. The publication of a commentary on a historiographical prose work at this early date surely is strong evidence of Herodotus’ high reputation. In Strabo’s lifetime, that is from ca. 63 BC to shortly after 24 AD, Herodotus’ Histories were regularly read in Greek schools, and together with Thucydides and Xenophon he was held in highest esteem of all the early Greek historians. Herodotus was also usually studied in the schools of rhetoric of the Roman imperial period, where his Histories offered topics for the popular progymnasmata or rhetorical exercises. Hence, in all probability Strabo will have become acquainted with Herodotus’ work at an early date during his thorough education at home in Amasia and later on in Nysa and other cities of Asia Minor. When Strabo treats the coastline of Asia Minor and the major Greek poleis of this region in book 14 of his Geographika, he includes a description of Herodotus’ home-town Halicarnassus. In his descriptions of the cities of Asia Minor Strabo usually mentions famous persons who came from a polis or lived and worked there later on. Talking about Halicarnassus, however, he merely mentions Herodotus as “a historian, who took part in the foundation of the Athenian colony of Thurii.” There is no word of praise for Herodotus’ work nor any indication that Strabo would hold Herodotus in high esteem as a precursor, although at Strabo’s date Herodotus was still regarded as the most prominent citizen who came from Halicarnassus.8 Luisa Prandi fittingly compared Strabo’s telling praise for Ephorus among the andres endoxoi of Cyme.9 One may also mention the personal praise which Strabo expresses of the historians

8

See 14.2.16 C. 656 on Halicarnassus. (All references in this chapter, unless otherwise indicated, are to Strabo’s Geographika.) The catalogues of andres endoxoi form a peculiar feature of Strabo’s cultural geography, see Engels 2005. At Halicarnassus, an epigram has been preserved on stone praising the merits of the town and mentioning Herodotus (col. II line 43: H. ho pezos en historiaisin Homeros) and several other famous locals. This important inscription (2nd cent. BC) is usually called by scholars “The Pride of Halicarnassus,” see SEG 48.1330, line 43, and cf. Hornblower 2006, 306. For other late Hellenistic epigrams from Halicarnassus on Andron, Herodotus and Panyassis, see SEG 36.975 and SEG 28.842 = Chaniotis 1988, E. 33. 9 13.3.6 C. 622f. with Prandi 1988, 55 and n. 10.

148

Chapter Ten

Posidonius of Apamea10 and Theophanes of Mytilene11 in order to illustrate his more reserved relationship to Herodotus. Nevertheless, if one takes a superficial look at Herodotus’ Histories one perhaps might presume that this work was a precursory work of Strabo’s universal history and his cultural geography. To record “admirable and memorable deeds of the Greeks and the Barbarians” (prooimion, Hdt. 1.1) may be called a fitting subject of a universal history in the words of Herodotus’ period. Hence it does not come as a big surprise that one of the late Hellenistic writers of universal history, Diodorus of Sicily explicitly maintains that Herodotus composed a universal history (Diod. Sic. 11.37.6, but in Diodorus’ view Sicily and the Western Greek world had not been given due consideration by Herodotus). Most ancient historians, including Strabo, however, voted for Ephorus as the founder of this genre. With regard to the arrangement of Herodotus’ historical matter and other methodological aspects I should still prefer to call the Histories a contemporary war monograph based on a description of the historical growth of the Achaemenid empire and the civilized world as it was known to Herodotus.12 Analyzing the peculiar impact of Herodotus’ Histories on Strabo, one comes across a phenomenon of general relevance to ancient historiography, as Hornblower keenly observed: “influence in the history of ancient historiography often does take the form of reaction and rejection.”13 This holds also true of Strabo, while on the other hand he continues to make use of Herodotus as a source. It is a peculiar feature of Strabo’s universal history, the extensive Historika Hypomnemata in 47 books (now lost), as well as of his completing geographical description of the civilized world around the Mediterranean Sea, the Geographika in 17 volumes, that he very often quotes his sources by name. This habit results from his aim to compose reliable, scholarly works which were intended to 10

See, for instance, 1.1.1 C. 2; 1.2.1 C. 14; and especially in the context of his description of Apamea 16.2.10 C. 753 on Posidonius: “the Stoic, the most erudite of all philosophers of my time.” 11 Cf. 13.2.3 C. 617f., commenting on famous persons from Mytilene: “Theophanes, the historian in my time. Theophanes was also a statesman; and he became a friend to Pompey the Great, mostly through his very ability, and helped him to succeed in all his achievements; whence he not only adorned his native land, partly through Pompey and partly through himself, but also rendered himself the most illustrious of all the Greeks” (transl. by H.L. Jones [Loeb]). 12 This view was already held, among others, by Burde 1974, 10-7. 13 Hornblower 2006, 308; Hornblower offers an excellent (and the most recent) tour d’horizon of Herodotus’ Nachleben, but he does not discuss his influence on Strabo.

Universal History and Cultural Geography in Herodotus and Strabo

149

supersede earlier universal histories (mainly those composed by Ephorus, Polybius, Posidonius) and geographies (Eratosthenes, Posidonius, Artemidorus) by up-to-date reference works which would make it possible for his readers to check the information which they found there in earlier authoritative sources. On the other hand, when using Herodotus as a source, Strabo also often follows a well-known principle of ancient historians and geographers which Jacoby once briefly described thus: “Denn man polemisiert gebräuchlicherweise namentlich und entlehnt anonym.”14 In a thorough study of Strabo’s Geographika Daniela Dueck recently maintained that direct influences of Herodotus on Strabo’s geography were “simply non-existent.”15 I do not subscribe to this very strict view. In my opinion, earlier balanced judgements on Strabo by Jacoby, Althaus and Riemann16 appear to be more appropriate: Strabo “der H[erodotos] selten direkt, mehr durch die Vermittlung von Historikern der Alexanderzeit und älteren Geographen benutzt und dabei manches auch aus der Verwendung in der Diskussion über Homerische Geographie erhalten hat.”17 Strabo regularly uses information taken from Herodotus’ Histories through intermediate sources, transmitted by Ephorus, Nearchus, Callisthenes, Apollodorus, Demetrius, or Posidonius. The sweeping statement, however, that any quotation by name from Herodotus which we find in Strabo’s Geographika would be transmitted through an intermediate source, can be refuted at least by one passage which I shall discuss later on. In the Geography we find roughly 30 passages where Strabo quotes from Herodotus by name.18 With the exception of one passage all of these examples are indirect quotations. Of course, from this simple fact serious difficulties arise for anyone who studies Herodotean influences on Strabo. I shall discuss some of these difficulties more thoroughly later on when I shall treat these most important intermediate sources. 14

Jacoby 1913a, 508. Dueck 2000, 46: “his [scil. Herodotus’] methods and his approach did not impress Strabo, to say the least, and it is in fact very difficult to refer to any direct influence of Herodotus on the Geography. Surprising as it may seem, such an influence is simply non-existent.” Dueck refers her readers to Prandi 1988. 16 Basic studies on Strabo’s complicated relationship to Herodotus were done by Jacoby 1913a; Althaus 1941; Riemann 1967; Prandi 1988. See also Engels 1999, 121-6. 17 Jacoby 1913a, 508. 18 See the list of passages in the appendix at the end of this paper which has been compiled on the basis of earlier studies by Althaus 1941; Riemann 1967; Prandi 1988; Engels 1999, 121-6. 15

150

Chapter Ten

Important direct, albeit more general influences on Strabo and other ancient historians and ethnographers have been exercised by the topoi and schemata of ethnographical description of the barbarian world which were developed by Herodotus and later on used again and again as standard tools of literary descriptions. Within the genre of ancient ethnographical works and regional histories Herodotean influences can be demonstrated easily on later writers of Aigyptiaka- and Persika-works. But there are also passages in Strabo’s Geographika (especially books 11 and 15-7) where an impact of Herodotean topoi and motifs can be detected. After 400 years and notwithstanding his reservations against Herodotus’ method of writing, Strabo is evidently unable to break away from the Herodotean tradition. One can see this from a comparison of Strabo’s and Herodotus’ notes on the nomima of the Massagetai, the Babylonians or the Egyptians.19 While in general Herodotus’ Egyptian logos perhaps was the most influential part of his Histories, Strabo in book 17 of his Geographika clearly rivals with this classic description and stresses the qualities of his own description which was based on autopsia of Alexandria and other parts of Egypt during the twenties of the 1st century BC, too. The most informative example, therefore, may be found in a comparison of Strabo’s remarks on the nomima of the Persians (15.3.1322 C. 732-6) with their Herodotean model (see Hdt. 1.131-40 and several supplementary passages in Hdt. book 3). Modern experts of ancient Greek ethnography regard this passage in Herodotus as an early masterpiece. For it introduces almost every topic which was treated later on in Greek and Roman historiographical and ethnographical descriptions. But even in his remarks on Persian nomima20 Strabo sticks to his principle of diorthosis, that means of correcting earlier opinions held by eminent historians and 19

Useful commentaries on books 15-7 of Strabo’s Geographika which treat the central regions of the Parthian empire and Egypt have been written by Yoyotte, Charvet and Gompertz 1997, and Biffi 1999, 2002 and 2005. On non-Greek (‘barbarian’) peoples in Herodotus’ Histories, see the excellent papers collected in Nenci 1990 and cf. also Karttunen 2002. 20 One should remember the fact that Strabo had treated extensively (Persian and) Parthian Nomoi already in his earlier universal history entitled Historika Hypomnemata (see FGrHist 91 F 1 = 11.9.3 C. 515). Hence, in his Geographika he was in the comfortable position to treat certain issues quite succinctly. If substantial parts of Strabo’s historical work had been preserved, we would get a much more detailed view of Herodotean influence on Strabo’s ethnography of Persia (and Parthia) and Egypt. See also the full commentaries on Herodotus’ book 2 on Egypt by Lloyd 1975-1988 and book 3 on Persia by Asheri, Medaglio and Fraschetti 2000. These excellent scholarly tools have been recently translated and updated in an English version, see Asheri, Lloyd and Corcella 2007.

Universal History and Cultural Geography in Herodotus and Strabo

151

geographers. According to his opinion a reliable method of securing scientific progress in the disciplines of historiography and geography was to take issue with the most eminent predecessors over their scholarly views. Thus Strabo equates Mithras only with the sun, whereas Herodotus mistakenly had advocated an equation with Aphrodite (see 15.3.13-4 C. 732 and Hdt. 1.131f.). Moreover, an analysis of Strabo’s notes on Persian and Parthian nomima allows for Riemann’s general conclusion on his relationship to Herodotus, “dass dort, wo Strabon nachweislich nur indirekt von H[erodotos] abhängt, in der Regel nur kürzere Zitate vorliegen, nicht wenige davon polemischen Charakters; hier bei den nomima sind ganze Partien von H. abhängig, ohne jede Polemik, obwohl man doch sicher annehmen kann, dass die Sitten auch dieser Völker innerhalb des langen Zeitraumes von vierhundert Jahren nicht unverändert geblieben sind.”21 Although several military campaigns were fought by the Romans against these barbarians during Strabo’s lifetime, and regular trade connections and other processes of acculturation in the frontier zones of the Augustan empire had taught the Greeks and Romans valuable recent lessons about the barbarians beyond the borders of the Roman empire and on the fringes of the oikoumene, still Strabo remains under the spell of the pater historiae. As another example of rather traditional elements in Strabo’s ethnography, one may mention the scheme of inversed role models which is used in Herodotus’ Histories as well as in Strabo’s Geographika, when both authors describe typical patterns of behaviour among barbarian men and women.22 Finally, Herodotus exercised a major general influence on Strabo by raising for the first time many quaestiones disputatae of ancient geography. Four hundred years after Herodotus, ancient historians and geographers still fiercely debated about mysterious peoples living at the edges of the oikoumene such as the Hyperboreans, the southern and eastern Aethiopians, or the home and the peculiar habits of the Amazons. Strabo could not avoid discussing these topics, too, although he did so somewhat reluctantly, because he saw himself as a scholar and a ‘philosophical’ geographer. Under the impact of the Herodotean model Strabo summarized earlier reports on the circumnavigation of Africa (and he referred to Herodotus’ notes on the explorations of Sataspes, Scylax and Euthymenes), the disputed antoikountes and antipodoi and the number 21

Riemann 1967, 55. On some traditional patterns and ideological prejudices in Strabo’s ethnography, see van der Vliet 1977 and 1984, and more recently Almagor 2005. On enduring Herodotean influence cf. also Karttunen’s paper in this volume, pp. 17-25. On gender issues and women’s roles in Strabo’s Geography, see McCoskey 2005. 22

152

Chapter Ten

and location of continents of the earth apart from Europe, Asia and Africa, concurring theories about the ocean and the tides or the location of the sources of the great rivers and their course (esp. the Nile in Africa and the Danube in Europe). Together with the coastline of the sea big rivers (one may add the Rhine, the Halys, the Euphrates, the Tigris or the Indus) gave structure to Strabo’s general view of the oikoumene.23 All of these topics of course are classical Herodotean themes which were discussed in the Augustan Geographika.

III. Strabo’s Intermediate Sources of the 4th-2nd Centuries BC The fragmentary state of preservation of almost all major works of historiography and cultural geography of the late classical and Hellenistic periods offers a serious obstacle to any investigation of Herodotus’ impact on Strabo. Most of these works have only been handed down to us in scanty fragments. Of other works at least some books have been preserved. These books, however, may not be typical of the whole extensive works in any case (e.g. Diodorus’ Bibliotheke historike). This general problem becomes more complicated by the fact that Strabo usually quotes in his Geographika from Herodotus’ work via intermediate sources most fragments of which have been handed down to us nowhere else but in this Strabonian work. Obviously there is a danger of drawing circular conclusions from this material and of jumping to premature conclusions. At any rate, all preserved fragments of Ephorus of Cyme, Nearchus, Callisthenes of Olynthus, Eratosthenes of Cyrene, Apollodorus of Athens and Demetrius of Scepsis are crucial pieces of evidence on Strabo’s indirect reception of Herodotus, and they should be analyzed very cautiously. Until now only one passage has been detected in the Geographika (7.3.7-8 C. 300f.) where Strabo appears to quote directly from Herodotus’ Histories.24 In this passage the geographer differs significantly from his

23

See most recently Engels 2007b, with earlier literature. In my view, this has been sufficiently demonstrated by Riemann 1967, 53-5, who refuted earlier opinions which were held, for instance, by Althaus 1941. More recently, however, Prandi 1988 and also Dueck 2000 preferred again Althaus’ view who had pleaded for a classification of this passage as an indirect quotation. Riemann 1967, 54 also suggested that perhaps some material in Strabo’s book 15 on Cappadocian and Persian cults (see 15.3.15 C. 733 and the following paragraphs) might point to a direct use of Herodotus’ Histories. Strabo in this 24

Universal History and Cultural Geography in Herodotus and Strabo

153

usual way of introducing Herodotean material. For he directly calls upon his readers to look up a Herodotean passage on a Scythian king (named Idanthyrsos) and his proud answer to the Persian king, as he had done before himself. It is not by accident that Strabo consulted the original text of the Histories in this peculiar context in order to refute attacks on his admired hero Homer, which had been made by Eratosthenes and Apollodorus. They had reproached Homer with geographical ignorance about the regions on the fringes of the oikoumene. Most post-Thucydidean historians of the fourth century BC and before the age of Alexander did not hold Herodotus in high esteem. There are two major exceptions, Ephorus of Cyme, the archegetes of universal history, and Theopompus of Chios, both of which are of some importance for the Herodotean impact on Strabo. Theopompus made an Epitome25 of Herodotus’ Histories which is the earliest known ancient epitome of a Greek prose author. Herodotean impact on Theopompus’ major work, the Philippika, has been observed in ethnographical passages about Macedonia and neighbouring countries. In the present context it is not necessary to dwell upon general influences which Herodotus’ Histories exercised on Ephorus’ work.26 But I should like to stress the fact that Ephorus dissociates himself from Herodotus’ method of writing lengthy geographical logoi. Instead, Ephorus summarized his general geographical views of the oikoumene in books 4 and 5 of his Universal History in 30 volumes. This decision marks the starting point of an interesting process of literary experiments which Hellenistic historians and geographers undertook to find out the right balance of political-historical and geographical issues in their large-scale works. Some Hellenistic universal historians soon clearly dissociated themselves from the Herodotean model. This development culminated with the works of Posidonius and Strabo who both composed separate voluminous historical and geographical works in order to present an encyclopedically full picture of the world to their readers.

context, however, only speaks of unspecified Historiai as his source without making it clear that he is referring here also to Herodotus’ Historiai. 25 We know of merely four fragments from Theopompus’ Epitome (FGrHist 115 F 1-4). But the simple fact that a prolific fourth-century author of Theopompus’ standing compiled this Epitome demonstrates that already at this date Herodotus was becoming a classic author. Cf. also Theophrastus’ judgement on Thucydides and Herodotus (Cic. Or. 39 = Theophrastus 697 Fortenbaugh). 26 On the Herodotean impact on Ephorus as an historiographer in general, see Riemann 1967, 29-32; Prandi 1988; recently Breglia 2005.

154

Chapter Ten

After Ephorus, the next group of ancient authors who handed down Herodotean material to Strabo are some historians and geographers of Alexander’s campaign (Callisthenes and Nearchus) and early Hellenistic writers such as Eratosthenes.27 They owe fundamental ethnographical categories and basic ideas about the arrangement of their material to Herodotus. One thinks of the typical structure of describing the location and geographical features of a region, its habits and customs, the thaumasia and finally details of political and military history. In his chorographia of some regions of Alexander’s empire Strabo made use of a Herodotean disposition and often enters into a kind of ‘hidden dialogue’ with the Herodotean tradition, as he found it reflected in early Hellenistic authors, without naming Herodotus explicitly as his ultimate source. The next significant number of quotations from Herodotus has been handed down to Strabo via two erudite 2nd century BC commentaries on Homer’s epics, Apollodorus of Athens’ Commentary on the Catalogue of the Ships (Neon Katalogos) and Demetrius of Scepsis’ monumental Commentary on the Trojan Allies (Troikos Diakosmos).28 These two treatises were written merely some decades after Aristarchus of Samothrace’s early commentary on Herodotus’ Histories and testify to the vivid interest in Herodotus’ work among scholarly authors. Of course, the philosophical geographer Strabo had to take these commentaries and their views about Herodotus into consideration. The two most influential predecessors among the universal historians with whom Strabo regularly takes issue are Polybius of Megalopolis and Posidonius of Apamea. This Stoic philosopher and author, the first continuator of Polybius’ Histories, became Strabo’s most important, almost contemporary rival. Posidonius’ treatise On the Ocean is justly regarded as one of the main sources of his Geographika. Surprisingly Polybius at least in the preserved parts of his Histories never quotes any passage from Herodotus by name. Hence, Frank Walbank cautiously stated: “There is no firm evidence that he was acquainted with Herodotus.”29 27 See, for instance, 11.14.13 C. 531 (Callisthenes); 13.1.59 C. 611 (Callisthenes); 13.4.5 C. 626 and 13.4.7 C. 627 (Callisthenes), and (probably) 14.4.3 C. 668; on Callisthenes and Strabo in general, see Prandi 1988, 61-4, and on Callisthenes as an author, Prandi 1985; on Nearchus, see Pédech 1984, 162-214; on Eratosthenes as a geographer, see Geus 2002. 28 See Pfeiffer 1978, 258-85 on Aristarchus, 306-21 on Apollodorus, and 303-5 on Demetrius. 29 Walbank 1972, 38 n. 30, cf. Hornblower 2006, 314; Walbank’s monumental commentary on Polybius in three volumes (1957, 1967, 1979) still remains an indispensable scholarly work.

Universal History and Cultural Geography in Herodotus and Strabo

155

However, given the high reputation of Herodotus as a classic in the 2nd century BC and Polybius’ social standing I presume that Polybius at least had read some selected passages of Herodotus at school. In the fragments of Posidonius’ works Ian Kidd30 has found at least 18 indisputable quotations by name from Herodotus. In addition, one may mention other fragments where Posidonius discusses general issues of geography and ethnography which had already been treated by Herodotus without naming this precursor from Halicarnassus. To sum up, in my view Strabo’s critical attitude towards Herodotus was shaped for the most part by Apollodorus, Demetrius, Polybius and Posidonius as intermediate sources, all of whom were rather ‘difficult’ grandchildren and heirs of Herodotus. In contrast, one may compare the 2nd century historian and geographer Agatharchides of Cnidus who in a discussion of the location of the sources of the Nile sincerely praised Herodotus as a tireless researcher and an experienced historian.31

IV. Selected Passages Taken from the Geographika Illustrating Strabo’s Criticism of Herodotus In this paper each passage which I have listed in the appendix cannot be discussed thoroughly. I shall restrict myself to a few interesting and representative examples. Two passages from Strabo (11.6.3f. and 17.1.52) are most illustrative. It is a well-known commonplace of ancient methodological statements on the writing of history that a historian should stick to the aletheia, that is the historical truth. This principle is of crucial importance in Strabo’s view, too. Therefore he utters sharp criticism of Herodotus’ fondness of the mythodes and, more generally, of his literary aim to provide his readership with a pleasurable, ‘light’ reading matter. Without referring to Thucydides by name, Strabo’s critical remark about Herodotus with the telling words akriboun pros aletheian surely echoes the famous paragraphs in the first book of Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War on methodological questions and his criticism of contemporary logographoi (Thuc. 1.20-2). Strabo reproaches Herodotus together with other palaioi ton Hellenon syngrapheis with their 30

Kidd, Commentary 1988, 1020 lists these passages. On Posidonius’ Histories and his geographical treatise On the Ocean, see in general Malitz 1983 and Clarke 1999, and on Strabo’s relationship to Poseidonius, cf. also Engels 1999, 166-201. 31 Agatharchides FGrHist 86 F 19 (= Diod. Sic. 1.37.3f.) with Riemann’s notes 1967, 59f.; earlier literature on Agatharchides’ works may be conveniently found in Engels 2004.

156

Chapter Ten

philomythia. Strabo dislikes mythical and paradoxographical passages as well as novellas as unfitting parts of a historical work. Such novellas, however, in modern readers’ opinion rank among the most charming sections of Herodotus’ Histories. Strabo critically remarks that Herodotus wrote ho ti akroasin hedeian echei kai thaumasten. Strabo explicitly names Herodotus, together with Ctesias (Persika) and Hellanicus (Hellenika), as untrustworthy authors who like to tell fancy stories (11.6.3-4 C. 507f.). In this passage, as in Geographika books 2 and 15, the same criticism is raised against many authors of Indika-works.32 Methodologically speaking Strabo himself demands a strict line of separation between the historikon and the mythodes. People would rightly call old, invented and miraculous tales myths, whereas the only legitimate aim of ancient or contemporary history should be truth (11.5.3 C. 504). At any rate, serious scholarly historiography according to Strabo does not allow for any element of the miraculous at all or, at the most, only for very brief remarks. In this respect, Strabo follows earlier Greek critics such as Aristotle as well as Roman authors of his own age like Cicero who openly called the pater historiae also an inventor fabularum (Cic. Leg. 1.5; Div. 2.116). One might also observe some similarities between Diodorus Siculus and Strabo concerning their critical reception of Herodotus (see, for instance Diod. Sic. 1.69.7 with critical remarks against Herodotus’ paradoxologein and mythous plattein psychagogias heneka). In a discussion of various theories about the sources of the Nile in book 17 Strabo reproaches Herodotus and others with “talking nonsense” (the Greek phlyaria is a strong word) and adding to their account marvellous tales “to give it, as it were, a kind of tune or rhythm or relish (spice)” (hosper melos e rhythmon e hedysma ti). With these words Strabo (17.1.52 C. 818f.; see also earlier 12.3.21 C. 550 on Scythian tribes and their strange names) gives us, perhaps reluctantly, an excellent description of some secrets of Herodotean artistic prose. The full impact of these stylistic devices surely could only be felt by a Greek audience listening to a public recitation of Herodotus’ Histories in Athens and in other cities33. We can read another example of Strabo’s open criticism of Herodotus in his remark on earlier circumnavigations of Africa (2.3.4-5 C. 98-100). I have chosen this passage to demonstrate the perils of a still popular 32 See, for instance, Strabo’s reproaches in 2.1.9 C. 70 which are directed against prominent Indika-authors, such as Deimachus, Megasthenes, Onesicritus and Nearchus, whom he calls pseudologoi. 33 See Evan’s paper on recitations of Homer and Herodotus in this volume, pp. 116.

Universal History and Cultural Geography in Herodotus and Strabo

157

uncritical belief in the trustworthiness of fragments of ancient Greek historians and geographers which are quoted by name in later authors.34 Sometimes such confidence turns out to be naïve. For Strabo grossly misrepresents this original Herodotean passage which fortunately has been preserved in full detail. Herodotus dated the first successful attempt at a cirumnavigation under Pharao Necho who ruled ca. 666 BC (Hdt. 4.42-4, see on this passage the commentary by Asheri, Lloyd and Corcella 2007, 611-4). In Strabo’s criticism, however, we read explicitly that the first voyage was undertaken during the reign of king Darius more than a generation later. It is clear from the context of this passage that the information about this circumnavigation was handed down to Strabo via Posidonius’ On the Ocean (see FGrHist 87 F 28 = F 49 Edelstein, Kidd). But the question is unavoidable as to whether Posidonius or Strabo was responsible for this mistake. Earlier scholars, for instance Jacoby or Riemann, confidently assumed that Strabo was the culprit, because there is plenty of evidence of similar mistakes in his Geographika. However, leading authorities on Strabo and Posidonius have recently suggested that at least in this case Posidonius was to blame for the mistake. For instance Stefan Radt plainly stated in the first volume of his erudite commentary on Strabo that “der Irrtum geht offenbar auf Poseidonios zurück” and referred his readers to Kidd’s commentary on Posidonius who maintained ad locum that “if Strabo had found Necho in Posidonius, he would not have changed it to Darius.”35 In my opinion, we cannot be sure about this point and the question must remain unresolved. Let me illustrate the dangerous mechanisms of distortion and misrepresentation which are often at work when Strabo uses material taken from Herodotus via an intermediate source with one last example. It has already been discussed thoroughly by Luisa Prandi in her important paper on Strabo and Herodotus. In book 10 (10.1.10 C. 448) Strabo reminds his readers of a Persian military strategy in order to capture systematically all inhabitants of an island which the Persian troops had taken before. This method was called in Greek sageneuein. The Persians formed a chain of soldiers and drove together the inhabitants like animals with the help of hunting-nets in a kind of a battue. Strabo claims that the Persians used this method when they took Eretria on the island of Euboea during the campaign which led to the famous battle of Marathon. However, 34 Lenfant 1999, 108-10 makes valuable cautious remarks on Strabo’s quotations from Herodotus; she also points to the general problem of reliability of fragmentarily preserved historical sources. 35 Radt, vol. 5, 2006, 240 referring to Kidd’s commentary 1988 on F 49 Edelstein, Kidd.

158

Chapter Ten

Herodotus himself does not report this significant detail about the capture of Eretria. He only describes the usual method of sageneuein at another passage of his sixth book (see Hdt. 6.101 on the capture of Eretria, and Hdt. 6.31 on sageneuein). In this case Strabo appears to have used Ephorus’ report on these events as an intermediate source,36 and Ephorus for his part must have elaborated the original Herodotean version by adding the impressive detail of the hunting of the Eretrians by the Persian soldiers.

V. Summary: Different Viewpoints and Literary Aims of Herodotus and Strabo Many ancient Greek and Roman critics praised Herodotus’ artistic prose. They called him a ‘Homer of the prose genre’ and partly explained the impact of Herodotus’ artful style as a consequence of his imitation of Homer. Although Strabo admired Homer and called him the archegetes of geography and his epics the basis of all higher Greek education, in his historical and geographical works Strabo aimed at a scholarly, sober prose style. To indicate the learned character of his works he called them with an unusual title hypomnemata. We may confidently presume that Strabo would have been able to adorn his prose with the usual stylistic and rhetorical devices. But he did not intend to write historiographical or geographical works as an example of the opus oratorium and only very rarely used any means of rhetorical embellishment. The Strabonian kolossourgia was an ambitious attempt to establish a new genre of scholarly cultural geography, which he labelled chorographia. Thus he indicated a methodological distinction from earlier geographical descriptions of the whole civilized world from the Ionian periploi to Eratosthenes’ Geographika. In Herodotus’ times the Achaemenid empire was the leading worldpower and the model of a universal empire. Hence its administrative structures of different satrapies and the polycentric world of the Greek poleis strongly influenced Herodotus’ general views of the oikoumene (on which see Hdt. 4.36-42). Strabo, for his turn, defended in his works the historical ‘mission’ of the Augustan empire to give peace and prosperity to 36 For another example where Strabo found earlier Herodotean material in Ephorus and combined it with supplementary information coming from several of Aristotle’s Politeiai, see his discussion of the founding of Miletus (14.1.6 C. 635). Cf. also the discussions about the Carians and Leleges in Strabo (7.7.2 C. 321f.; 14.2.27 C. 661) and in Herodotus (Hdt. 1.171f.).

Universal History and Cultural Geography in Herodotus and Strabo

159

the regions around the Mediterranean and to civilize the barbarious people at the fringes of the Greco-Roman world. Nevertheless, the administrative structure of the Augustan empire is of astonishingly small relevance to Strabo’s general conception of the oikoumene and to his chorographic descriptions of its different regions in books 3-17, if one excludes his important overview over the Roman empire at the end of the whole work in book 17 (17.3.24-25 C. 839f.). For Strabo’s general ideas about the structure and form of the oikoumene mainly result from his critical discussion of earlier views of Eratosthenes and his immediate predecessors Polybius and Posidonius (but not primarily from a Herodotean impact).37 Whereas Herodotus was deeply influenced by the world of fifth-century Greek poleis with their ideals of eleutheria and autonomia and especially by his admiration of Periclean Athens, Strabo is loyal to the traditions of his Pontic homeland and his prominent family, to the culture and civilization of the Greek poleis especially in Asia Minor and last not least to the emerging world-wide Augustan empire with its new constitutional order. Let me finish with one last observation on Strabo’s own identity and his role as an author and a scholar. He saw himself as heir to a long series of predecessors. His difficult relationship with Herodotus is well illustrated by the catalogue of famous predecessors which Strabo presents in his main prooimion (1.1.1 C. 1f.). Here, Strabo makes a distinction between three groups of predecessors, which are arranged in chronological order. First he names Homer, Anaximander and Hecataeus (while he omits Herodotus). It may be of interest to note that Herodotus had sharply reproached these two Ionian geographers with their outdated ideas about the kosmos and their circular maps (pinakes), whereas Strabo made an attempt to defend them. A second group of authors follows including Democritus, Eudoxus, Dicaearchus and Ephorus. Finally Strabo names the comparatively recent and ‘philosophical’ authors with whom he regularly takes issue on geographical questions, Eratosthenes, Polybius and Posidonius. Herodotus is missing in this list as well, as he is in a similar overview over different genres of geographical literature at the beginning of book eight (8.1.1 C. 332). This surprising fact cannot be explained merely by the suggestion that Strabo omitted Herodotus because he primarily regarded him as a historian, since in these two passages he includes the three historians Ephorus, Polybius and Posidonius. It appears that Strabo’s admiration for Homer and the ancient geographers and his 37 On Strabo’s view of the oikoumene see already Gisinger 1937, 2123-74, and recently Engels 2007b with earlier literature.

160

Chapter Ten

rivalry with Eratosthenes have had also their share in forming his reserved attitude towards Herodotus and his Histories. The history of reception of Strabo’s works in the first centuries AD is a sad story. Hardly any ancient historian or geographer seems to have used his works as sources, and hence his Historika Hypomnemata have been handed down to us only in a very fragmentary state.38 Strabo’s Geographika did not become a reference work until the Byzantine age. Strabo’s critical attitude towards Herodotus obviously was not detrimental to the impact of the Herodotean Histories on authors of the Roman imperial age. Herodotus’ incessantly high reputation in Greek and Roman times is well illustrated by the fact that his version of the Greek victory over the Persians remained the Greek historiographical Meistererzählung. It was never displaced from this position by rivalling accounts which were given for instance in Choerilus of Samos’ popular epic Persika or in the relevant passages of Ephorus’ widely read Histories. Even Theopompus’ Epitome of Herodotus’ Histories was not detrimental to the continuous transmission of Herodotus’ work, as it happened to be the case with Pompeius Trogus’ Historiae and Justinus’ Epitome. The ancient imitatio Herodoti actually perhaps reached a peak during the 2nd century AD when the historian and orator Cephalion wrote a ‘universal history’ in nine books in Ionian dialect entitled Mousai as a tribute to Herodotus (FGrHist 93 T 1-5 and F 1-7, obviously not a work of serious historical prose), influential historians and geographers such as Arrian or Pausanias honoured Herodotus’ memory with their works. Even Plutarch (De malignitate Herodoti) and other ancient critics of Herodotus testified with their treatises to his impressive Nachleben and to the enduring Herodotean impact on ancient historiography and geography.

38

On the fragments of Strabo’s universal history see FGrHist 91 F 1-19; Ambaglio 1990 (with an additional fragment F 20, a short text on papyrus on which there is an ongoing scholarly discussion); Engels 1999, 76-114.

Universal History and Cultural Geography in Herodotus and Strabo

161

APPENDIX List of passages in Strabo’s Geographika which refer to certain passages in Herodotus’ Historiai (compiled on the basis of studies by Althaus 1941; Riemann 1967; Prandi 1988; Engels 1999): 1.2.23 C. 30 (see Hdt. 2.5.1) 1.2.29 C. 36 (see Hdt. 2.5.1) 1.3.22 C. 61f. (see Hdt. 4.36.1) 2.3.4-5 C. 98-100 (see Hdt. 4.42-4) 3.2.14 C. 151 (see Hdt. 1.163.2) 6.3.6 C. 282 (see Hdt. 7.170.1f.) 7.3.8 C. 301 (see Hdt. 4.127.1-4) 7 Fr. 21a Radt (see Hdt. 7.58.3) 9.4.14 C. 428 (see Hdt. 7.199f.) 10.1.10 C. 448 (see Hdt. 6.101; cf. 6.31) 10.3.21 C. 473 (see Hdt. 3.37.3) 11.14.13 C. 531 (see Hdt. 1.202.3) 11.14.16 C. 533 (see Hdt. 1.93.4) 12.1.3 C. 534 (see Hdt. 1.6.1) 12.2.4 C. 536 (see Hdt. 2.5.1f.) 12.3.9 C. 544 (see Hdt. 1.6.1) 12.3.20-1 C. 550 (see Hdt. 4.17) 12.8.5 C. 573 (see Hdt. 1.173.2f. and 7.92) 13.1.59 C. 611 (see Hdt. 1.175 and 8.104) 13.2.4 C. 618 (see Hdt. 1.23f.) 13.4.5 C. 626 (see Hdt. 1.80.1) 13.4.7 C. 627 (see Hdt. 1.93.2-4) 14.4.3 C. 668 (see Hdt. 7.91) 15.1.16 C. 691 (see Hdt. 2.5.1) 17.1.52 C. 818f. (see Hdt. 2.28) 17.2.5 C. 823f. (see Hdt. 2.36.3)

CHAPTER ELEVEN A MARGINAL VISION OF EMPIRE: PHILO AND JOSEPHUS ON THE JEWS’ INTEGRATION INTO IMPERIAL SOCIETY AVI AVIDOV

In a recent article John Barclay has demonstrated most eloquently the value of applying post-colonial theory to the literary products of subordinate ethnic groups in Roman antiquity.1 Although I too believe there is much to be gained by applying insights gleaned from the rapidly growing postcolonial literature, and especially from the use of Homi Bhabha’s celebrated notion of hybridity (Bhabha 1994, 102-22; Loomba 2005, 78-82), I think more can nevertheless be attained by using the nowadays somewhat neglected concept of marginality, which is more appropriate to the ancient scene on several counts. Marginality is both a wider and a narrower concept than post-colonialism. It is wider because it refers to a human condition that may be precipitated by a variety of factors of which colonialism is just one among several others; it is narrower because when dealing with the consequences of colonialism, it concentrates on just one out of a whole array of interrelated phenomena. The two concepts may, however, converge in the case of the literature produced by members of culturally marginalized sectors of societies subjected to foreign domination.2

1

Barclay 2005. Another instance of applying a post-colonial approach, in a way more interesting, is Batty 2000, where this approach has completely altered the significance attached to a familiar but previously under-appreciated text, namely, Pomponius Mela’s Chorographia. 2 See the pertinent remarks of Loomba 2005, 193, addressing the question: “...can the voice of the subaltern be represented by the intellectual?”

A Marginal Vision of Empire

163

Consider the following quotes culled from the writings of four provincial literati roughly contemporary with each other, chosen for their striking similarity of tone and outlook in commenting on the blessings of Roman imperial society. For observe that of the greatest blessings which States can enjoy—peace, liberty, plenty, abundance of men, and concord—so far as peace is concerned the peoples have no need of statesmanship at present; for all war, both Greek and foreign, has been banished from among us and has disappeared; and of liberty the peoples have as great a share as our rulers grant them, and perhaps more would not be better for them... Plut. Praec. ger. reip. 824C (trans. by H.N. Fowler) ...all lies open to all men. No one is a foreigner who deserves to hold office or to be trusted, but there has been established a common democracy of the world, under one man, the best ruler and director...[62] It has never refused anyone. But just as the earth’s ground supports all men, so it too receives men from every land...[63]...you have caused the word “Roman” to belong not to a city, but to be the name of a sort of common race, and this not one out of all the races, but a balance to all the remaining ones. Aristides, Or. 26.61-3 (trans. by C.A. Behr) And the happiness that the whole human race now enjoys, thanks to you, we measure by the fact that it is possible for people in every country to live and prosper while respecting their own [traditions]...Is there any people or city or national community for which the protection of your empire and the power of the Romans have not come to be the greatest of blessings?...of all the things which it has done to make them still happier there is one above all which is enough in itself to achieve this, namely, that they no longer are found to be slaves but free men. Ios. Ant. 16.36-42 (trans. by R. Marcus and A. Wikgren) This is he [Augustus] who reclaimed every state to liberty, who led disorder into order and brought gentle manners and harmony to all unsociable and brutish nations, who enlarged Hellas by many a new Hellas and hellenized the outside world in its most important regions, the guardian of the peace, who dispensed their dues to each and all, who did not hoard his favours but gave them to be common property, who kept nothing good and excellent hidden throughout his life. Philo, Leg. 147 (trans. by F.H. Colson)

All four were cultivated provincials, steeped in their respective cultures and well-versed in their national histories, including the more recent, culminating in the momentous encounter undergone by each in turn with Rome: the parallel entangled chronicles of failed expectations, attempts at

164

Chapter Eleven

revolt and breakaway, finally submission, compliance and reconciliation with the realities of power. Perhaps the most striking motif recurring in all four is the notion of belonging to a well-integrated society, considered to be the result of a conscious policy of inclusion on the part of the benevolent Roman overlords. Oddly enough, Philo, one of the leaders of the Jewish community of Alexandria at the time of the pogroms of the age of Gaius Caligula, and Josephus, one of the leaders of the failed revolt against Rome, merge in admirably. What then, if anything at all, is there to distinguish them from their Greek counterparts? Was there a unique angle to Josephus’ vision of the empire? In what way did that of Philo differ from those of other Hellenistic thinkers of his age?3 A difference could have been expected since we know that the outlook expressed in the last two quotes was not the authentic product of a commonly held vision of Jewish history embedded in the national culture. Both Josephus and Philo were quite atypical of their own society in this respect, by which I do not mean that they were disingenuously favourable and flattering to the Roman overlords—that goes without saying and is quite understandable given the circumstances—but that in being historically oriented at all they were profoundly out of key with contemporary Jewish culture to the point of incomprehensibility to any of their fellow countrymen—outside their own narrow circle of deeply Hellenized literati—who would bother to have read them (Bohrmann 1989, 172f.). Jewish historiography was simply non-existent at the time. By an ironic quirk of history it had been dying out from about the same time that Greek historiography was reinvented by Herodotus in the fifth century BC.4 Although the Jews had once been the pioneers of historical writing, Josephus’ contemporaries—even some of the most learned amongst them, as rabbinic literature makes quite plain (Hadas-Lebel 1990, 109-15, 144 et passim)—were historically illiterate, profoundly unacquainted and

3

On Philo’s familiarity with Greek culture to the extent that “scholars have often debated whether Philo was more a Greek or a Jew,” see Birnbaum 2001, 37f., with further references. For Josephus’ learning, see Schwartz 1990, 23-57. 4 The last substantial piece of Jewish historiography to be produced was the biblical book of the Chronicles, written about the middle of the 5th cent. BC. I Maccabees, most probably written in the late 2nd cent. BC, may be regarded as the last flicker of a long defunct art. I Macc. 9.22 in fact reads like an ironic comment by way of archaizing paraphrase on the spirit of the age: “Now the rest of the acts of Judas, and his wars and the brave deeds that he did, and his greatness, have not been recorded, but they are very many.”

A Marginal Vision of Empire

165

uninterested in their own history,5 or in any other history for that matter. These two self-appointed spokesmen, along with a few other similarlyminded members of the élite,6 spoke, therefore, in terms quite alien to the society on behalf of which they were exercising their eloquence. They were culturally marginal to their own society. I shall not go into the reasons for the demise of Jewish historiography—a question dealt with magisterially in Yerushalmi’s monograph Zakhor (Yerushalmi 1982; Momigliano 1990, 5-28)—as that would take us too far afield for the purposes of this article. For me the essential thing is that this was an only-to-be-expected aspect of an unfolding process of the marginalization of the Jewish nation as a whole.7 Memory, embedded in, and transmitted by, ritual and liturgy had come to replace history for the nation turned in upon itself, and was to remain so until the revival of Jewish historiography as a product of the awakening of the, largely secular, national consciousness in the 19th century (Yerushalmi 1982, 40-52, 85-93). The occasional Jewish historian may still be found in the Second Temple period,8 but that in itself does not make Jewish historiography, given that these exceptional figures were writing in Greek, according to the canons of Greek historiography, and consequently with a view to a predominantly non-Jewish readership.9 Within Jewish society at large we may safely assume that their production went largely unnoticed and their cultural input marginal at best. Marginality, then, both of the Jews generally within the society of the empire, and of the Hellenized literati within Jewish society, is, I submit, the key to understanding the particular slant of these two writers, to be analyzed in what follows. First, therefore, before moving on to address the texts themselves, my specialized use of the concept of marginality itself needs to be expounded, along with some associated terms relevant to the special case of Jewish marginality in the context of Roman imperial society. Marginality is the condition of those social actors, or agents, whether individuals or groups, who are both part of society and yet not fully 5

Goodman 2007, 188-90. As noted by Yerushalmi 1982, 18: “The history of the Talmudic period itself cannot be elicited from its own vast literature.” 6 Justus of Tiberias immediately springs to mind, on whom see Holladay 1983, 371-89. 7 For my position on this issue in extenso, see Avidov 2008. 8 Eupolemus and Ps.-Hecataeus (Holladay 1983, 93-156, 277-335) are the most serious other candidates for inclusion in this category. 9 Pace Schwartz (2001, 35) who assumes Eupolemus’ history to have been directed at a mainly local Jewish audience.

166

Chapter Eleven

integrated into it. It is, in other words, the absence, or lack of participation, of individuals and groups in those spheres of communal life in which, according to determined criteria, they might be expected to participate (Germani 1980, 49). It is a complex phenomenon comprising a host of elements locked, as factors and consequences, in a vicious circle spanning the social, economic, political and cultural fields. Of most concern to us for the issue at hand is its cultural aspect manifested in an introverted outlook and world-view. Perceiving themselves as deprived of the power to shape their own destinies, marginals take little interest in the concerns of surrounding society, on which they have given up. Characteristically, rosy and often vindictive visions of a future disjointed from linear time come to replace rational planning for the future; occasional fits of exasperated action substitute for constructive interaction with impinging agents; and a self-absorbed, hazy, plaintive memory of a heroized past comes to replace a sustained effort to maintain an impassionate record of past events. Marginality is essentially social integration gone amiss, and the process leading to the marginalization of the Jews in Roman times can therefore be best understood by setting it against a model of social integration of Roman imperial society at large. Integration is the condition of a society whose parts—notably its centre and periphery—are linked to each other in a complementary relationship. There is, however, no uniform pattern. The currently predominant explanatory model, inspired by the paradigm of the modern nation-state, attaches great weight to factors conducive to cultural cohesion. Applied to the Roman empire it privileges Romanization (or Hellenization in the East), but it is, in fact, of questionable validity to most of antiquity. The multi-cultural and multi-national society of the Empire was characterized by a low degree of cultural cohesion, great distance between centre and periphery, and an indirect mode of integration. It was nevertheless integrated to a degree sufficient for it to be considered a society—in relation to which the Jews, let me reiterate, were marginal. For society-members integration is primarily access to the power and decision-making political and economic centres. The distance, viewed in these terms, between centre and periphery is the degree of probability of the needs of the periphery being articulated and responded to. In the Empire, the distance between centre and periphery was not only great, but institutionalized as well; for centuries following incorporation the periphery was to remain by and large of non-citizen status. Direct accessibility of the political centre to both individual society-members and to communities, even when of citizen-status, was never marked; most were

A Marginal Vision of Empire

167

integrated, however, but that not so much by virtue of acquired citizenstatus as owing to the existence of two social mechanisms which provided indirect means of participation, namely, the institution of patronage in its several manifestations, and the imperial cult serving as a privileged channel of communication.10 In Judaea local culture and traditions were too deeply entrenched for either one of these mechanisms to take root. The distinctly Roman institution of patronage had not been adopted anywhere outside the narrow circle of the ruling cosmopolitan élite at which the great patronage network extending from Rome ended.11 The imperial cult too was an integrative force from which the Jews were inevitably debarred for obvious reasons. Prayers and sacrifices for the emperor at the Temple in Jerusalem could to some extent serve as a substitute for the cult as a means for the expression of loyalty, but could not replace it as a means for integration. The imperial cult merits further consideration here because of its relevance to the texts I shall be addressing presently. Following a long Hellenistic tradition,12 it grew out of two interrelated needs of the subject peoples: first, to conceptually articulate to themselves the dominating power governing their lives,13 and secondly, to give expression to their loyalty to it.14 We can only assume that a third need, the one of more immediate concern to us here, was also present from very early on, namely, the need to be linked to that power through a regular channel of communication. The interplay of two of these three needs, the expression of loyalty and linkage to the centre, is, I submit, the key to understanding the role of the cult in the integration of provincial communities. 10

Garnsey and Saller 1987, 164-70; and most specifically on the close relationship between the two, Nicols 2006. 11 For the external ties of the Judean ruling class and the internal tensions entailed by them, see Avidov 1998. 12 For the gradual displacement in the course of the second and first centuries BC of the traditional royal cults by cults of Roma, “the Hearth of the Romans,” “the people of the Romans,” “the universal Roman benefactors,” and finally, through individual Roman officials to Julius Caesar and Augustus, see Price 1984, 40-7. 13 The definitive treatment of this aspect is Price 1984. See especially 7-11, 25-47 on ritual as a public cognitive system, and 58f., 205f. on the role of the cult in inculcating the notion of imperial charisma in the conceptual universe of the inhabitants of the Hellenistic East. Cf., however, the very different approach of Bowersock 1982, 172f., 180-2. 14 “Power had to be worshipped, that was self-evident: the power of natural forces, Fate or Fortune, the many gods and goddesses in their multiple attributes, and the great power on earth...” (Finley 1977, 207).

168

Chapter Eleven

The main significance of the imperial cult to the issue of provincial integration into imperial society was, therefore, as a regular and privileged channel of communication between provincial communities and the imperial centre; but its importance in fact went far beyond that of merely enabling messages to get through from periphery to centre and vice versa. The very use of the medium itself also carried a message of overriding significance. Although seldom pronounced explicitly, the message was imperial recognition. It follows that exclusion from this medium conveyed the converse message of far-reaching consequences, namely, the marking off of the excluded as marginal. Philo gives vent to precisely this apprehension when complaining of the failure of the governor of Egypt to convey a complimentary address on behalf of the Jews of Alexandria to the emperor Gaius on the occasion of his accession: We had decreed and ratified with our actions all the tributes to Gaius which were possible and were allowed by the laws and had submitted the decree to Flaccus, begging him since he would not have granted our request for an embassy to provide himself for its transmission...But Flaccus, dismissing all consideration for our intentions and his own words and agreements, detained the decree in his own possession so that it might be supposed that we alone among men who dwell under the sun were hostile.15

Professions of allegiance were meaningful and important to both sides, although only a mad or eccentric emperor (e.g., Gaius), or an overenthusiastic and erratic governor (Pontius Pilate) would normally be tempted to use them for putting the loyalty of any particular sector of society to the test or to force an act of this nature as a means by which to tie the refractory closer to the regime (Tac. Ann. 2.42.5; Philo, Leg. 299305).16 Nor should they be seen as mere tactical statements called for by calculated political prudence—at any rate no more so than the similar expressions of devotion to other gods, equally motivated ultimately by self-interest. Rather, they should be seen primarily as an expression of the universally human need to come to terms with the realities of this world. 15

In Flacc. 97-101 (all translations from Philo are those of F.H. Colson, Loeb). He goes on (103) to relate how King Agrippa intervened in the matter and took it upon himself to transmit the decree to Gaius and to apologize and explain the delay. 16 Persecution of Christians, as attested, e.g., in Tac. Ann. 15.44 (where the charge is actually incendiarism and Christianity incidental) or Pliny, Ep. 10.96 and 97, was presumably similarly sporadic during the first two centuries of our era. See Millar 1992, 556-60, who stresses the fact that imperial action is known only from rescripta to provincial governors unsure as to the right procedure to follow.

A Marginal Vision of Empire

169

The expression of allegiance to the emperor-god was at the same time an act of reassertion of one’s adherence to one’s social universe, for which the emperor’s divine persona served as a symbolic focus.17 Precisely the great cultural diversity of the periphery made this one shared notion so crucial to maintaining the sense of belonging to that “common race of Romans” of Aristides.18 The symbolic element is all the more vital where, as was the case in the culturally deeply diversified empire, structural boundaries are weak. Emperor-worship served to mark out the “us” from the “them” even when this distinction cut across social boundaries and embraced deep cultural differences.19 Furthermore, to be allowed the means to express one’s loyalty was important because it was expected by Rome and because it had come to be universal practice. To do so through the medium of cult was important because it had become conventional. It had come to be standard, and standards, as everyone knows, are there to be kept up with; moreover, through universal application they tend to harden into normative expectations to be complied with. Loyalty to the emperor could, of course, be expressed in other ways too—one could send a letter20—but those did not offer access to him in the 17 As put by Cohen 1985, 118: “People construct community symbolically, making it a resource and repository of meaning, and a referent of their identity,” and see also Hopkins 1978, 200, 210. 18 Or. 26.63: ǣǚ̓ ǭ̕ ΂DzǥǚͭǨǦ Ǟ˙ǦǚǢ ʹǩǨǢ̒ǬǚǭǞ Ǩ˱ ǩ̖ǤǞDzǫ, ʩǤǤ̍ ǜ̐ǦǨǮǫ ˩ǦǨǥǚ ǣǨǢǦǨͼ ǭǢǦǨǫ. 19 To quote Cohen once again (1985, 15), “the range of meanings [of social categories] can be glossed over in a commonly accepted symbol, precisely because it allows its adherents to attach their own meanings to it. They share the symbol, but do not necessarily share its meanings.” 20 See Pliny’s letter to Trajan in which a measure is suggested intended to rationalize the economy of one provincial city (Ep. 10.43, readily endorsed by the emperor in his reply, 10.44): “When I was inspecting the accounts of the city of Byzantium, Sir, where the expenditure has been very heavy, I was informed that a delegate was sent annually to offer you a loyal address and allow 12,000 sesterces for his expenses. Remembering your wishes, I decided to send on the address but no delegate to convey it, so that the citizens could reduce expenses without failing in their official duty towards you...” (trans. by B. Radice). Given the general importance attached by provincials to embassies to the emperor (Millar 1992, 37585), it is easy to imagine the disappointment of the Byzantines. Dio 52.30.9, echoing Pliny’s very words, makes Maecenas anticipate him by suggesting to Augustus: “Do not allow them (i.e., the cities) to send any embassy to you, except if there is a matter involving a judicial decision, but let them explain whatever they

170

Chapter Eleven

way that the cult did. It is the prime function of priests of all religions to communicate with the divinity on behalf of their communities, and those of the imperial cult were no exception. Similarly, philotimia could manifest itself in the form of other priesthoods too, but other gods did not receive provincial embassies, and quite frankly, other gods were not nearly as powerful and well-placed to benefit as well as to do harm. Imperial concession to the establishment of temples and priesthoods was not always forthcoming,21 and when offered it served as a promising sign that a favoured communication channel has been established. That the favours secured through such channels were vital for the very preservation of communal life is a point which can hardly be overstated. We have grown far too accustomed to the discursive style of our sources to see any more that the beneficia of the emperor were of the same nature as some of the most basic services of the state in later times, judicial, administrative and, in the economic sphere, distributive.22 It is for this reason that, as noted by Sherwin-White, the place largely filled in the West by zealous pursuit of the constitutional privileges and titles of the Roman state is taken in the East by an everexpanding development of the imperial cult, a process that is followed only slowly and from afar by the spread of the citizenship. The titles which the communities seek during the first two centuries of the Principate are not those of the Roman colonies, but of the imperial “neokorate.”23

Communication with the emperor was near-monopolized by the ǣǨǢǦǕ of the cult. These bodies, whose principle function in the imperial period was formally limited to the regular celebration of the cult, and whose presidents had all titles indicating priesthoods, in fact acquired imperial require to their governor, and have such petitions as he approves sent on by him. Thus they will neither have any expenditure nor achieve their ends by improper means, but will receive proper responses without expense or trouble” (F. Millar’s translation, 1992, 380). From the reign of Vespasian we have an edict cited by the jurist Marcianus (Dig. 50.7.5.6) restricting the number of ambassadors to three. 21 On the reasons for this, discussed in terms of a system analogous to that of giftexchange, see Price 1984, 73-7. 22 On the nature of imperial beneficia, see Millar 1992, 420-34; on the relation between the private and the pubic wealth controlled by the emperor, and on the rapidly diminishing validity of the distinction from early in the principate, see ibid. 189-201. 23 Sherwin-White 1973, 402. And further on (403): “The history of the adaptation of the Greek provinces to the Orbis Romanus thus becomes, for a time, the history of the imperial cult, provincial and municipal alike.”

A Marginal Vision of Empire

171

recognition as formal representatives of their constituent member-cities and often acted on their behalf, as e.g. in the prosecution of governors de repetundis (Brunt 1990, 78, and table at 90-5). Simon Price’s analysis of an extensive body of evidence for the distribution of temples, priesthoods and altars of the imperial cult in Asia Minor has led him, beyond the general observation that the imperial cult was both widespread and established on a regular basis, to the following three qualifying generalizations relevant to our theme: (1) communal organization was the crucial factor for its presence, which was not limited to communities of city-status but was found wherever communal organization developed far enough to support it; (2) it was largely confined to urban localities; and (3) it was closely associated with Greek high culture and the Olympian pantheon (Price 1984, 78-100). The line demarcating the cult’s sphere of dominance may thus be seen to have run along the triple divide between highly and poorly organized communities, urban and rural, and Greek and non-Greek. Within the sphere thus delineated it reigned unchallenged. This is a point of great significance, given that these highly developed Greek civic communities were not segregated, geographically or administratively, but rather dispersed throughout the eastern regions of the empire, where they served as the basic units of political organization and the prime foci of attachment to the centre. The implication is that they laid down a norm which could not be followed outside them. The unchallenged dominance of Greek high culture generated what must have been experienced as a rather stifling atmosphere by the non-participant, which brings us back to the issue of the marginality of the Jews of the empire, and to the marginality within them of the Hellenized element. Marginality invariably implies defeat in a trial of strength, and I should now like to suggest that in this case too the Jews did not abandon the field without a fight. Although it was surely not really the failure of the Jews of Alexandria to participate in the imperial cult that sparked off the outburst of hostilities in that city during the reign of Gaius, culminating in the temporary expulsion of the Jews from much of the city and their confinement to a ghetto, it seems to have been the main pretext of their Greek and Hellenized Egyptian assailants. It was particularly in response to the assault on the legitimacy of the Alexandrian Jews’ political community that the two more historically-oriented treatises of Philo, the In Flaccum and the Legatio ad Gaium, were written; and it is in the second of these that the peculiar character of the Jewish vision of empire comes out most clearly.

172

Chapter Eleven

Philo’s writings are not, strictly speaking, historiographical, but they do convey an embellished version of Jewish history, and reading them alongside Josephus’ account would seem to imply a common understanding of recent Jewish history in the light of a most particular vision of empire. This was a vision of the Roman universe as seen from its margins, a programmatic, almost utopian vision, contending, against the grain, for a pluralistic egalitarian system on grounds of equity and—more significantly—fidelity to the original conception of empire supposedly held by its founding fathers. The underlying theme of the Legatio, I submit, may be read as a dispute between the Jews and their gentile detractors regarding their entitlement to rightful participation in the common sphere. The detractors’ line of argument may be reconstructed from the counter-arguments produced by Philo, who is forced to adopt their assumptions and is throughout following their lead. These may be summarised under three headings as follows. 1.

2.

3.

24

The emperor is the source of all legitimacy. Philo, however, underscores the distinction—a common one24—between the just ruler and the lawless one. Under the latter (in this case Gaius), more aptly described as the source of all injustice, all are slaves, the Jews being—merely because of the peculiar inclinations of this particular emperor—“the most degraded among slaves” (Leg. 119).25 Unpronounced remains the logical conclusion that under the ideal ruler they would be the most exalted among free men. Clear public professions of devotion to the emperor are the first obligation of the loyal subject, and the appropriate medium for these is the field of religious observation. Again, Philo falls back on his distinction between the just ruler and the lawless one: the Jews had been recognized by all previous (just) rulers as entitled to express their allegiance through the medium of their own religion. Augustus “received honours not for doing away with the practices of a particular people as an act of self-deception, but in accordance with the dignity of his great empire, which was bound to win respect for itself by these means” (Leg. 153). True loyalty cannot be divided between two objects. Philo responds by pointing to the fact that Augustus thought it could: “...nevertheless he

See, e.g., Plin. Pan. 44f.; 53; [Arist.] Or. 35.6-8, 10, 16, 17-19, 20; Men. Rhet. (Russell and Wilson ed.) 373.7f.; 374.28-376.2; Dio Chrys. 1.66-83. 25 See also Leg. 203f., on the advisors of Gaius, “the best and wisest possible, Helicon, the Ǟ˱ǩǚǭǪ̔ǝǠǫ ǝǨ̘ǤǨǫ...”

A Marginal Vision of Empire

173

neither ejected them from Rome nor deprived them of their Roman politeia because they were careful to preserve their Jewish one also” (Leg. 157).26 He soon gets into trouble, however, when he tries to explain away the expulsion of the Jews in the reign of Tiberius, whom too he has just described as bestowing on the whole world “peace and the blessings of peace with a rich and unstinting hand and heart” (Leg. 141). Philo is in effect contrasting two alternative, or competing, visions of the Roman social universe. One is the court of the tyrant, a paradise for sycophants and flatterers, a place not fit for the free citizen; the other is the civic world of the just ruler. Its chief characteristic is pluralism. It is interesting to note the extent to which his conception of the common sphere is coloured by notions of citizenship. Philo does not evade the problem of double loyalty by referring to Jewishness as religion or ethnicity only.27 He is at one with his opponents in conceiving it as ǩǨǤǢǭǞͭǚ too, comparable on one level to that of the Romans or the Alexandrians.28 That he is constrained to do so given that the dispute with the Alexandrians is centred on the rights of citizenship does not diminish the significance of the very fact that he could make this use of the term. The just ruler does not see the Jews’ devotion to their politeia or nomoi as a hindrance to giving them a fair share of the Roman citizenship, the clearest proof of this being that they were not seen as unqualified for the dole (Leg. 158). In this pluralistic vision their ally is the just emperor; their enemy is Helicon, the tyrant’s slave. Philo’s programmatic vision is, of course, not entirely original in outline; it in fact derives its evocative force from being a variation on a 26 ʱǤǤ'˪ǥDzǫ Ǩ˵ǭǞ ʹǧΈǣǢǬǞ ǭ͟ǫ ΂ǷǥǠǫ HMǣǞǘǦǨǮǫ Ǩ˵ǭǞ ǭǗǦ ΂Dzǥǚdzǣ̑Ǧ ǚ˱ǭΉǦ ʩǯǞǘǤǞǭǨ ǩǨǤǢǭǞǘǚǦ, ˪ǭǢǣǚ̓ ǭ͟ǫ ˝ǨǮǝǚdzǣ͟ǫ ʹǯǪ̖ǦǭǢǟǨǦ. Smallwood (1970, 92) gets round the difficulty by fitting this usage of the term into her overall theory concerning the constitutional position of the Jews by translating the passage thus: “But despite this he did not expel them from Rome or deprive them of their Roman citizenship because they remembered their Jewish nationality also.” 27 Within the same treatise he uses interchangeably the terms ǭ̕ ˝ǨǮǝǚǘDzǦ ǜǖǦǨǫ, ʽǡǦǨǫ, and ˦ǥǵǯǮǤǨǢ (Leg. 178; 193). 28 Pan-Jewish solidarity is another recurrent and closely related motif, e.g., Leg. 193f.: “...our fellow countrymen will accuse us of impiety in that we selfishly thought about a matter of our own concern [i.e., the civic position of the Alexandrian Jews] when the interests of the nation were in the utmost peril...How can it be right and proper to struggle vainly to prove that we are Alexandrians, when over our heads hangs the danger threatening the whole civic position of the Jews at large” (ǭ͟ǫ ǣǚǡǨǤǢǣDzǭǖǪǚǫ ǩǨǤǢǭǞǘǚǫ ˝ǨǮǝǚǘDzǦ).

174

Chapter Eleven

well known theme, a time-honoured topos, which may be encountered in such public statements as congratulatory decrees of Greek cities on the occasion of an emperor’s accession29 or laudatory orations addressed to emperors (Aristides, Or. 26.59-66; 103f.), but whereas the Greek topos underscores the cultural homogeneity of a common Roman world, the Philonic variation highlights diversity and pluralism, a notion thoroughly alien to both Greek and Roman religious orientations.30 Josephus too evokes the same notion when he has Nicolaus address Marcus Agrippa with the assertion that “the happiness that the whole human race now enjoys, thanks to you, we measure by the fact that it is possible for people in every country to live and prosper while respecting their own traditions” (Ant. 16.37, trans. by R. Marcus and A. Wikgren), and elsewhere, in what must indeed be “a Jewish elaboration on a less ambitious original” (Rajak 1984, 115), in his version of Claudius’ edict to Alexandria, where the wish that “the separate peoples be subject to their own customs and not be compelled to violate the religion of their fathers” (Ant. 19.283, trans. by L.H. Feldman) is ascribed to Augustus.31 That this was still an option on which the Jews would be well advised to concentrate their minds even during the war is the central theme of the celebrated harangue of Agrippa II (BJ 2.345-401; Roduit 2003, 392-5 et passim). The need for, and the purpose of this vision are quite obvious—the world envisaged was one in which the Jews too had a place32—but the hold of the original on which it had been modelled was apparently great even on Jews, and Philo succumbs to its logic when he is dragged to 29

Cf., e.g., IGR 4.251 (from the people of Assos in the Troad on the occasion of the accession of Gaius) with Leg. 8-13; 48-50; 143-9. 30 Garnsey 1984, 10-4, who overlooks Philo, however, when asserting that “only one writer puts forward arguments of broader significance,” namely Josephus (13). 31 And cf. C. Ap. 2.73: “They [Roman emperors] are not grateful for honours conferred under compulsion and constraint,” trans. by H.S.J. Tackeray. 32 Two other strands of a programmatic streak in Josephus’ writing have been detected in recent years. Schwartz’s study of Josephus’ exposition of Jewish constitutional forms (1984) has shown that his introduction of the notion of a stable high-priestly prostasia—alongside a succession of changing political constitutions—as the more essential feature of Jewish communal organization was designed to suggest that the Jewish now stateless nation was compatible with integration into imperial society along the lines of other recognized religious associations. Goodman 1994, 334-8, in juxtaposing Josephus’ statements showing the close affinity of Jewish traits and customs with Roman mos on the one hand, and Jewish cultural distinctness on the other, suggested a conscious attempt on the part of the author to portray Jews as equally, if not better qualified than some for integration into the heterogeneous society of the empire.

A Marginal Vision of Empire

175

tirelessly labour the point that the real motivation of the Alexandrian and other rioters in placing altars for, or images of the emperor in places of Jewish worship were not sincere expressions of devotion to the emperorgod but rather criminal acts of hooliganism fed on hatred of the Jews (e.g., Flacc. 51f.; Leg. 135-7; 200f.; 299-305; 334f.). The model was powerful because it fulfilled a vital need: “loyalty to the emperor, seen as divine or favoured by the gods, was probably the only universal symbol of belonging available to the Romans and valid for all social groups in all provinces of the empire” (Hopkins 1978, 227). As a consequence, it governed conduct. Actions could be—indeed were as often as possible—construed as aimed at demonstrating reverence to the emperor, and concomitantly, those of one’s rivals could be depicted as showing irreverence.  ƿ˱ǬǖǛǞǢǚ and ʩǬǖǛǞǢǚ are recurrent motifs in both treatises,33 and it needs to be borne in mind that neither their purport nor their significance were confined to the religious sphere, especially so when concerned with the emperor. Asebeia towards the emperor constituted maiestas, a capital offence (Smallwood 1976, 161 n. 62). Pilate, e.g., could use it as a pretext for refusing the Jews’ request that he withdraw the inscribed shields from Jerusalem.34 The exemption of the Jews from showing reverence in the customary way—inherent in the right to perform their own rites on the one hand, and in the recognition of the sacrifices on behalf of the emperor in the Jerusalem temple on the other—was thus a very real privilege indeed as it served to shield them from the very real danger of maiestas charges,35 as so evidently was one purpose of the actions of the anti-Jewish faction at Alexandria in the days of Philo. But the fact remained that they could not show reverence in the customary way, so Philo is throughout at pains to show that Jewish religious observances were no less designed to express reverence to the emperor than those of the gentiles.36 In his

33

E.g. Flacc. 48: the synagogues being the only means for Jews to show Ǟ˱ǬǖǛǞǢǚ Leg. 163: ʩǬǖǛǞǢǚ not just characterizing their acts in this instance but a distinguishing trait of the Alexandrians. 34 Ant. 18.57, where the term used is hybris, which would amount to much the same thing: ǣǚ̓ ǥ̑ ǬǮǜǰDzǪǨͼǦǭǨǫ ǝǢ̍ ǭ̕ Ǟ˕ǫ ˶ǛǪǢǦ DŽǚǘǬǚǪǢ ǯǖǪǞǢǦ. 35 Cf. the fate of the Christians under Trajan as reported Pliny the Younger in Ep. 10.96. 36 Flacc. 48f.: “...they are the only people under the sun who by losing their meeting houses (ǩǪǨǬǞǮǰǚͭǫ) were losing also...their means of showing reverence to their benefactors...everywhere in the habitable world the religious veneration of

176

Chapter Eleven

idiosyncratically pluralistic vision they may well have been so,37 but Gaius could still brush it all aside and point out to him that although, true enough, “you have offered sacrifices, but it was to another god, even if it was on my behalf” (Leg. 357). In the end there was no evading this simple logic. Herod had understood this well enough and had the cult established wherever possible within his domains, that is, in the areas not predominantly inhabited by Jews.38 Nevertheless, Philo’s insistence that the Romans envisaged for the Jewish cult a role on a par with that of the imperial cult may not be entirely groundless, as there is some indication of an intention, initially at least, on the part of Roman policy makers to establish the position of the Jerusalem religious establishment as a regular channel of communication for the people with Rome on the model of its Greek counterparts. Among the documents cited by Josephus of “grants, concessions and awards made by Gaius Caesar, Imperator and Consul” to the Jews there is one recording part of a senatus consultum, probably of 46 BC, in which Hyrcanus II is invested with the right to “stand for,” that is, to either protect or represent those of the Jews who were unjustly treated: ˪ǩDzǫ...˦ ʩǪǰǢǞǪǞ̗ǫ ǚ˱ǭ̕ǫ ǣǚ̓ ʹǡǦ̎ǪǰǠǫ ǭΉǦ ˝ǨǮǝǚǘDzǦ ǩǪǨdzǬǭ͟ǭǚǢ ǭΉǦ ʩǝǢǣǨǮǥǖǦDzǦ (Ant. 14.196).39 Surely the strong temptation to read this as an ex officio appointment of Hyrcanus as patronus causae ex s.c. of his people should be resisted.40 It would raise at least two serious difficulties: the Jews for the Augustan house has its basis, as all may see, in the meeting houses.” 37 In the words put by Philo into the mouths of the “body of elders” speaking for the multitude confronting Petronius, “respect to the emperor” in fact comes before “obedience to our hallowed laws”: ʩǥǯǨǭǖǪDzǦ ǬǭǨǰǚǟǨǥǖǦǨǮǫ, ǣǚ̓ ǭ͟ǫ ǩǪ̕ǫ ǭ̕Ǧ ǚ˱ǭǨǣǪǕǭǨǪǚ Ǟ˱ǤǚǛǞǘǚǫ ǣǚ̓ ǭ͟ǫ ǩǪ̕ǫ ǭǨ̗ǫ ǣǚǡDzǬǢDzǥǖǦǨǮǫ ǦǵǥǨǮǫ ʩǩǨǝǨǰ͟ǫ (Leg. 236). 38 For Caesarea see Schürer 1973-87, vol. 2, 115-8; for Sebaste ibid., vol. 2, 160-4; Millar 1993, 354f. Of the temple in Paneas, at Caesarea Philippi, it is stated explicitly (Ant. 15.364) that Herod ʩǯǢǖǪǨǮ DŽǚǘǬǚǪǢ. 39 The authenticity of this text, which along with the other documents cited by Josephus has long been under debate, has been accorded strong support by Pucci Ben-Zeev 1995 through comparison with RDGE no. 58, a near contemporaneous inscription from Rhosus in Syria. I wish to thank Dr. Pucci Ben-Zeev for having kindly made her article available to me in advance of publication. 40 Rufinus’ Latin translation (Venetian edn., 1486, ch. 21, p. 127) offers no support: “...ut filii eius principatum gentis Iudaeorum et donata sibi loca possiderent: ut princeps sacerdotum idem et rector gentis Iudaeorum vim passis adesset.”

A Marginal Vision of Empire

177

first, it is nowhere stated that Hyrcanus was granted Roman citizenship,41 and we know of no precedent to suggest that legal representation in Rome was open to non-citizens; second, there is no parallel to a permanent appointment of this kind.42 Some protective role is, however, clearly envisaged, so it would probably be safer to assume that representation of all Jews regardless of domicile is meant.43 This would then indeed be very much the same as the actual role of his counterparts in the provincial ǣǨǢǦǕ of the imperial cult, only broadened so as to apply to the entire nation. 44 Whether this should be seen as another instance of “Roman ethnographic illiteracy”45 or as a potentially workable arrangement which could have lasted given more time under continued Caesarian sponsorship, it was bound to be swept aside together with most other regional arrangements of the dictator following the renewal of civil war and its provincial ramifications. In the event it did very little for the integration of either Judaean or diaspora-Jews to the society of the empire at large,46 and

41

Whether or not this merely reflects the Herodian bias of Nicolaus, there is no mention of it in Ant. 14.137, where it is reported to have been conferred on Antipater by Caesar: ˹ǪǣǚǦΊ ǥ̏Ǧ ǭ̑Ǧ ʩǪǰǢǞǪDzǬǶǦǠǦ ǛǞǛǚǢǷǬǚǫ ʱǦǭǢǩǕǭǪ· ǝ̏ ǩǨǤǢǭǞǘǚǦ ʹǦ ΂̚ǥ͝ ǝǨ̗ǫ ǣǚ̓ ʩǭǖǤǞǢǚǦ ǩǚǦǭǚǰǨͼ. For Antipater’s particularly favoured position at this juncture see BJ 1.194. 42 On the first point see the statistical data provided by Nicols 1980, 380f.; on the second see ibid., 373f. 43 Which would also explain the repeated mention of at least one of his two titles in the text—for clearly his ʭǪǰǠ in either capacity must have been mentioned before that of his children in the preceding, now missing part of the s.c. It would appear that the second of the two offices accorded him by the senate, that of ethnarchƝs, was felt by the patres to be called for in order to account for the unparalleled extension of what was regarded as the normal function of his first office, that of high priest. Smallwood (1976, 39) has the s.c. designate Hyrcanus “champion of Jews suffering oppression”; Rajak (1984, 117) understands his position as that of “tutelage over all Jews everywhere” (Rajak’s italics), being a new interpretation by Caesar of the post of ethnarchƝs in response to the new conditions created by the rise of Herod in the 40s, which made it necessary to find Hyrcanus too “a clearly defined role,” besides the confirmation of his titles. 44 It would be in the same capacity that privileged access to the senate was granted him in a s.c. of 44 BC, for which see Ant. 14.210. 45 Goodman’s term (1987, 35) for the Roman policy of applying its own political assumptions to the populations of conquered territories with little concern as to their suitability. 46 One instance of aid of the kind envisaged by the s.c. is attested as extended by Hyrcanus to a diaspora community after Caesar’s death, namely that of Asia, for

178

Chapter Eleven

it is doubtful whether it was ever capable of doing so, since, as has already been noted, for any channel of communication to be effective as a contributing factor for integration, it would be necessary for it not merely to fulfil its primary function, but to do so in the accepted, normal, way. Something of the normativity involved may be gleaned from Herodian’s description of the elaborate ceremonies accompanying the apotheosis of a Roman emperor, which brings out the flavour of the social atmosphere generated by the imperial cult.47 Every perfume and incense on earth and all the fruits and herbs and juices that are collected for their aroma are brought up and poured out in great heaps (to be burnt at the pyre with the deceased), and there is no people or city or prominent person of distinction (Ǩ˵ǭǞ ǜ̍Ǫ ʽǡǦǨǫ Ǩ˵ǭǞ ǩ̖ǤǢǫ ǭǢǫ Ǩ˵ǭǞ ǭΉǦ ʩǧǢǷǬǞǢ ˇ ǭǢǥ͠ ʽǬǭǢǦ) who does not compete in sending these last gifts in honour of the emperor (Herodian 4.2.8f., trans. by C.R. Whittaker).

It is highly unlikely that Jews were taken to be included in this sweeping statement. Of “the day of the birth and the death (of kings),” one of the few on which for three days before and after it was forbidden for Jews to have any dealings with gentiles, the Mishnah states that “where burning has place at the death (rites) there is idolatry.”48 It would, however, be perverse to read malice into Herodian’s undifferentiating statement, or into the equally sweeping one of the Roman prefect of Egypt preceding Claudius’ letter to the Alexandrians, saying that he had thought it necessary to publish it “so that each one of you may read it and wonder at the greatness of our god Caesar...”49 It is precisely the innocuous tone of such statements that reveals the pervasiveness of the common sentiment associated with the cult, which could invariably be taken for granted. It is significant that in the Talmud the “day of the birth and the death of kings” is distinguished from two other pagan festivals mentioned together with it in the Mishnaic passage just quoted, the Kalends and the Saturnalia, regarding which the prohibition was restricted to apply to those gentiles which he obtained confirmation by Dolabella of their previous exemption from conscription in 43. See Ant. 14.223-7. 47 See also Hopkins 1978, 219-21; Bowersock 1982, 173f. on the widespread popular participation in games, festivals and mysteries associated with the cult. 48 M. Avoda Zara 1.3, quoted and discussed by Urbach 1959, 239f. 49 CPJ No. 153, ll. 7-9. In the letter itself Claudius declines the Alexandrians’ request to establish a cult of himself, “not wishing to be offensive to my contemporaries and in the belief that temples and the like have been set apart in all ages for the gods alone” (ll. 48-51).

A Marginal Vision of Empire

179

only who were known to worship idols on them. The prohibition concerning the festivals of the emperor’s dies natalis and consecratio was retained unqualified because, as explained by Urbach, “these pagan festivals were observed by everyone.”50 This is the background against which the sporadic eruptions of antiJewish violence need to be seen, for, to be sure, Alexandria was not the only city of the empire in which the slogan “put up the images (namely in the synagogues)” was voiced.51 Viewed in the broader historical perspective, these incidents are not significant for showing the anti-Jewish sentiment on which they fed, which was anyway reciprocated, if not sometimes precipitated by those of the Jewish inhabitants of mixed communities.52 Rather they are important for revealing the hold and the reach of the shared assumptions which informed and governed the rioters’ actions, as against which the enlightened programmatic vision of Josephus and Philo was directed. Perhaps there is after all something in the words attributed to Gaius by Philo in the concluding passages of his Legatio. “God took pity on us and turned Gaius’ heart to mercy,” he recalls. “He became gentler and merely said, ‘I think that these men are not so much criminals as lunatics in not believing that I have been given a divine nature’” (Leg. 367). One is left wondering which of the two would have been better integrated into Roman society, the criminal or the lunatic. To recapitulate, Josephus and Philo, in being equally conversant in both Greek and Jewish cultures, were marginal twice over, in that they were marginal within a marginal community. As such they are representative of a segment of Jewish society that had a foot in both cultures but was not fully at home in either one. One manifestation of this was the way in which they were engaged in promoting an utopian vision of the Roman empire that was quite irrelevant to the interests of its Gentile addressees, and quite incomprehensible to its Jewish ones. Their vision was only superficially identical to that of other Hellenistic writers while 50

Urbach 1959, 241. He goes on to explain, “since in them religious and patriotic emotions were fused in a demonstration of the fundamental unity of the empire underlying the many differences between its disparate sections.” 51 Flacc. 41f.: “...[the crowd] called out with one accord for installing images in the meeting-houses” (Ǟ˕ǣǵǦǚǫ ʹǦ ǭǚͭǫ ǩǪǨǬǞǮǰǚͭǫ ʩǦǚǭǢǡǖǦǚǢ). Cf. Leg. 200-2 (in Iamnia, in the reign of Gaius); Ant. 19.300-11 (in Dora, under Claudius), BJ 2.28492 (Caesarea, under Nero). 52 See Millar’s comments (1993, 343) on Leg. 200-2, which reads: “Iamnia, one of the largest cities in Judaea, has a mixed population, the majority being Jews and the rest gentiles who have wormed their way in from neighbouring countries.”

180

Chapter Eleven

sharply opposed to it on a deeper level. It was alien to Jewish contemporary culture on both counts even though motivated by patriotism of a kind.

CHAPTER TWELVE PHILISTUS AND ALEXANDER’S EMPIRE (PLUTARCH, VITA ALEXANDRI 8.3) NICHOLAS VICTOR SEKUNDA

In Plutarch’s Life of Alexander 8.3 we find the following information: When he could find no other books in the interior (ʹǦ ǭǨͭǫ ʭǦDz ǭǵǩǨǢǫ) he ordered Harpalus to send some. So Harpalus sent him the books of Philistus, a great many of the tragedies of Euripides, Sophocles and Aeschylus, and the dithyrambic poems of Telestes and Philoxenus.

In commenting on this passage all modern authorities have assumed that Alexander specifically requested Harpalus to send him these works. This is not actually stated, but it is a reasonable assumption. If we do not wish to believe that Harpalus was the creator of the first Reader’s Digest Bedside Companion, we must assume that he sent works which he at least thought would be relevant to Alexander’s thoughts at the time. Thus, either way, the choice of works is specific and relevant to some precise chronological juncture in Alexander’s career. Various suggestions have been made so far to explain the choice of works, all looking at Philistus as the most distinctive author in the collection. The most important known work of Philistus was the NJǞǪ̓ ƾǢǨǦǮǬ̔ǨǮ, an account of the rule of Dionysius I of Syracuse, of which Philistus was an eye-witness, having served in the apparatus of Dionysius’ government. A number of suggestions for the choice of books so far advanced are unlikely due to chronological considerations. The passage in Plutarch comes at the beginning of the work, in a general context as part of a general description of Alexander’s upbringing, character and education, and so is not placed in a specific historical context. Nevertheless, we can

182

Chapter Twelve

establish some chronological boundaries within which this event must have taken place. Harpalus fled from the service of Alexander twice. In the autumn of 333, not long before the battle of Issus, Harpalus was persuaded by an obscure Greek called Tauriscus to flee from the camp of Alexander. He remained in exile for a year in the Megarid before Alexander persuaded him to return in 331. He returned to his post as Alexander’s treasurer, and remained in Babylon when Alexander marched further east into Iran. They remained apart until 324, when Harpalus fled a second time, this time permanently, upon Alexander’s return from India. A number of modern authors have commented on the general interest Philistus’ work would have had for Alexander, describing as it did the empire built up by Dionysius. Thus Freeman (1892, 603): “Nowhere could Alexander find reading more to his taste than in the history of Dionysios, the first man who carried on war on a scale and after a fashion at all approaching to his own.” Sanders (1987, 48) has suggested that in a general sense Philistus’ work dealt with “the creation of a mighty empire which faced a hostile eastern power” (Carthage), and so may have appealed to Alexander, who was locked in a similar struggle with Persia. More specifically, the colourful descriptions of the new weapons, ships and fortifications devised by the tyrant, would have been particularly appealing to Alexander and indeed have foreshadowed in the Macedonian monarch’s eyes his own military and imperialistic ventures. In particular, we surmise that Alexander would have regarded as particularly appealing Philistus’ description of Dionysius’ Motyan mole (cf. Diod. Sic. XIV. 47. 4; 49. 3; 51. 1) which might have anticipated Alexander’s own Tyrian mole.

Whilst suggestions of the general way in which the work of Philistus would have appealed to Alexander are obvious and cannot be refuted, it is hardly possible that the books were sent to Alexander before the siege of Tyre. Until the autumn of 333 Harpalus was in the camp of Alexander, with him all the time, and would hardly have been asked to send books which Alexander could not find “in the upper places” (ʹǦ ǭǨͭǫ ʭǦDz ǭǵǩǨǢǫ). This topographic description could hardly be applied to Cilicia and adjacent regions. Harpalus is hardly likely to have sent Alexander the books during his period of exile either. Of course, Alexander’s construction of the mole, and the grand scale of his siege operations at Tyre as a whole, may have been partially inspired by his reading of Philistus as a boy. It does not fit chronologically, however, to have Harpalus send out the books before the siege of Tyre.

Philistus and Alexander’s Empire

183

Wilcken and Brown have suggested that Alexander consulted the work to learn about the West for possible future involvements there. Thus Wilcken (1967, 225): We happen to know that, when he was in the Far East, he sent for the “Sicilian History” of the expert Philistus, the statesman of Dionysius I, through which he could certainly obtain a deep insight into the wars of the western Greeks with the Carthaginians and their Italian neighbours.

This suggestion also seems to fall for chronological considerations. Alexander would hardly have begun to think about possible conquests in the West until the abandonment of his Indian campaign, and it was Alexander’s return from India which induced Harpalus’ second flight. In fact the most logical period to place the dispatch of the books to Alexander would be around 330 or 329, perhaps even before the death of Darius (cf. Brown 1967, 364), when Alexander was starting to think about the creation of a personal monarchy, in which Greek, Macedonian or Persian national sentiment was to be replaced by loyalty to the monarch. The term for the region of Asia to which the books were sent (ʹǦ ǭǨͭǫ ʭǦDz ǭǵǩǨǢǫ) is, indeed, similar to terms regularly used later on for the satrapies of Central Asia such as Bactria. Sanders (1987, 48) is close to this position when he states: Equally appealing and prophetic of Alexander’s own military and political experimentation, moreover, must have been the Sicilian tyrant’s establishment of military colonies in both Sicily and Italy and the transference of populations from one zone to another.

In his settlements Dionysius had not only mixed up the different Greek tribes to break down their separateness, he had also mixed up Greeks with non-Greeks, especially with the Oscan mercenaries upon whom Dionysius relied so heavily. It was indeed in Central Asia that Alexander started his colonial settlements where veterans, invalids, or retired mercenaries were mixed with members of the local Iranian populations. They were not Greek colonies, they were mixed race settlements. It can hardly be doubted that Alexander had read Philistus as a boy, particularly given the interest of Philip II in Dionysius I (Plut. Tim. 15.4; Aelian VH 12.60; Sanders 1987, 95 n. 22). He ordered Harpalus to send him the books to read again when he was faced with similar difficulties to those which had faced Dionysius. It could be maintained that Alexander would, in any case, be forced to take similar decisions to those taken by Dionysius, when faced with similar problems. I would maintain, however,

184

Chapter Twelve

that the inspiration of Dionysius’ tyranny, as related by Philistus, had direct influence on the subsequent formation of Alexander’s imperial system. There are indications, discussed by Sanders (1987, 8) that Dionysius had adopted god-like attributes, as Alexander was to do later on. It has also been argued that the introduction of proskynesis into Alexander’s court may have a Sicilian dimension (Sordi 1983, 19-22). These tendencies were criticized within Dionysius’ court, as they were to be in Alexander’s court. We know little of the works of the dithyrambic poet Philoxenus of Cythera, but we do know that his Cyclops satirized the politics of Dionysius’ court in 398, and was instrumental in his decline from favour and banishment to the mines (Sanders 1987, 15f.). This explains why Harpalus also sent the works of Philoxenus to Alexander. If Alexander was already considering adopting divine attributes and introducing absolutist customs to his court, now composed of Persians as well as Greeks and Macedonians, he would also be interested in the resistance to the introduction of similar practices in the court of Dionysius. Perhaps in the works of Philoxenus he hoped to find hints at what had most offended the members of Dionysius’ court. We know very little about Telestes, other than that he was an important figure in the history of dithyrambic poetry (Brown 1967, 367), but perhaps some of his works too alluded to the rule of Dionysius. We do not know which of the works of Euripides, Sophocles and Aeschylus were sent to Alexander, but it is possible that some of these too were relevant to the debate over the legitimacy of absolute monarchy. Euripides had written a satyr-play named Cyclops before Philoxenus wrote his work of that name. In Euripides’ Cyclops, the theme of which is Odysseus’ freeing of the satyrs, including their father, Silenus, from the Cyclops, the Cyclops is portrayed as the epitome of physis who has contempt for nomos and has only faith in his own brute strength (Sanders 1987, 16).

It was indeed the intellectual battle between nomos and physis which underlay the debate over the legitimacy of Dionysius’ rule. Brown (1967, 361f.) has argued, given the peculiar, non-canonical order in which the tragedians are listed, that only the name of Euripides was on the original list. It is not necessary for my argument to prove that all the works sent to Alexander by Harpalus dealt with questions related to the introduction of a new type of absolute, personal monarchy. If Alexander sent for some of the works of Euripides alone, then this choice might be explained in terms of the introduction of new procedures into his court. Otherwise, with Sophocles and Aeschylus we would struggle for

Philistus and Alexander’s Empire

185

indications of this kind. It is true that Aeschylus paid two visits to Sicily at the invitation of Hieron of Acragas, and is supposed to have died at Gela. Nevertheless, it is not necessary for my argument to argue that all the works requested by Alexander were connected with questions of Sicilian tyranny. The tragedies may have been sent purely for reading rather than education. It was the work of Philistus which was the most important one in the group, and which served to inform the changes Alexander was about to introduce into his kingship. One of the most distinctive features of Dionysius’ rule were the revolutionary, dynastic, family arrangements he introduced, which have been conveniently summarized by Finley (1968, 77f.). His first wife, the daughter of Hermocrates, died within a few months, apparently as a result of severe maltreatment by the cavalry during their brief uprising. She was just about the only person close to the tyrant for whose death he was not eventually blamed by one writer or another. Then began a career of marriage-broking which far surpassed that of the earlier tyrants in its Olympian exuberance. In 399 or 398 he took himself two wives in a single ceremony (and, it is said, he consummated both marriages in the same night): Aristomache of Syracuse and Doris of Locri. The former gave him two sons and one daughter. The elder Locrian son was named Dionysius, the younger Hermocritus after the tyrant’s father (not to be confused with Hermocrates). This last is one bit of evidence, and there is more, that Dionysius had chosen, for whatever reason, to place the succession in that branch of the descent, the foreign branch, so to speak... The names of the three girls are a marvel of disingenuousness— Aristomache’s daughters were called Sophrosyne (Prudence or Moderation) and Arete (Virtue), while Doris’ was Dikaiosyne (Justice)— and they were quickly elevated from the servile trade of female barber to the aristocratic one of female political pawn. Sophrosyne was married to the younger Dionysius when he was not much more than twelve years of age. Arete was given first to the tyrant’s brother Thearidas; then, upon his death, to her mother’s young brother Dion; much later, after the elder Dionysius’ death, the younger Dionysius took her away from Dion, whom he had exiled, and married her to a mercenary captain named Timocrates. Dikaiosyne was married to another of the tyrant’s brothers, Leptines, one of whose daughters by a first marriage was the wife of the historian Philistus. Dionysius’ sister Theste, finally, was married to a maternal uncle of the tyrant’s first wife. All this has a certain intrinsic interest, but it is also important as a symbol of how completely personal the rule of Dionysius was, and was meant to be seen to be.

186

Chapter Twelve

I believe that it is at least possible that Dionysius’ double marriage, and the description of it Alexander would have read in Philistus, was the inspiration for the double marriage Alexander entered into near the end of his reign, at Opis, where a mass of weddings were held for his Companions and himself. There is some confusion in the sources as to whom Alexander married. Most of the sources, such as Diodorus 17.107.6, tell us that Alexander himself married Darius’ elder daughter Stateira. Arrian (7.4.4), who mistakenly calls Darius’ elder daughter Barsine, preserves another version of events. He tells us that Alexander married Stateira “and, as Aristobulus says, another wife as well, Parysatis, the youngest daughter of Ochus.” Given the confusion in the sources, I believe it is best to believe Aristobulus, on the grounds that the other sources could not believe in the double marriage: so remarkable a departure from the norms of behaviour by Alexander. Alexander had already, of course, married Roxana, but by the time the marriages at Opis were arranged she had still not conceived. He had also consorted with Barsine, daughter of Artabazus, with whom he had had an illegitimate son, Heracles, but Heracles could not be considered a legitimate claimant to the throne (cf. Curt. 10.6.10f.). Polygamy was, of course, the normal state of affairs in both the Persian or the Macedonian royal houses, so there is nothing remarkable in that. A royal double marriage was, however, quite unheard of. The marriages at Opis, where Persian and Macedonian noble families were intermarried, were surely designed as a blueprint for how Alexander’s personal monarchy was designed to operate in the future. The double marriage was designed to procreate two branches of a personal dynasty, which would later be intermarried, and out-married to Alexander’s principal confidants. The inspiration for this came from Dionysius, which Alexander had read, once again, in the work of Philistus he had with him from Central Asia onwards.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE MESSENIANS AND THEIR FOOLISH COURAGE IN PAUSANIAS’ BOOK 4 LYDIA LANGERWERF

TǨǢǨǶǭDzǦ Ǩ˷Ǧ Ǩ˖ džǞǬǬǗǦǢǨǢ ǣǚǭǞǢǤǠǯǵǭDzǦ ǣǚ̓ ʮǥǚ ʹǫ ǭ̍ ǥǖǤǤǨǦǭǚ Ǩ˱ǝ̏Ǧ ʹǦǨǪΉǦǭǞǫ ǩǚǪ̍ ǭΉǦ DžǚǣǞǝǚǢǥǨǦǘDzǦ ǯǢǤǕǦǡǪDzǩǨǦ, ǩǪǵ ǭǞ ǝ̑ ǭΉǦ ǩǚǪǵǦǭDzǦ ǭǞǡǦǕǦǚǢ ǥǚǰǨǥǖǦǨǮǫ ˇ ǣǚ̓ ǭ̕ ǩǚǪǕǩǚǦ ʹǣ NJǞǤǨǩǨǦǦǗǬǨǮ ǯǞǶǜǨǦǭǚǫ Ǩ˙ǰǞǬǡǚǢ ǦǨǥǘǟǨǦǭǞǫ ǚ˖ǪǞǭǷǭǞǪǚ, ʩǯǘǬǭǚǬǡǚǢ ǩǕǦǭDzǫ ʹǜǘǦDzǬǣǨǦ. ʿǦ͟ǜǨǦ ǝ̏ Ǩ˱ǰ ˊǣǢǬǭǚ ʹǫ ǭǨͼǭǨ ǣǚ̓ Ǩ˖ ǦǞǷǭǞǪǨǢ, ǩǨǤǖǥǨǮ ǥ̏Ǧ ʽǭǢ ʩǩǞǘǪDzǫ ʽǰǨǦǭǞǫ, ǤǚǥǩǪǨ̓ ǝ̏ ˩ǦǭǞǫ ǭ̍ ǯǪǨǦǗǥǚǭǚ ǣǚ̓ ʩǩǨǡǚǦǞͭǦ ǩǪǨǭǢǥΉǦǭǞǫ ʹǦ ʹǤǞǮǡǖǪ͎ ǭ͠ ǩǚǭǪǘǝǢ, Ǟ˕ ǣǚ̓ ǭ̍ ʭǤǤǚ Ǟ˱ǝǚǢǥǵǦDzǫ ǝǨǮǤǞǶǞǢǦ ǩǚǪǞǘǠ. In these straits the Messenians, foreseeing no kindness from the Lacedaemonians, and thinking death in battle or a complete migration from the Peloponnese preferable to their present lot, resolved at all costs to revolt. They were incited to this mainly by the younger men, who were still without experience of war but had a certain nobility of mind and preferred to die free in their own country rather than to be slaves and be happy in other things (Paus. 4.14.6-8).1

I would like to thank the Catharina van Tussenbroekfonds, the Prins Bernhard Cultuurfonds and the Fundatie van de Vrijvrouwe van Renswoude te 's Gravenhage for their financial support. I am also grateful to Stephen Hodkinson and Kostas Vlassopoulos for their advice on the material discussed in this article. Finally, I owe thanks to GoĞciwit Malinowski and Jakub PigoĔ for inviting me to the Children of Herodotus conference and to the participants of that conference for their comments on my presentation. 1 All translations are based on the translation by W.H.S. Jones in the Loeb Classical Library edition, with minor adaptations, especially in the translation of the word ǭϱǤǥǠ.

188

Chapter Thirteen

Pausanias, the second-century Greek travel writer, devoted much of his fourth book on Messene to the events of a revolt that, according to him, broke out a generation after the Spartans had subjugated Messene. He dates this subjugation to the end of the “First” Messenian War, lasting from 743 to 724 BC, and the revolt, also known as the “Second” Messenian War to 685 BC (4.5.8; 4.6.2-5; 4.13.7; 4.15.3; 4.23.4.). According to his account, the Spartans had imposed measures unacceptable especially to the younger men who, with no experience of warfare, thought death and exile more preferable to this slavery. In Pausanias’ account, the revolt is led by the “younger men” from Andania, whose main leader is Aristomenes, “who first made the name of Messene important and respected” (4.6.3.). The interpretation of this source has long been a hotly debated issue, and has received much attention recently. Briefly, the debate has centred round the question of to what an extent Pausanias’ story of Aristomenes’ revolt may be considered history and to whose history it refers. On the one hand, it has been argued that there can be no history for a people “that has had no existence as a nation or a city-state” (Pearson 1962, 402). When the Messenians were enslaved by the Spartans, not only was their freedom as a people taken from them, but also the possibility of having their own identity and history. At the other end of the scale it has been argued that it is precisely because of this situation that “stories about their fathers’ struggles to preserve and to regain the freedom of their land would have been among their most cherished possessions” (Shero 1938, 504). In recent years it has been put forward that although the story results from “Messenian” history, it is part of an “invention of tradition,” created by Messenians living in post-liberation Messenia in late Classical, Hellenistic and Roman imperial times (Figueira 1999; Alcock 1996, 1999, 2001 and 2002; Luraghi 2001 and 2002; compare their approach with Ogden 2004 who interprets Aristomenes as a folk hero). In his history of Messenia Pausanias focuses on the mythical figure of Aristomenes, who is depicted as performing some quite miraculous deeds. This makes the work a rather problematic source for reconstructing this period of Messenian history. However, in trying to understand the myth of Aristomenes, some interesting points can be made about ancient perceptions of the condition of the Messenians under Spartan domination and the possibility of their having their own history. Pausanias depicts Aristomenes as the most important rebel-leader and the centre of Messenian resistance. According to the Greek author he is the one who gave Messene an independent history even if he failed in achieving political autonomy (see esp. Elsner 1992, 15, 25).

The Messenians and their Foolish Courage in Pausanias’ Book 4

189

Regardless of whether Aristomenes is a historical figure, the type of hero that Pausanias made him tells us much about how he envisaged Messenian independence and identity. This is especially the case when characteristics of Aristomenes pertain not only to him, but to the other rebels and the Messenians in general. As I will argue in this chapter, the twin characteristics of ǭ̖ǤǥǠ (daring) and ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ (implying desperation and loss of sense) are ascribed both to Aristomenes and Messenians in general, in a way that they are not in his descriptions of other Greeks, least of all the Spartans. This is probably connected to their peculiar position as rebels. In addition, Pausanias’ treatment of Messenian history leads to questions of how Pausanias as one exponent of the Second Sophistic coped with living and writing in a Graeco-Roman imperial context.

Aristomenes’ Daring Aristomenes is repeatedly referred to as having ǭ̖ǤǥǠ, a word best described as meaning ‘daring’ (also observed by Pearson 1962, 414). This daring makes him an excellent warrior who is able to do “more than what is usual for an individual” (4.15.4.). But the word has negative connotations as well, which I would like to introduce by looking at a concept that is conspicuously absent in reference to Aristomenes, namely the concept of ʩǦǝǪǞ̔ǚ, ‘manly courage.’ Plato has Socrates say in the Laches that ʩǦǝǪǞ̔ǚ in every circumstance, so not only in battle, cannot go together with the absence of knowledge (ʹǩǢǬǭ̒ǥǠ), since courage without understanding is only ˆ ʭǯǪDzǦ ǭ̖Ǥǥǚ: ‘foolish daring.’ Ǎ̖ǤǥǠ is necessary for ʩǦǝǪǞ̔ǚ, but ǭ̖ǤǥǠ on its own is not just foolish, but even potentially harmful. In order to be truly courageous one must not only be willing to put oneself at risk, but must do so rationally and responsibly (Pl. Lach., esp. 191d-192d; commentary in Schmid 1992). This line of thought, including understanding in the concept of ʩǦǝǪǞ̔ǚ, can also be found in Aristotle’s Eudemian Ethics, in which he defines ʩǦǝǪǞ̔ǚ as “the attribute of a man whose actions demonstrate a reasoned, and moderate negotiation between ‘boldness’ (ǡǪ̎ǬǨǫ) and ‘fear’ (ǯ̖ǛǨǫ)” (Arist. Eth. Eud. 1228a 26-1230a 37; see Bassi 2003, 50-4). ʱǦǝǪǞ̔ǚ means that the human instinct of fear must be overcome and mastered. At the centre of this definition is the control of one’s self (Roisman 2003c; Taylor 1989, 11526). This emphasis on control is not surprising, as the courage most needed in the defence of Greek city-states is the courage that helps hoplites to stay in line. Battles fought in phalanx-formation are decided when the line of either one of the parties breaks. Or, as Laches says: “If someone is willing to remain in the ranks and ward off the enemies and not run, you know he is courageous” (Pl. Lach. 190e 4-6; discussion by Schmid 1992, 100 f.).

190

Chapter Thirteen

As I will illustrate in this chapter, the Messenians’ ǭ̖ǤǥǠ often goes together with the characteristic of ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ (implying desperation and loss of sense).The Messenians are therefore portrayed as lacking the control of self that is needed to possess ʩǦǝǪǞ̔ǚ. This, I will argue, is probably connected to their peculiar position as rebel slaves. ʱǦǝǪǞ̔ǚ has been a central concept in self-definition throughout classical antiquity (see Rosen and Sluiter 2003 and Gleason 1995), but in the second century AD, when Pausanias was writing, identity and its relation to power and status in the context of the Roman Empire was not just a matter of discussion but also of anxiety (McInerney 2003). Aristomenes’ story was also told by Polyaenus and Plutarch wrote a life of him, now unfortunately lost. That ǭ̖ǤǥǠ is an ambivalent word for writers from the Roman imperial East can also be seen in the work of Flavius Josephus, who not only uses the word time and again to describe the desperate suicidal behaviour of the rebels in the Jewish Revolt of 66 to 73 AD, but in addition makes no secret of how negatively he values their daring (Rajak 2001). It is his role as a military leader that is most characteristic of Aristomenes. In his first appearance in book 4, Pausanias states that Rhianus’ account of him makes him “as glorious as Achilles” (4.6.3). Aristomenes is first and foremost a good warrior, and it is in this capacity that he “made the name of Messene important and respected” (4.6.3). This is confirmed by the passage in which Pausanias relates his place of origin. He describes how a group of young men out of desperation at their present situation decided to rebel (4.14.6-8, quoted at the beginning of this chapter). This situation arises out of the measures that the Spartans take towards the Messenians after the First Messenian War, mentioned just before this passage, with references to the poetry of Tyrtaeus (4.14.4-6). The two passages quoted by Pausanias read as follows: ̂ǬǩǞǪ ˩ǦǨǢ ǥǞǜ̎ǤǨǢǫ ʭǰǡǞǬǢ ǭǞǢǪ̖ǥǞǦǨǢ, ǝǞǬǩǨǬ̘ǦǨǢǬǢ ǯ̐ǪǨǦǭǞǫ ʩǦǚǜǣǚ̔Ǡǫ ˲ǩ̕ ǤǮǜǪ͟ǫ ˊǥǢǬǮ ǩ͐Ǧ ǡ’ ˪ǬǬDzǦ ǣǚǪǩ̕Ǧ ʭǪǨǮǪǚ ǯ̐ǪǞǢ. Like asses worn by heavy burdens; Bringing to their masters under grim compulsion Half of the fruits the soil bears. ǝǞǬǩ̖ǭǚǫ Ǩ˕ǥ̚ǟǨǦǭǞǫ, ˦ǥΉǫ ʭǤǨǰǨ̔ ǭǞ ǣǚ̓ ǚ˱ǭǨ̔, Ǟ˸ǭ̐ ǭǢǦ’ Ǩ˱ǤǨǥ̐ǦǠ ǥǨͭǪǚ ǣ̔ǰǨǢ ǡǚǦ̎ǭǨǮ. Wailing for their masters, they as well as their wives, Whenever one met the wretched fate of death.

The Messenians and their Foolish Courage in Pausanias’ Book 4

191

Pausanias understands these passages from Tyrtaeus as referring to the Messenians (Oliva 1971, 109; Ducat 1990, 59f.) and explains that they comprise the punishments inflicted on them after the First Messenian War. Whereas the first passage refers to the economic exploitation that the Messenians were subjected to, the second illustrates the degradation that went with it, forcing the Messenians to mourn their masters. It is not quite clear what the correct wording of ˊǥǢǬǮ ǩ͐Ǧ ˪ǬǬDzǦ ǣǚǪǩ̕Ǧ ʭǪǨǮǪǚ, is, as there is a textual problem with ǩ͐Ǧ ǡ’ (Hodkinson 2000, 127), but the ʩǦǚǜǣǚ̔Ǡǫ ˲ǩ̕ ǤǮǜǪ͟ǫ is unambiguous. The use of ǝǞǬǩ̖ǭǠǫ in reference to the Spartans corroborates the interpretation of the Messenians’ situation as one of slavery. That Pausanias represents the Messenians as slaves is clear in the next passage as well. Finding themselves in these unhappy straits, the young men, according to Pausanias plan to revolt. They: ǩǨǤǖǥǨǮ ǥ̏Ǧ ʽǭǢ ʩǩǞǘǪDzǫ ʽǰǨǦǭǞǫ, ǤǚǥǩǪǨ̓ ǝ̏ ˩ǦǭǞǫ ǭ̍ ǯǪǨǦǗǥǚǭǚ ǣǚ̓ ʩǩǨǡǚǦǞͭǦ ǩǪǨǭǢǥΉǦǭǞǫ ʹǦ ʹǤǞǮǡǖǪ͎ ǭ͠ ǩǚǭǪǘǝǢ, Ǟ˕ ǣǚ̓ ǭ̍ ʭǤǤǚ Ǟ˱ǝǚǢǥǵǦDzǫ ǝǨǮǤǞǶǞǢǦ ǩǚǪǞǘǠ. had no experience of war and a certain nobility of mind, and preferred to die free in their own country rather than to be slaves and be happy in other things.

The best of these young men came from Andania and one of them was Aristomenes. lj˸ǭǨǫ ǥ̏Ǧ Ǩ˷Ǧ ʩǣǥ̎ǟDzǦ ˅ǤǢǣ͎̔ ǣǚ̓ ǭ̖Ǥǥ͝ ǣǚ̓ ʭǤǤǨǢ ǭΉǦ ʹǦ ǭ̐ǤǞǢ ǩǚǪ̚ǧǮǦǨǦ ʹǩ̓ ǭ̑Ǧ ʩǩ̖ǬǭǚǬǢǦ. He was in the prime of his life and daring and he and others enticed them to revolt (4.14.6-8).

At this stage Aristomenes is still one of many. The three characteristics mentioned here (“age,” “inexperience” and “nobility of mind”) are common to all the rebels. “Nobility of mind” refers to the refusal of the Messenians to accept being treated like slaves. “Age” and “inexperience” refer to the rashness with which the men decided to enter into battle. It is their lack of experience with warfare that makes them so willing to die for an ideal. The combination of age and daring in Aristomenes equips him together with the other leaders to persuade the Messenians to join in the revolt. Ǎ̖ǤǥǠ is therefore used here as a positive characteristic of Aristomenes, but is also connected to the inspiration of a revolutionary spirit in young and inexperienced men.

192

Chapter Thirteen

In a lengthy eulogy on Aristomenes which takes up most of book 4, Pausanias shows us how Aristomenes takes the forefront in bold acts and aims at terrorizing the Spartans. One example of this is the aftermath of the Battle at Derai, when Aristomenes dedicates a shield at a temple on Spartan territory, with an inscription saying that he gave it from Spartan spoils (4.15.4). Pausanias adds that: ʱǪǢǬǭǨǥ̐ǦǞǢ ǝ̏ ǩǚǪ̔ǬǭǚǭǨ ǥǠǝ’ ʫǦ ʭǤǤǨǦ ʩǩǚǧǢΉǬǚǢ ǩǚǡǞͭǦ ǭǢ ʹǦ ǩǨǤ̐ǥ· ǝǪ̎ǬǚǦǭǚ ʭǧǢǚ ǥǦ̒ǥǠǫ. ƻ˱ǭΊ ǥ̐ǦǭǨǢ ǣǚ̓ ǩǪ̕ ǩǚǦǭ̕ǫ ʹǦ̖ǥǢǟǞǦ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ, ʽǭǢ ʩǪǰǨǥ̐ǦǨǮ ǭǨͼ ǩǨǤ̐ǥǨǮ DžǚǣǞǝǚǢǥǨǦ̔ǨǮǫ ǣǚǭǚǩǤ̒ǧǚǦǭǚ ǯǚ̔ǦǞǬǡǚǢ ǣǚ̓ ʹǫ ǭ̍ ǥ̐ǤǤǨǦǭ̎ ǬǯǢǬǢ ǯǨǛǞǪ̚ǭǞǪǨǦ. Aristomenes could rely on everyone being ready to suffer in the pursuit of war and the execution of memorable action, and for himself he believed it was the most important thing in the world to strike panic into the Lacedaemonians from the very beginning of the war, to terrorize them more and more for the future (4.15.5).

Pausanias also discusses how Aristomenes inspires the same daring in his men. A clear example of this is his treatment of the battle at Boar’s Grave (DŽ̎ǩǪǨǮ in Stenycleros), a year after Derai. Pausanias writes that all present—the Messenians, the Spartans and their allies—were as eager (ǩǪ̖ǡǮǥǨǫ) as was befitting for their age and strength. Aristomenes and his élite troops, who were of the same age as him, fought, however, with the most desperate courage and successfully fought back Anaxander and his Spartan guard: DžǚǥǛ̎ǦǨǦǭǞǫ ǝ̏ ǭǪǚ̘ǥǚǭǚ ʩǯǞǢǝΉǫ ǣǚ̓ ̏ǫ ǩ̍Ǧ ǩǪǨdz̖ǦǭǞǫ ʩǩǨǦǨ̔ǚǫ ǭΊ ǭǞ ǰǪ̖Ǧ· ǣǚ̓ ǭǨͭǫ ǭǨǤǥ̒ǥǚǬǢǦ ʹǭǪ̐DZǚǦǭǨ ǭǨ̗ǫ ǩǞǪ̓ ʱǦ̎ǧǚǦǝǪǨǦ. Neglecting the wounds they received and advancing in every kind of desperation they fought back those around Anaxander in time and with daring (4.16.3).

Although all men on the battlefield are courageous, the Messenians finally get the better of the Spartans and their allies through this combination of ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ and ǭ̖ǤǥǠǥǚ. The ǩǪoǡǮǥ̔ǚ that is displayed by everyone refers to a characteristic that should be shared by all men of the same age and strength. The ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ and ǭ̖ǤǥǠ of the Messenians on the other hand are more extraordinary aspects and unique to those around Aristomenes. The valuation of these characteristics is however ambivalent. At first sight they appear to be positive features. It is only through ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ and ǭ̖ǤǥǠ that the Messenians are such resilient fighters and able to beat the Spartans. However, they are only able to do so because

The Messenians and their Foolish Courage in Pausanias’ Book 4

193

they are more desperate. The ΦǩϱǦǨǢǚ implies a loss of sense and in a way points to the uselessness of the Messenian cause.2 There are other passages in which hatred for the Spartans seems to be more important for Aristomenes than love for his people. A relevant passage is Aristomenes’ decision to fight on even after he knew the cause was lost. The oracle of Delphi had prophesied that the Eira was destined to fall in the eleventh year of the siege. Pausanias makes it a point that Aristomenes knew about the oracle and was convinced by it (4.20.1-4 and 4.21.3). Aristomenes’ leadership qualities also consist in knowing about an oracle that when “a certain thing” should get lost, the Messenians would forever disappear. This thing, it turns out later (when Pausanias recounts Messenia’s liberation by the Thebans under Epaminondas: 4.26.8.), are the conventions of the cult of the Goddesses at Andania. Aristomenes takes the thing to Ithome and buries it, so as not to lose the one hope of return to Messenia (4.20.4.). Not all is lost for the Messenians therefore. But certainly for Aristomenes and his men there is nothing anymore to hope for. Aristomenes knows it and acts by it. Nevertheless, Aristomenes and his seer Theoclus spur the Messenians on to more daring, and remind them of the behaviour, described by ǭ̖ǤǥǠ, of the people of Smyrna who, when Gyges and the Lydians occupied their city, threw them out by sheer courage and willingness. ʿǩǞǢǝ̑ ǝ̏ ˆǥǖǪǚ ǭǞ ˋǦ ǣǚ̓ ʩǤǤǗǤǨǮǫ ǣǚǡǨǪ͐Ǧ ʹǝǶǦǚǦǭǨ, ʹǦǭǚͼǡǚ ʱǪǢǬǭǨǥǖǦǠǫ ǣǚ̓ ǂǖǨǣǤǨǫ ʹǩǞǢǪΉǦǭǨʹǫ ǩ͐ǬǚǦ ʩǩǵǦǨǢǚǦ ǩǪǨǕǜǞǢǦ ǭǨ̗ǫ džǞǬǬǠǦǘǨǮǫ, ʭǤǤǚ ǭǞ ˦ǩǵǬǚ Ǟ˕ǣ̕ǫ ˋǦ ǝǢǝǕǬǣǨǦǭǞǫ ǣǚ̓ njǥǮǪǦǚǘDzǦ ǭ̍ ǭǨǤǥǗǥǚǭǚ ʩǦǚǥǢǥǦǗǬǣǨǦǭǞǫ, ˾ǫ ˝ǷǦDzǦ ǥǨͭǪǚ ˩ǦǭǞǫ ƽǶǜǠǦ ǭ̕Ǧ ƾǚǬǣǶǤǨǮ ǣǚ̓ DžǮǝǨ̗ǫ ʽǰǨǦǭǚǫ ǬǯΉǦ ǭ̑Ǧ ǩǵǤǢǦ ˲ǩ̕ ʩǪǞǭ͟ǫ ǣǚ̓ ǩǪǨǡǮǥǘǚǫ ʹǣǛǕǤǨǢǞǦ. O˖ džǞǬǬǗǦǢǨǢ ǝ̏ ʩǣǨǶǨǦǭǞǫ ʩǩǨǦǨǘǚǫ ǭǞ ʹǦǞǩǘǥǩǤǚǦǭǨ ǣǚ̓ ǬǮǦǢǬǭǕǥǞǦǨǢ ǣǚǡ’ ˦ǩǵǬǨǮǫ ʾǣǚǬǭǨǢ ǭǶǰǨǢǞǦ ʹǯǖǪǨǦǭǨ ʹǫ ǭǨ̗ǫ DžǚǣǞǝǚǢǥǨǦǘǨǮǫȱȉȱ When it was day and they could see one another, Aristomenes and Theoclus tried to rouse the fury of despair in the Messenians, setting forth all that suited the occasion and reminding them of the daring of the men of Smyrna, how, though an Ionian people, by their bravery and eagerness they had driven out Gyges the son of Dascylus and the Lydians, when they were in occupation of their town. The Messenians, when they heard, were filled with desperation and, mustering as they happened to be gathered rushed on the Lacedaemonians (4.21.5 f.). 2

Compare Auberger 1992, 192 who argues that Pausanias describes the Messenians as “les seuls vrais guerriers,” but ignores the ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ of the Messenians’ ǭ̖ǤǥǠ.

194

Chapter Thirteen

Remarkably, Pausanias uses the words ʩǪǞǭ̒ (‘excellence, bravery’) and ǩǪǨǡǮǥ̔ǚ (‘readiness, eagerness’) referring to the people of Smyrna, whereas the effect of those words on the Messenians is referred to by ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ, implying a loss of sense and desperation (Paus. 4.21.5-6.). The fact that the Smyrnians were also extremely “daring,” does not have the exact same connotation of rashness as the ǭ̖ǤǥǠȱof the Messenians in my other examples. Ǎ̖ǤǥǠ is a necessary ingredient of courage, and the Smyrnians possess it alongside ʩǪǞǭ̒ȱand ǩǪǨǡǮǥ̔ǚ. The Messenians in contrast only combine their ǭ̖ǤǥǠ with ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ, and that as we have seen, only amounts to ˅ ʭǯǪDzǦ ǭ̖ǤǥǠ (-ǚ): ‘foolish daring.’

Messenians Before and After Aristomenes Aristomenes’ rebellion begins at the moment when the situation for the Messenians is at its most desperate. The measures taken by the Spartans, recorded by Tyrtaeus and repeated by Pausanias, had degraded them to the position of slaves. It is interesting therefore to look at Pausanias’ characterization of the Messenians in the light of the experience of slavery. Since the publication of Orlando Patterson’s book on Slavery and Social Death (1982) much work has been done on the consequence of the experience of slavery on the slaves’ identity, their agency, and their ability of self-representation. It is tempting to interpret the desperate, and foolish, daring of the Messenians in the same light and see a connection between their role as slaves and their lack of real courage. Regardless of whether or not Tyrtaeus’ and Pausanias’ description of the Messenian subjection as a situation of slavery is historically correct, the image of the Messenians as it comes across from these texts emphasizes the aspect of the social death of slavery. A case can be made that Pausanias wished to portray the rebellion as a righteous fight for freedom provoked by an unjust degradation by the Spartans (Auberger 1992). Nevertheless, the impression given of the struggle is that it is desperate, senseless and futile. Ǎ̖ǤǥǠ and ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ imply a daring that is governed by desperation and loss of control. An important question therefore is whether or not this loss of control really started with Aristomenes at the most desperate moment in Messenian history. Another relevant issue is what happens to the Messenians’ daring after liberation. I will illustrate below that, whereas the Messenians before Aristomenes are represented in similar terms as Aristomenes and his men, those after liberation in the fourth century possess the control that their predecessors lacked. Pausanias tells us that the first dispute between the Messenians and the Spartans arose during the reign of Phintas. The sanctuary of Artemis

The Messenians and their Foolish Courage in Pausanias’ Book 4

195

Limnatis on the border between Messenia and Laconia was shared by both the Messenians and the Spartans. After one of the festivals, the Lacedaemonians claimed that the Messenians had raped their virgins and killed their king when he tried to prevent them. The Messenians replied that the Lacedaemonian virgins were not virgins at all but young men in disguise intending to kill some influential Messenians (4.4.1-3). A generation afterwards the Spartans sought and found a pretext to attack the Messenians. A Messenian with no land, Polychares, had given his cattle to a Spartan, Euaephnus, to let them graze on his land and have a share of the produce. Euaephnus, however, first tried to deceive Polychares into believing he had been robbed of the cattle, and next, after Polychares had forgiven him, murdered his son. When Polychares obtained no satisfaction, he: ǩǚǪǞǭǪǕǩǠ...ʹǣ ǭǨͼ ǦǨͼ ǣǚ̓ ǭΊ ǡǮǥΊ ǰǪ̚ǥǞǦǨǫ, ʮǭǞ ʽǰDzǦ ʩǯǞǢǝΉǫ ˉǝǠ ǣǚ̓ ǚ˲ǭǨͼ, ǩ̎Ǧǭǚ ǭǢǦ̍ ˨Ǧ Ǥ̎ǛǨǢ DžǚǣǞǝǚǢǥǨǦ̔DzǦ ʹǭ̖Ǥǥǚ ǯǨǦǞ̘ǞǢǦ. went out of his mind; he gave way to his anger, and, regardless of himself, he dared to murder every Lacedaemonian he could catch.

This was then taken by the Lacedaemonians as a legitimate reason to go to war (4.4.4-8 and 4.5). From the outset therefore, Pausanias presents the Spartans as the aggressors, wanting to find a legitimate reason to attack Messenia. Polychares is finally provoked into giving them one, although the whole matter could have been easily solved had the Spartans been more peacefully inclined (Ǟ˕ǪǠǦǢǣDzǭ̐Ǫǚǫ ǜǦ̚ǥǠǫ) (4.4.4). The Messenian Polychares, on the other hand, contributes to this outcome because he is governed by a senseless daring. It is a Spartan that does wrong to a Messenian, but it is the Messenian that loses his mind and gives the Spartans a reason to invade by giving way to his anger. The Spartans proceed by sacking the city of Ampheia, after which an assembly is held by king Euphaes in Stenycleros. Euphaes tells his subjects not to be too struck with terror. džǞǤ̐ǭǠǦ ǥ̏Ǧ ǜ̍Ǫ ʹǣǞ̔ǦǨǢǫ3 ǭΉǦ ǩǨǤǞǥǢǣΉǦ ʹǣ ǰǪ̖ǦǨǮ ǩǤǞ̔ǨǦǨǫ, Ǭǯ̔ǬǢ ǝ̏ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ ǭ̒Ǧ ǭǞ ʩǦ̎ǜǣǠǦ ˕ǬǰǮǪǨǭ̐ǪǚǦ ʩǦǝǪ̎ǬǢǦ ʩǜǚǡǨͭǫ ǜ̔ǦǞǬǡǚǢ ǣǚ̓ ǭ̕ 3 Translations differ in making this refer to Messenians or Spartans. With ʹǣǞ̔ǦǨǢǫȱ meaning “the latter,” Messenians would be more correct. However the ǥ̏Ǧ...ǝ̐ construction of this text makes a translation referring to Spartans more plausible, in which Euphaes would be saying that on the one hand the Spartans have had more experience in warfare, on the other, the Messenians have better reasons to fight.

196

Chapter Thirteen Ǟ˱ǥǞǦ̐ǬǭǞǪǨǦ ʽǬǞǬǡǚǢ ǩǚǪ̍ ǭΉǦ ǡǞΉǦ ʩǥ̘ǦǨǮǬǢ ǭ͠ Ǩ˕ǣǞ͎̔ ǣǚ̓ Ǩ˱ǣ ʩǝǢǣ̔ǚǫ ʭǪǰǨǮǬǢǦ. On the one hand the Spartans had practice with warfare for a longer time, on the other the Messenians had a stronger necessity to show themselves brave men and the gods would be better to them because they were defending their country and not beginning the injustice (4.6.6).

Four years of reciprocal skirmishes pass, before the two forces meet for battle. Theopompus, the Spartan king, encourages his troops by saying that they would outdo their forefathers in subduing their neighbours and conquering valuable land (4.7.9). Euphaes holds before the Messenian eyes what would happen to them if they lost and concludes that it is better to die a noble death than to suffer those evils: NJǨǤ̗ ǝ̏ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ ͻ͑ǨDz ʩǠǭǭ̒ǭǨǢǫ Ǩ˷ǬǢǦ ʽǭǢ ǣǚ̓ ǭ̍ǫ ǭ̖Ǥǥǚǫ ǣǚǡǞǬǭǠǣ̖ǬǢǦ ʹǧ ˙ǬǨǮ ǩǪǨǡǮǥ͎̔ ǭǨ̗ǫ ʩǦǭǢǭǞǭǚǜǥ̐ǦǨǮǫ ˲ǩǞǪǛǚǤǞǢǦ ˇ ǩǪǨǚǩǨǛǚǤ̖Ǧǭǚǫ ǭ̕ ǯǪ̖ǦǠǥǚ ʹǩǚǦǨǪǡǨͼǬǭǚǢ ǭ̍ ʹǩǭǚǢǬǥ̐Ǧǚ. It was far easier for them, while still undefeated and equally matched in willingness to outdo their enemy by their daring, than it would be to repair their losses if they lost their present state of mind (4.7.10f.).

Again, it is the dominance of ǭ̖ǤǥǠ in the Messenian mind that separates them from their adversaries and will help them to beat them. But it is also emphasized how close the Messenians are to either death or slavery. Whereas the Spartans are fighting for land and glory, the Messenians fight to preserve themselves. This is also clear in the imagery of their behaviour in battle. džǞǬǬ̒ǦǢǨǢ ǥ̏Ǧ ǝǪ̖ǥ· ǭǞ ʹǫ ǭǨ̗ǫ DžǚǣǞǝǚǢǥǨǦ̔ǨǮǫ ʹǰǪΉǦǭǨ ǣǚ̓ ʩǯǞǢǝΉǫ ǚ˱ǭΉǦ Ǟ˛ǰǨǦ ʬǭǞ ʭǦǡǪDzǩǨǢ ǡǚǦǚǭΉǦǭǞǫ ˱ǩ̕ ǭǨͼ ǡǮǥǨͼ, ǣǚ̓ ǚ˱ǭ̕ǫ ʾǣǚǬǭǨǫ ǩǪΉǭǨǫ ʽǬǩǞǮǝǞǦ ʭǪǧǚǢ ǥ̎ǰǠǫ. ʱǦǭǞǩ͞ǞǬǚǦ ǝ̏ ǣǚ̓ Ǩ˖ DžǚǣǞǝǚǢǥ̖ǦǢǨǢ ǬǩǨǮǝ͠ ǣǚ̓ Ǩ˸ǭǨǢ, ǩǪ̖ǦǨǢǚǦ ǝ̏ ˪ǥDzǫ ʹǩǨǢǨͼǦǭǨ ǥ̑ ǝǢǚǤǮǡ͟Ǧǚ̔ ǬǯǢǬǢ ǭ̑Ǧ ǭ̎ǧǢǦ. The Messenians charged the Lacedaemonians recklessly like men eager for death in their anger, each one of them eager to be the first to join battle. The Lacedaemonians also advanced to meet them eagerly, but were careful not to break their ranks (4.8.1).

This translation is also preferable because it is in line with the rest of the story in book 4 in which it is repeatedly stressed that the Spartans are better trained. ȱ

The Messenians and their Foolish Courage in Pausanias’ Book 4

197

This opposition between a reckless horde and an eager and disciplined force4 is emphasized throughout the description of the battle.5 The Messenians are in that way already presented as a desperate people, aware of having no choice but to die or be enslaved. This is flagged up in the text even more by the claim that the Spartans were “calling the Messenians already their slaves (Ǩ˕ǣ̐ǭǚǫ), no freer than the Helots” (Ǩ˱ǝ̏Ǧ ʹǤǞǮǡǞǪDzǭ̐ǪǨǮǫ ǭΉǦ Ǟ˖Ǥ̚ǭDzǦ, 4.8.2.). The despair and daring of the Messenians gives them victory in this battle, but afterwards things go wrong. Scarcity of resources, deserting slaves and disease cause them to give up all their inland towns and settle on the Ithome (4.9.1.). Pausanias implies that fate has already decided that Messenia will be conquered. Even if the Messenians are successful in their battles, they will have to give up their country. The years after Aristomenes’ death are not treated in any great detail by Pausanias. He comments briefly on the earthquake revolt of 465 BC (4.14.5-7) and he also mentions the Messenians from Naupactus, who fight against the Spartans on Athenian side in the Peloponnesian War (4.26.1f.); but overall he is silent on the period between Aristomenes and Messenia’s liberation by Epaminondas in 369 BC. The Messenians of the fourth and third centuries BC, however, are portrayed as having a remarkable amount of self-control. On two occasions the Messenians again have to fight with great daring, but in neither case is there any sign of ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ. It appears that their changed situation from subjugation to freedom has also changed their behaviour in battle.6

4

Pausanias does not treat the controlled Spartan behaviour as such in this book, but uses it to emphasize the uncontrolled Messenian behaviour. Humble 2002 discusses the virtue of moderation as a specific Spartan virtue in various authors. 5 Paus 4.8. See especially 4: “The Messenians were inspired alike by desperation (ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ) and readiness to face death (ǭ̕Ǧ ǡ̎ǦǚǭǨǦ Ǟ˵ǡǮǥǨǦ)”; 6: “The Lacedaemonians refrained from exhorting one another, and were less inclined than the Messenians to engage in striking deeds of daring (ǭΉǦ ǭǨǤǥǠǥ̎ǭDzǦ)”; 9: “Finally Euphaes and his men in a frenzy of despair that was near to madness (ǭ͟ǫ ǭǞ ʩǩǨǦǨ̔ǚǫ ǥǚǦ̔ǚǫ ˩ǦǭǞǫ ʹǜǜ̘ǭǚǭǚ) (for picked Messenian troops formed the whole of the king’s bodyguard), overpowering the enemy by their bravery (ʩǦǝǪǚǜǚǡ̔ǚǫ), drove back Theopompus himself and routed the Lacedaemonian troops opposed to them.” 6 Alcock 2001, 152f. notes that Pausanias by representing the Messenians as ‘frozen’ in time during Spartan rule, makes a connection between a people’s identity and their freedom: “only when the Messenians are liberated and restored to their land can they triumph at Olympia.” She does not however interpret Aristomenes’ rebellion as one governed by “slavish” behaviour through the predominance of ǭ̖ǤǥǠȱand ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ in the Messenians’ behaviour.

198

Chapter Thirteen

In the first instance, the Messenians occupied Elis7 by a combination of ǭ̖ǤǥǠ and ǬǨǯ̔ǚ (Paus. 4.28.4-8). The ΗΓΚϟ΅ consists in painting their shields over and thereby disguising themselves as Spartans. The appropriate translation of ǬǨǯ̔ǚ is therefore ‘cleverness’ or ‘cunning,’ and does not imply ‘understanding.’ In the second instance, however, such understanding is implicitly present in Pausanias’ description of the Messenian behaviour. The Messenians had to defend Messene against Macedonian troops led by Demetrius to Ithome to arrive at dawn (4.29.1f.). We are not told by Pausanias why the alliance between the Messenians and the Macedonians was broken,8 but he does give us an idea of the surprise of Ithome’s inhabitants: ̆ǫ ǝ̏ ˆǥ̐Ǫǚ ǭǞ ʹǩ̐ǬǰǞ ǣǚ̓ ˉǝǠ ǭǨͭǫ ʽǦǝǨǦ ǚ˙ǬǡǠǬǢǫ ʹǜǞǜ̖ǦǞǢ ǭǨͼ ǣǚǭǞǢǤǠǯ̖ǭǨǫ ǣǢǦǝ̘ǦǨǮ, ǭ̕ ǥ̏Ǧ ǩǪΉǭǨǦ ǚ˱ǭǨ̗ǫ ʹǬ͟ǤǡǞǦ ˲ǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ ˾ǫ Ǩ˖ DžǚǣǞǝǚǢǥ̖ǦǢǨǢ Ǭ̗Ǧ ˩ǩǤǨǢǫ ǩǚǪ̐ǤǡǨǢǞǦ ǚ˱ǭΉǦ ʹǫ ǭ̑Ǧ ǩ̖ǤǢǦ, ́ǬǭǞ ǣǚ̓ ́ǪǥǠǬǚǦ ʹǩ’ǚ˱ǭǨ̗ǫ ʩǯǞǢǝ̐ǬǭǞǪǨǦ ǝǢ̍ ǭ̕ ǥͭǬǨǫ ǭ̕ ʹǧ ʩǪǰ͟ǫ. ʿǩǞ̓ ǝ̏ ʹǣ ǭǞ ǭΉǦ ˩ǩǤDzǦ ǣǚ̓ ǭ͟ǫ ǯDzǦ͟ǫ džǚǣǞǝ̖Ǧǚǫ ǣǚ̓ ƾǠǥ̒ǭǪǢǨǦ ǭ̕Ǧ ǏǢǤ̔ǩǩǨǮ ǜǦDzǪ̔ǟǨǮǬǢǦ ˩Ǧǭǚǫ, ǝǞͭǥǚ ˕ǬǰǮǪ̕Ǧ ǩǚǪ̐ǬǭǠ Ǭǯ̔ǬǢ ǤǨǜǢǟǨǥ̐ǦǨǢǫ ǭ̒Ǧ ǭǞ ʹǫ ǭ̍ ǩǨǤǞǥǢǣ̍ ǭΉǦ džǚǣǞǝ̖ǦDzǦ ǥǞǤ̐ǭǠǦ ǣǚ̓ ǭ̘ǰǠǦ ̲ ǩǪ̕ǫ ʭǩǚǦǭǚ ʺ̚ǪDzǦ ǰǪDzǥ̐ǦǨǮǫ ǚ˱ǭǨ̘ǫ. When day dawned, and the inhabitants had realised the danger that beset them, they were at first under the impression that the Lacedaemonians had forced an entry into the town, and rushed against them more unsparingly owing to their ancient hatred. But when they discovered from their equipment and speech that it was the Macedonians and Demetrius the son of Philip, they were filled with great fear, when they considered the Macedonian training in warfare and the good fortune which they say that they enjoyed in all their ventures (4.29.3).

The situation is described as being a serious one indeed. Thinking that the invaders were Spartans, the Messenians were by no means plunged into despair, but rushed at the opportunity to meet them in battle. Their hatred of old is a reason to go against them ʩǯǞǢǝ̐ǬǭǞǪǨǦ (more unsparingly, without mercy). At discovery of the Macedonians however, they experience “great fear” (ǝǞͭǥǚ ˕ǬǰǮǪ̖Ǧ). The experience of ǝǞͭǥǚ, even if it is ˕ǬǰǮǪ̖Ǧ, is a significant change from the depictions of Messenians before their liberation. Unlike the implication of senselessness that is part of ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ, this fear relates to the Messenians’ understanding of the seriousness of their situation. On 7 8

The reason for this being that Philip of Macedon had bribed the Eleans. See for this Polybius 7.2.10, who denounces Philip’s interference in Messenia.

The Messenians and their Foolish Courage in Pausanias’ Book 4

199

discovering the Macedonians, they consider (ǤǨǜ̔ǟǨǥǚǢ) the latter’s training in warfare and their good fortune and understand that they are therefore in great danger. This great danger is however no cause of despair for them: ˪ǥDzǫ ǝ̏ ǭǨͼ ǭǞ ǩǚǪǵǦǭǨǫ ǣǚǣǨͼ ǭ̕ ǥǖǜǞǡǨǫ ʹǝǘǝǚǬǣǞǦ ʩǦǝǪǘǚǦ ǭǢǦ̍ ǣǚ̓ ǩǖǪǚ ǭǨͼ ǝǮǦǚǭǨͼ ǜǘǦǞǬǡǚǢ ǣǚ̓ ʮǥǚ ǭ̍ ʩǥǞǘǦDz ǩǚǪǘǬǭǚǭǨ ǚ˱ǭǨͭǫ ʹǤǩǘǟǞǢǦ· Ǩ˱ ǜ̍Ǫ ǝ̑ ʭǦǞǮ ǡǞǨͼ ǝǢ̍ ǭǨǬǨǶǭǨǮ ǬǯǘǬǢǦ ˲ǩǕǪǧǚǢ ǭ̑Ǧ ʹǫ NJǞǤǨǩǵǦǦǠǬǨǦ ǣǕǡǨǝǨǦ. Nevertheless the magnitude of the present evil caused them to display a courage beyond their strength, also they were inspired with hope for the best, since it seemed not without divine help that they had accomplished their return to Peloponnese after so long an absence (4.29.4).

There is no mention of the word ǭ̖ǤǥǠ, but the magnitude of events causes them to display “courage beyond their strength” (ʩǦǝǪ̔ǚǦ ǭǢǦ̍ ǣǚ̓ ǩ̐Ǫǚ ǭǨͼ ǝǮǦǚǭǨͼ). Their return to the Peloponnese after such a long time helps them to trust in the gods and offer a strong resistance against the Macedonians in the hope that they were to succeed. The ǝǞͭǥǚȱ ˕ǬǰǮǪ̖Ǧȱ is therefore fundamentally different from the ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ of the subjected Messenians. Not only is it based on understanding, but in addition now that the Messenians are free they have realized a display of courage, which is more than just daring and desperation.

Pausanias Pausanias’ book 4 is interesting not only for what it tells us about Messenian history. It also illuminates how Pausanias coped with living and writing in a Graeco-Roman imperial context. The book on Messenia is a history of a Greek people losing and reclaiming autonomy. More than any of the other books in the Periegesis, it is a valuable source for his experience of being a subject. In a seminal paper of 1992, JaĞ Elsner argues that we should see Pausanias as a Greek pilgrim in the Roman world “using myths of the ancient Greek past and the sacred associations of pilgrimage to shield himself from the full implications of being a subject.”9 His Periegesis is therefore to be considered mainly as a source for Greek intellectual resistance to Roman domination. This aspect of resistance is, according to 9

Elsner 1992, 3. Bowie 1974 already argued that the interests of Greeks in the period of the Second Sophistic in their past was connected to their dissatisfaction with the political situation of the present. See also Heer 1979, 7-9, 66-8.

200

Chapter Thirteen

Elsner, the prime factor that distinguishes Pausanias from some other Greek travellers in the period of the Second Sophistic. One reason is that Pausanias treats both past and present events, and in doing so goes beyond an antiquarian tendency of Archaism. Pausanias is visiting memorable places and monuments not just for their histories in the Archaic and Classical Past, but also for the meaning they could have in the present (Arafat 1996, esp. 213-5). Arguing along the same lines, François Hartog interprets the Periegesis as providing a utopian vision of classical Greece. Pausanias describes the remains of things that are no longer visible and thereby manages to stretch the limits of visibility, depicting the invisible and hence creating an ideal vision (Hartog 2001, 6-8, 133-50). The Periegesis is therefore much more than an archaic collection of antiquities. It is search into and a proclamation of Greek identity as it was in the past before Macedonian and Roman domination, but also as it is for Pausanias. As Elsner puts it, “pilgrimage is a journey into one’s identity in its topographic, cultural and spiritual resonances” (Elsner 1992, 10; see also Hutton 1993 and 2005, 7 and Nora 1984-92) James I. Porter in a more recent article emphasizes this aspect of resistance even more strongly and claims that Pausanias with his Periegesis “combats the loss of memory,” thereby “preserving the possibility of freedom itself” (Porter 2001, 75). As long as the Greeks can still imagine their freedom, it is not lost yet. Arguing against this line of thought that considers Pausanias, and other Second Sophistic writers, as the intellectual resistance against Roman domination, Anthony Spawforth has pointed to the interest in Greek Antiquity by the Roman élite. In his view, “[Pausanias’] whole fascination with old Greece reflects a Hadrianic and Antonine fashion led not by subject Greeks but by Rome” (Spawforth 2001, 390; see also Anderson 1993, ch. 4). David Braund points to Pausanias’ discussion of Sulla’s sack of Athens as an example of “the willingness even of champions of Hellenic culture to accommodate the most appalling Roman imperialist outrages” and concludes that Pausanias affirms Roman virtue (Braund 1998, 22f.). Christian Habicht interprets Pausanias’ work as a guidebook for tourists and a collection of short stories for readers sitting at home, which also implies that he sees him as working for an élite public that may comprise both Greeks and Romans (Habicht 1985a and 1985b). A third approach, put forward by Tim Whitmarsh, is that Pausanias’ text was open to a variety of contemporary interpretations, with the possibility that his public reacted to the text in different ways. As Whitmarsh has said on the tendency of the Second Sophistic to look at a far away (both temporally and spatially) Greece: “My point is not that historical declamations worked consistently, or even regularly, as anti-

The Messenians and their Foolish Courage in Pausanias’ Book 4

201

Roman allegories, but that while the reader enjoys glorious narratives of the Greece’s military past, the gates to the realm of fantasy are open wide” (Whitmarsh 2005, 70). Pausanias has thus been interpreted as both participating in a Roman fashion, and in resisting Roman domination (Hutton 2005, esp. 47-53 and 273-324). The two do not necessarily exclude each other, though they do not go easily together either. These contrary interpretations of Pausanias’ text could reflect an ambiguity that is also present in his own position as a reporter. On the one hand, his prime interest is a Greece in which he does not live. In this respect, he is investigating a people to which he does not belong. At the same time, however, he recognizes a link between the past and the present. He observes a break with the Roman Empire; but while he is looking at the identity of the Greeks of the past, he is also looking at his own identity (Alcock 1996). A second ambiguity of his look inside concerns the question of his own Greekness (Heer 1979, 13-16 and Alcock 1996, 261262). Pausanias came from Lydia and found himself, topographically, on the margins of the Greek world.10 It has indeed been argued that the amount of information he gives of the places that he visits suggests that he was writing for Greek speakers from Asia Minor, who were less familiar with the Aegean (Spawforth 2001).11 This may be one reason for why he emphasized virtue and culture, rather than birth as a mark of Greekness (Konstan 2001, 36-43; compare Said 2001) As we have seen, Pausanias goes far beyond a simple dichotomy of Greek and non-Greek (Malkin 2001a and 2001b), but also shows different ways of being Greek. At the same time he does also treat “autochtony” as a vital part of identity (Jacob 1980), which is especially clear in the case of the Messenians who in their exiled and enslaved position have great trouble maintaining their full identity. Being bound to one’s homeland is an essential part of being “Messenian”. This implies that a choice of going into exile or slavery, which is the choice that Aristomenes and his men faced, is actually not a real choice at all. In exile one loses one’s connection with the homeland; in slavery one loses the mastery over one’s self. Both amount to loss of identity and hence “social death.” in the way 10

Diller 1955 discusses the identification of Pausanias. Although he points out that it is not certain that Pausanias was a Lydian, only that he was living in Lydia for some time, there is no doubt that he came from Asia Minor. Hutton 2005: 9-11 suggests Magnesia-on-Sipylus (modern Manisa in Turkey) as Pausanias’ home city. 11 Jones 2004, 13-21 points out that due to a preoccupation with the topic of Greek identity, Pausanias’ Lydian sympathies have been often overlooked.

202

Chapter Thirteen

that Orlando Patterson understood it (Patterson 1982; Whitmarsh 2001 equates exile with social death). The tragedy of this choice of three12 deaths would be familiar to Pausanias. He was not the only writer of the Second Sophistic who thought of issues of cultural identity through the discourse of exile.13 A second aspect remarked upon by Elsner among others is Pausanias’ interest in Greece as a whole. Elsner writes that “[t]he way Pausanias structured his subject matter reveals an attempt to transcend the historical realities of conflict and division among the Greeks in search of a mythhistory which might evoke the image of a free, unified Greece” (Elsner 1992, 5; see also Porter 2001 emphasizing the mythical character of this history). This interest comes out clearly when Pausanias claims that the great heroes of the Greek past, one of which is Aristomenes, “will be seen to have helped each his own country and not Greece as a whole” (8.52.1). The interest in Greece as a whole goes hand in hand with a criticism of Greeks fighting each other (Elsner 1992; Habicht 1985b, 106). It can be claimed, as for example Walter Ameling has done, that contrary to this statement in book 8, Pausanias in book 4 lays the blame for destroying Greek unity with the Spartans. They were the ones who first started a war against a fellow Greek state (Ameling 1996). This leads on to the question of what sort of lessons Pausanias may have intended to give to the leaders of his own era. Janick Auberger argues that Pausanias wrote a story in which the different peoples and their leaders reflect values and qualities that were conducive to achieving freedom. In the figure of Aristomenes are reflected, in her view, characteristics of both the Homeric heroes and Roman leaders, combined in a similar way to depictions of Alexander the Great in the Alexander novels. Like Ameling, Auberger sees the Messenians as the goodies and the Spartans as the baddies of the story. Aristomenes resembles Alexander in being an intermediary between the Homeric and the Graeco-Roman world and displays an altruistic courage and a sense of responsibility that should be “une leçon pour l’empire” (Auberger 2000). Whether or not this particular interpretation of Aristomenes’ character is correct could be questioned,14 especially considering the repeated mention by Pausanias of 12

Aristomenes and his fellow rebels seemed to favour physical death. See Whitmarsh 2001, discussing Musonius Rufus’ That Exile Is Not an Evil, Dio Chrysostom’s On Exile and Favorinus’ On Exile. 14 Ogden 2004, ch. 1 criticizes Auberger’s thesis on a variety of grounds, most important of which is his argument that Auberger’s contention can neither be proven nor refuted. The leadership qualities in the figure of Aristomenes are in general a “fairly universal and uncontroversial range of good-leadership qualities,” and do not necessarily directly refer to Alexander, although he also possesses those 13

The Messenians and their Foolish Courage in Pausanias’ Book 4

203

his ΘϱΏΐ΋ and ΦΔϱΑΓ΍΅, but the significance his character may have had to the second century AD Roman Greek world must be kept in mind. A seemingly contradictory facet of the Periegesis, which is quite clear in book 4, is Pausanias’ criticism of interstate hostilities within the Greek world together with an invocation of Greece as a whole through the structure of the work. Elsner argues that: [t]he act of travelling and the parallel act of writing actually undermine the diversity which the text wishes to emphasize. Greece becomes a cohering of the many hellenika into one image, one man’s image, defined by its otherness in relation to other ethnographies, and above all to Rome. The very conflicts of the hellenika become a cohesive factor, a shared myth which brings them together against the “other” of Rome (Elsner 1992, 14; see also Elsner 2001).

In my discussion of book 4 the theme of diversity and conflict is more at the forefront than the theme of coherence. The Spartans and the Messenians actually represent two very different ways of being Greek, and although they share a conflict which is vital for both parties’ sense of identity, this conflict in no way brings them together against a third “Other.” Rather, they are each others’ other. Their “Sameness” in relation to the “Otherness” of Rome may arguably be present in their appearance in a work on “the whole of Greece,” but it certainly does not imply “a free and unified Greece.” The case of the Messenians is of course quite remarkable in this respect as they are not free. Book 4 stands out among the other books for providing a detailed historical account of Aristomenes’ rebellion. The Messenians’ exile and slavery provided Pausanias with a possibility to approach the theme of identity through these concepts of “exile” and “slavery.” Although it has been argued that this was the case because Messenia had comparatively little to offer in terms of monuments (Habicht 1985b, 20-2; Alcock 2001, esp. 145 aptly comments that the lack of monuments is also a logical consequence of the Messenian diaspora), I think that it is rather the uniqueness of Messenian history as a history of exile and slavery that may have influenced Pausanias in writing so elaborately about it. Although she does not note the ambivalent representation of the subjugated Messenians through the uses of ǭ̖ǤǥǠ and ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ, Susan Alcock has recognized a difference in Pausanias’ depiction of the freed Messenians. Arguing that this is part of his qualities. Pace Ogden I have argued that Aristomenes is not a good leader at all in suggesting that the use ofȱ ǭ̖ǤǥǠ and ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚȱ are part of a rhetoric referring to social death.

204

Chapter Thirteen

association between a people’s identity and their freedom, she concludes that the Messenian past mirrors a concern with Greek identity under Roman rule (Alcock 2001, 145f. and 152f.). The imagery used to portray the Spartans as aggressors, but orderly ones, and the Messenians as victims, yet resisting in a daring manner, must therefore be seen in its connection to Pausanias’ own interest in Greek identity. I am doubtful however about the extent to which book 4 should be seen as part of an intellectual resistance. The anti-Spartan tendency of the story is connected to criticism of their attacks on fellow-Greeks. But the antiSpartan slant of the story does not correspond to a pro-Messenian one. Pausanias’ depiction of the Messenian behaviour in battle, governed by ǭ̖ǤǥǠ and ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ, is a portrayal of slavish behaviour. Aristomenes thereby becomes an anti-hero, rather than a hero, and his struggle is foolish rather than heroic. From this I conclude that far from glorifying resistance, Pausanias is demonstrating the futility of it.

Conclusion Aristomenes is depicted by Pausanias as a hero who has great daring, ǭ̖ǤǥǠ, which he uses to do great harm to the Spartans. It is also an infectious daring, shared by all his fellow rebels. However, neither Aristomenes nor any of the Messenians are able to control their daring. It is often mentioned in connection to ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ, which implies that it is daring resulting from desperation. This combination with ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ makes clear that although ǭ̖ǤǥǠ can be positive, in the Messenian case it is not. Their ǭ̖ǤǥǠ is a daring without reason which makes for foolish daring: ˆ ʭǯǪDzǦ ǭ̖ǤǥǠ. In the episodes taking place before and after the liberation it appears that the Messenians’ daring is connected to their identity as slave rebels. Whereas Aristomenes’ successes and his doom must be interpreted in the same context of despair and recklessness, the Messenians after the liberation are able to display a courage which they did not possess before. In essence therefore, Pausanias portrays Aristomenes’ resistance as futile. This negative portrayal of the Messenian revolt has to be seen in the context of Pausanias’ own history. The importance of Pausanias’ Messeniaka as a source for his opinion on domination and resistance has been recognized by JaĞ Elsner. He argues that Pausanias in the whole of his Periegesis evokes the image of a free unified Greece and interprets his work as part of an intellectual resistance. In my opinion the quite negative portrayal of both the Spartans and the Messenians and especially the presentation of the Messenian resistance as futile, makes Elsner’s argument questionable.

The Messenians and their Foolish Courage in Pausanias’ Book 4

205

By emphasizing the senselessness of the Messenian revolt, Pausanias appears to me as a pessimist, both in his opinion of the two Greek peoples he treats in this book, and especially in his opinion on resistance. In his portrayal of Aristomenes and his fellow rebels it is impossible for them to display any true heroic behaviour. Rather, their resistance is governed by ǭ̖ǤǥǠ and ʩǩ̖ǦǨǢǚ, which implies a senseless and desperate daring. By depicting the Messenian rebels in this way, Pausanias makes clear that he concurs with the Spartans when they insult the Messenians as “already their slaves, no freer than the helots.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN L’IMAGE DES BARCIDES CHEZ LES HISTORIOGRAPHES LATINS DE LA REPUBLIQUE : NAISSANCE D’UNE TRADITION

MARTINE CHASSIGNET

Les guerres puniques, et notamment la deuxième, dite guerre d’Hannibal—bellum cum Hannibale—sont aux yeux mêmes des Anciens un événement majeur de l’histoire, non seulement de Rome, mais de l’ensemble du monde antique. Preuve de cette importance, Tite-Live, monument de la littérature latine, a consacré une décade entière aux dixhuit années du deuxième conflit romano-carthaginois dont il dit qu’il a été « la guerre de beaucoup la plus mémorable de toutes celles qui ont jamais existé ».1 A cela s’ajoute la fascination des Anciens pour les grands hommes. Il n’est donc pas étonnant que, si les historiens, philosophes, poètes épiques romains ou grecs de toutes les époques, ont consacré bon nombre de pages à Régulus ou Scipion l’Africain, ils ont fait de même à l’égard d’Hamilcar ou Hannibal. Les jugements portés dans l’Antiquité sur les Carthaginois en général et Hannibal en particulier sont très contrastés.2 Pour Cicéron par exemple les Poeni étaient foedifragi (« violeurs de traités ») et Hannibal crudelis ;3 l’Arpinate reconnaît pourtant au Barcide des qualités telles que le

1

Liv. 21.1.1 (trad. P. Jal, Les Belles Lettres). Pour l’image des Carthaginois dans la littérature latine, cf. Burck 1943 ; Bonamente 1975 ; Dubuisson 1983. Pour l’image d’Hannibal dans l’Antiquité, cf. Christ 1968. 3 Cic. Off. 1.38 ; Lael. 28. Même accusation de cruauté par exemple chez Liv. 21.4.9 (« cruauté inhumaine ») et passim ; Sen. De ira 2.5.4 ; Plin. NH 8.18. 2

L’image des Barcides chez les historiographes latins de la République

207

consilium et la virtus.4 Tite-Live pour sa part parle de la perfidia plus quam Punica du général carthaginois ;5 cependant dans le récit de sa mort, l’auteur de l’Ab Urbe condita insiste sur la grandeur d’âme du chef punique dans l’adversité.6 Chez Appien, Hannibal est un être capable de cruauté mais c’est également un être sensible, qui verse des larmes sur le champ de bataille de Cannes devant le spectacle de ses amis morts.7 Selon Orose, le Barcide aurait pleuré, cette fois en quittant l’Italie mais sans rien perdre de sa cruauté puisqu’il avait fait tuer les soldats d’origine italique qui ne voulaient pas le suivre en Afrique.8 Les exemples de ce type peuvent être multipliés, même si les accusations de perfidie et de cruauté sont un véritable leit-motiv, éclipsant tous les autres aspects du Carthaginois. Quant à la critique moderne, elle a consacré elle aussi de très nombreux travaux à Carthage et à Hannibal, manifestation s’il en est de la fascination qu’ils exercent encore sur les esprits.9 L’image la plus aboutie est évidemment celle que l’on trouve dans l’Ab Urbe condita. On peut cependant se demander comment l’image des Barca véhiculée à Rome à la fin de la République et au début de l’Empire s’est formée ; la question est d’autant plus importante que leur représentation ultérieure en découlera en grande partie. L’étude des textes historiographiques de la République peut sans doute y répondre, du moins partiellement. Tite-Live, qui a vécu deux siècles après les événements et auquel il a déjà été fait allusion à trois reprises dans les lignes qui précèdent, puisque son oeuvre est devenue une sorte de vulgate, souligne lui-même le grand nombre d’écrivains grecs et romains qui avaient raconté l’histoire de la deuxième guerre punique avant lui.10 De fait, les conflits romanocarthaginois ont fait très tôt l’objet d’écrits historiques. La littérature punique n’a malheureusement pas survécu.11 Les premiers ouvrages 4

Cic. Pro Sest. 142. Liv. 21.4.9. Même accusation de perfidia chez Val. Max. 9.6. ext. 2 et 5.1 ext. 6 ; Ov. Fast. 3.148 et 6.242 ; Hor. Carm. 4.4.40sqq. ; Auson. Epist. 29.54 ; Amm. 15.10.11 ; Oros. 4.14.3. 6 Liv. 39.51. 7 App. Hann. 26. 8 Oros. 4.19.1. 9 Voir notamment la bibliographie contenue dans Seibert 1993 et 1997 ; Lancel 1997. Bonne mise au point de l’image d’Hannibal dans la recherche moderne dans Seibert 1993, 57-82. 10 Liv. 29.27.13. 11 A cela deux raisons : la destruction de Carthage en 146 et le fait que, si l’on excepte le traité d’agriculture de Magon, la littérature punique n’avait pas fait 5

208

Chapter Fourteen

antiques où il était question des Barcides sont donc grecs ou romains. Les plus anciens sont contemporains des première et deuxième guerres puniques pour ce qui est des écrivains grecs, de la deuxième et de la troisième guerre punique pour les romains. Les premiers de ces historiographes sont des Grecs ; ils ont écrit du point de vue carthaginois. Loin d’être négligeables, cette question de chronologie et ce parti pris sont en fait fondamentaux pour pouvoir appréhender l’image des Barcides telle qu’elle a été élaborée par les historiographes latins. Il s’agit d’abord de Philinos d’Acragas, un Grec de Sicile contemporain de la première guerre punique, dont les prises de position ont sans doute été renforcées par la rancune née du pillage de sa ville par les Romains en 261 ; il avait écrit une histoire assez étendue de la première guerre punique ; elle est aujourd’hui perdue mais nous savons que « ses opinions et son entière bienveillance pour les Carthaginois lui (ont fait) trouver toutes leurs actions sensées, belles, courageuses et celles des Romains tout à l’opposé ».12 Les historiens grecs contemporains de la deuxième guerre punique et auteurs d’ouvrages sur cette guerre, sont Silénos de Caleaktè, Sosylos de Lacédémone et Chaeréas. Chaeréas13 n’est pour nous plus qu’un nom ; ce qui est sûr, c’est que Polybe ne le tenait pas en haute estime.14 Silénos et Sosylos sont un peu mieux connus ; nous savons d’eux qu’ils ont vécu dans l’entourage immédiat d’Hannibal, dans les camps, et qu’ils « ont partagé son existence tant que le sort le leur permit » ;15 ils se sont donc fait les historiens de ce qu’ils avaient vécu et les panégyristes du chef punique qui pouvait leur paraître le digne successeur d’Alexandre le Grand. Sosylos, qui fut par ailleurs maître de grec d’Hannibal,16 a écrit une histoire d’Hannibal en sept livres17 dont un seul fragment transmis par un papyrus est parvenu jusqu’à nous : il a pour sujet une bataille navale datée de 218 av. J.-C. entre Carthaginois et Massiliotes ;18 à en juger l’objet de traductions latines ou grecques qui lui auraient permis d’arriver jusqu’à nous. 12 Polyb. 1.4.3. 13 FGrHist 177. 14 Polybe le cite en 3.20.5 à côté de Sosylos ; il dit de leurs écrits qu’ « ils n’avaient pas plus de valeur ni de mérite que des histoires de barbier ou des bavardages de commère ». 15 Nep. Hann. 13.3 (trad. A.-M. Guillemin, Les Belles Lettres). 16 Nep. Hann. 13.3. 17 Diod. 26.4.1. 18 Wilcken 1906 et 1907.

L’image des Barcides chez les historiographes latins de la République

209

d’après ce fragment, Sosylos s’intéressait de près aux questions tactiques et cherchait à les motiver par la psychologie des protagonistes.19 De l’œuvre de Silénos, qui a peut-être joué le rôle d’un officier d’état-major auprès d’Hannibal,20 nous avons neuf fragments, dont deux sont expressément rapportés à l’histoire d’Hannibal.21 Cicéron estime qu’il relata les faits « avec le plus grand soin ».22 De là à dire qu’il fut impartial, il y a un pas que je ne franchirai pas.23 Au contraire. Ces auteurs ont en effet été les défenseurs inconditionnels de la cause punique et notamment d’Hannibal auprès du monde civilisé d’alors. Ils sont très certainement à l’origine de la construction du mythe d’Hannibal, commencée du vivant de celui-ci et sans doute à sa demande.24 L’exemple le plus significatif est vraisemblablement le fragment de Silénos relatif au songe qu’Hannibal aurait eu au début de la guerre, en Espagne, après la prise de Sagonte.25 19

Cf. Pédech 1964, 375. Charles-Picard 1970, 228. 21 FGrHist 175 F 1 et 2. 22 Cic. Div. 1.49. 23 Même opinion chez Meister 1971 ; Brizzi 1984, 16 n. 26 ; Seibert 1993, 12. 24 Sur cette construction, cf. par exemple Tarpin 2002. 25 FGrHist 175 F 2 = Coel. Antip. fr. 12 Chassignet ap. Cic. Div. 1.49 : « Hoc item in Sileni, quem Coelius sequitur, Graeca historia est (is autem diligentissime res Hannibalis persecutus est) : Hanibalem, cum cepisset Saguntum, visum esse in somnis a Iove in deorum concilium vocari ; quo cum venisset, Iovem imperavisse ut Italiae bellum inferret, ducemque ei unum e concilio datum, quo illum utentem cum exercitu progredi coepisse. Tum ei ducem illum praecepisse ne respiceret ; illum autem id diutius facere non potuisse elatumque cupiditate respexisse ; tum ipsam beluam vastam et immanem circumplicitam serpentibus quacumque incederet omnia arbusta, virgulta, tecta pervertere ; et eum admiratum quaesisse de deo quodnam illud esset tale monstrum ; et deum respondisse vastitatem esse Italiae, praecepisseque ut pergeret protinus, quid retro atque a tergo fieret ne laboraret » (« Voici ce qu’on trouve également dans l’histoire en grec de Silénos, suivi par Coelius (or Silénos fait un récit fort exact des actions d’Hannibal) : après la prise de Sagonte, Hannibal rêva que Jupiter l’invitait à l’assemblée des dieux ; arrivé là, il reçut l’ordre de Jupiter de porter la guerre en Italie et on lui donna pour guide un des membres de l’assemblée ; grâce à son aide, il commença à avancer avec son armée ; c’est alors que son guide lui enjoignit de ne pas se retourner ; mais Hannibal ne put résister plus longtemps et, emporté par la curiosité, il se retourna ; il vit alors une bête énorme et monstrueuse, enlacée de serpents, qui renversait partout sur son passage tous les arbres, broussailles, maisons ; saisi d’étonnement, il demanda au dieu quel était ce monstre ; le dieu répondit que c’était la dévastation de l’Italie et il lui enjoignit de continuer droit devant, sans se préoccuper de ce qui se passait derrière lui, dans son dos »). 20

210

Chapter Fourteen

Son contenu était apparemment le suivant :26 Hannibal aurait vu en rêve Jupiter l’appeler à son conseil et lui confier la mission de porter la guerre en Italie sous la conduite d’un guide divin, tandis que derrière lui s’avançait un dragon qui renversait tout sur son passage, ce dragon dévastateur évoquant a priori, dans une version pro-hannibalique, la destruction de l’Italie, c’est-à-dire de Rome. La divinité que Jupiter désigne comme guide du Barcide n’est pas nommée mais on peut très vraisemblablement y reconnaître Héraklès-Melquart,27 bien que l’Alcide ne soit que demi-dieu. La présence d’Héraklès répond sans doute à celle du héros dans la vision qu’Hannibal lui-même a eue de son expédition et à l’image qu’il a voulu en donner :28 la marche d’Hannibal à travers l’Espagne, la Gaule, les Alpes jusqu’en Italie n’est que la reproduction de la marche d’Héraklès ramenant les bœufs de Géryon des bords de l’Océan. Hannibal dans cette version est un émule d’Hercule, le civilisateur, investi d’une mission. Cette propagande pro-punique, sans doute initiée par Hannibal luimême, et le succès qu’elle a dû rencontrer auprès du public carthaginois— au moins auprès de la faction dévouée aux Barcides—et grec, sont à l’origine de la naissance de l’historiographie romaine à la fin du IIIème siècle. Fabius Pictor, le père de l’histoire à Rome, et Cincius Alimentus décident en effet à cette époque de rédiger une histoire nationale pour défendre les principes et la position de Rome en politique internationale. Bien que romains, ils écrivent en grec car s’adressant d’abord au monde hellénistique avant de s’adresser à leurs compatriotes. Ils entendent montrer que les Romains ne sont pas les barbares incultes qu’on se plaisait à présenter : pour ce faire ils se présentent comme un peuple ancien, descendant d’Enée ; ils souhaitent également contrebalancer l’image répandue par les milieux pro-carthaginois et notamment par Silénos, Sosylos et Chaeréas, dont les propos avaient rencontré un accueil favorable chez les Grecs, inquiets devant le péril romain : Rome avait en effet 26

Pour la reconstruction du contenu du fragment de Silénos, cf. Seibert 1993, 188. Contra : Lancel 1997, 112, qui estime que, dans la version de Silénos, Hannibal se voit interdire de se retourner et n’est pas sanctionné pour avoir transgressé l’interdit : « Hannibal avait reçu des dieux mission de porter la guerre en Italie, et la révélation qu’il avait surprise, contre leur volonté, de ses conséquences—la dévastation d l’Italie—n’entraînait nullement leur courroux ». 27 Brizzi 1984, 92 ; Huss 1986, 237suiv. ; Seibert 1993, 186suiv. 28 Briquel 1997, 48. Contra : Foulon 2003, qui suppose que la divinité qui montre le chemin à Hannibal à travers les Alpes, est Mercure Alétès, Mercure « le Vagabond ».

L’image des Barcides chez les historiographes latins de la République

211

conquis la Grande Grèce et depuis peu pris le contrôle d’une partie des Balkans après ses interventions en Illyrie. Fabius Pictor et Cincius Alimentus, tout comme ces trois historiens grecs, ont également été des contemporains de la deuxième guerre punique et y ont été impliqués : Fabius Pictor a été envoyé à Delphes pour consulter l’oracle après la défaite romaine de Cannes ; Cincius Alimentus a participé activement à la guerre d’Hannibal et a même été fait prisonnier par les Carthaginois. Dans ce contexte, on ne sera pas étonné de voir les historiographes romains donner une image différente des Barcides et en particulier d’Hannibal. Cette image sera partiale elle aussi ; c’est ce qui ressort par exemple du commentaire de Polybe, qui a renvoyé Philinos d’Acragas et Fabius Pictor dos à dos en leur reprochant d’avoir « réagi comme des amoureux » dans leurs récits respectifs de la première guerre punique.29 L’historiographie romaine de l’époque républicaine, en dehors de César et Salluste, ne nous est malheureusement parvenue que sous forme de fragments, citations ou résumés-paraphrases, transmis par des auteurs postérieurs. Ces fragments permettent toutefois d’avoir un aperçu de l’image des Barcides véhiculée par les historiographes romains de la République. Les auteurs concernés sont essentiellement des annalistes, c’est-à-dire des écrivains qui ont écrit l’histoire de Rome année après année depuis les origines jusqu’à leur époque ; ils ont bien évidemment traité des guerres puniques. Il s’agit d’abord de Fabius Pictor et de Cincius Alimentus, déjà mentionnés, et d’Acilius, qui écrivaient en grec ; de Caton l’Ancien, premier historiographe de la littérature latine à écrire en latin, qui, bien qu’un peu plus jeune que Fabius Pictor, a lui aussi participé à la deuxième guerre punique et a rédigé un ouvrage d’histoire, les Origines, achevé vers 150. Les conflits entre Rome et Carthage ont également été traités par d’autres annalistes et historiographes du IIème siècle : Cassius Hémina, Calpurnius Pison, Sempronius Tuditanus, Cn. Gellius et Coelius Antipater. Enfin, au Ier siècle av. J.-C. les guerres puniques sont à nouveau traitées par les historiographes Claudius Quadrigarius, qui a traduit les Annales grecques d’Acilius en latin, et par Valérius Antias. Si Hannibal est le Barcide le plus présent dans les œuvres qui viennent d’être énumérées, les autres membres de la famille des Barca n’en sont pas absents. Le père d’Hannibal, Hamilcar, n’apparaît a priori qu’à deux reprises dans les fragments : la première fois chez Fabius Pictor,30 à

29

Polyb. 1.14.12. Fab. Pict. fr. 28 Chassignet ap. Polyb. 1.58.2-6. Les fragments des historiens antérieurs à César et Salluste seront toujours cités d’après l’édition Chassignet 30

212

Chapter Fourteen

propos de la prise du Mont Eryx en Sicile en 243 : le passage est un éloge aussi bien d’Hamilcar qui a su tromper la surveillance des Romains, que des combattants des deux côtés ; la deuxième chez Coelius Antipater31 pour signaler qu’avant sa mort—survenue en 229—il avait envoyé Hasdrubal, depuis l’Espagne, en Afrique, pour réprimer le soulèvement des Numides. Hasdrubal, le gendre d’Hamilcar, n’est guère mieux loti puisque le personnage apparaît lui aussi seulement à deux reprises, à propos d’abord de la mission que je viens d’évoquer, à propos ensuite de sa responsabilité dans le déclenchement de la deuxième guerre punique ; Fabius Pictor n’est pas tendre avec lui dans ce passage : il affirme en effet que « l’ambition d’Hasdrubal et sa soif de pouvoir » qui l’ont amené à négliger l’avis du Sénat de Carthage, ont été une des causes, à savoir la cause lointaine, de la guerre d’Hannibal.32 Enfin l’autre Hasdrubal, le fils d’Hamilcar et le frère d’Hannibal, a frappé les esprits parce qu’il avait un bouclier en argent pesant cent trentesept livres avec son portrait ; ce bouclier, pris comme butin en Espagne en 211, fut exposé au Capitole : l’événement est rapporté par Acilius33 mais aussi par trois autres de nos annalistes ;34 il sert en fait dans ce cas précis à valoriser un certain Marcius, auteur de la victoire romaine qui avait précédé la prise de butin. L’image que les historiographes romains de la République ont donnée d’Hannibal a davantage de relief. Ils insistent en effet sur les qualités d’homme de guerre du chef punique. Le nombre de soldats qu’il avait emmenés depuis l’Espagne les a impressionnés : quatre-vingt mille fantassins, dix mille cavaliers, dit Cincius Alimentus, même si, ajoute-t-il, après la traversée du Rhône, il en avait perdu trente-six mille.35 Les pertes infligées par Hannibal aux Romains à Trasimène et à Cannes ne sont pas minimisées, bien au contraire : quinze mille Romains morts et dix mille en fuite contre seulement deux mille cinq cents Carthaginois tués par exemple à Trasimène ; « un désastre énorme » à Cannes.36 Hannibal est également un remarquable logisticien : Coelius Antipater a, semble-t-il, 1996, 1999, 2004. Les fragments des Origines de Caton sont cités d’après l’édition Chassignet 1986. 31 Coel. Antip. fr. 3 ap. Prisc. Gramm. 13.2, p. 8 Hertz. 32 Fab. Pict. fr. 31 ap. Polyb. 3.8.1-8. 33 Acil. fr. 6 ap. Liv. 25.39.11-7. 34 Calp. Piso fr. 35 ; Claud. Quadr. fr. 57 et Val. Ant. fr. 24 ap. Liv. 25.39.11-7. 35 Cinc. Alim. fr. 10 ap. Liv. 21.38.2-5. 36 Fab. Pict. fr. 32 ap. Liv. 22.7.1-4 pour Trasimène ; Claud. Quadr. fr. 52 ap. Gell. 5.17.5 pour Cannes.

L’image des Barcides chez les historiographes latins de la République

213

longuement relaté le passage des Alpes37 et est admiratif devant l’ingéniosité dont Hannibal a fait preuve pour faire passer le Pô aux éléphants de son armée, comme l’atteste ce fragment rapporté par Tite-Live : Coelius auctor est…ipsum Hannibalem per superiora Padi vada exercitum traduxisse, elephantis in ordinem ad sustinendum impetum fluminis oppositis.38

Le même Coelius Antipater relève par ailleurs la finesse qui a été la sienne dans le Bruttium en 205 : Hannibal, voulant enlever une colonne d’or dans le temple de Junon Licinia, s’était demandé si elle était en or massif ou simplement en plaqué et la fit donc perforer ; ayant découvert qu’elle était en or massif, il décida de s’en emparer mais Junon lui apparut en songe—on notera au passage que cela fait donc déjà deux fois qu’une divinité apparaît à Hannibal, ce qui en fait un personnage privilégié—et lui enjoignit d’y renoncer en le menaçant, pour le cas où il persisterait, de lui faire perdre l’œil qui lui restait après sa traversée des marais étrusques, s’il la prenait, elle ; « l’homme, plein de finesse, prit la chose au sérieux ; avec l’or tombé au cours du forage, il fit fabriquer une génisse et la plaça en haut de la colonne »,39 la vache étant l’emblème du troupeau qui, dans le bois sacré voisin, fournissait de beaux revenus au temple mais aussi, ne l’oublions pas, un symbole de la Tanit punique. La célèbre avaritia d’Hannibal qui était d’ailleurs dénoncée à Carthage même du vivant du chef punique par les factions hostiles aux Barcides, et que Tite-Live se plaira à développer, passe ici au second plan.40 Même l’esprit rusé évoqué par Acilius, lui-même suivi par Claudius Quadrigarius, dont Hannibal aurait fait preuve lors de son entrevue à Ephèse avec Scipion l’Africain en 193—donc après la guerre d’Hannibal—n’est pas présenté comme négatif : l’Africain avait demandé à Hannibal quel avait été, selon lui, le plus grand général ; celui-ci donna pour réponse Alexandre, roi de Macédoine ; lorsque l’Africain demanda ensuite qui il plaçait en seconde 37

Coel. Antip. fr. 13-5 ap. Plin. NH 3.132, Cic. De or. 3.153 et Liv. 21.38.5suiv. Coel. Antip. fr. 10 ap. Liv. 21.47.4 : « Coelius affirme que…Hannibal lui-même fit passer son armée par des gués du Pô situés en amont, après avoir disposé les éléphants en file de manière à briser la force du courant ». 39 Coel. Antip. fr. 41 ap. Cic. Div. 1.48 : « …idque ab homine acuto non esse neglectum ; itaque ex eo auro quod exterebratum esset buculam curasse faciendam et eam in summa columna conlocauisse » . 40 Selon Brizzi 1983, cette historiette trouve sa signification la plus riche si on la met en relation avec l’evhémérisme qui fleurissait alors sur ces rivages ioniens. Voir également Lancel 1997, 252. 38

214

Chapter Fourteen

position, il cita Pyrrhus ; comme l’Africain poursuivait en demandant qui il mettrait en troisième position, il dit que c’était sans aucun doute luimême. Je cite la suite : Tum risum obortum Scipioni et subiecisse “Quidnam tu diceres, si me vicisses?” “Tum vero me” inquit “et ante Alexandrum et ante Pyrrhum et ante alios omnes imperatores esse.” Et perplexum Punico astu ante responsum et improvisum adsentationis genus Scipionem movisse, quod e grege se imperatorum velut inaestimabilem secrevisset.41

L’anecdote est, semble-t-il, apocryphe. Elle reflète cependant un état d’esprit vraisemblable, chacun des deux hommes éprouvant très certainement une certaine sympathie de soldat pour son adversaire, et voulu tel par le narrateur. Par ailleurs déprécier Hannibal revenait à déprécier son vainqueur… D’autres éléments sont en revanche négatifs. Hannibal est présenté par Fabius Pictor, donc à l’époque même de la deuxième guerre punique, comme le responsable direct du conflit pour avoir attaqué Sagonte contre l’avis des notables de Carthage ;42 en agressant Sagonte en 219, il a violé le traité romano-carthaginois comme l’avaient déjà fait ses prédécesseurs, puisqu’il s’agit là de la sixième violation par Carthage d’un traité liant les deux cité, dit Caton,43 faute inadmissible aux yeux des Romains, très attachés à la notion de fides ; il aurait par ailleurs commis une erreur de tactique en n’obéissant pas à l’exhortation de son maître de cavalerie Maharbal qui, le soir même de la bataille de Cannes, l’engagea à marcher sur Rome, si on en croit Caton et Coelius Antipater.44 Plus grave encore, il a fait preuve d’impiété en pillant le sanctuaire de Féronia près de Capène pour satisfaire sa cupidité.45 Perfidie, cupidité, impiété sont des thèmes qui seront largement développés par Tite-Live, lequel a trouvé de quoi alimenter son œuvre chez ses prédécesseurs. 41 Acil. fr. 7 = Claud. Quadr. fr. 65 ap. Liv. 35.14.5-13 : « Sur ce, Scipion se mit à rire et lui lança : ‘Que dirais-tu donc si tu m’avais vaincu ?’ ‘Alors’, dit-il, ‘je me mettrais avant Alexandre, avant Pyrrhus et avant les autres généraux’. Cette réponse alambiquée, empreinte de la ruse punique, et le côté imprévu de la flatterie frappèrent Scipion parce qu’il l’avait distingué du troupeau des généraux comme quelqu’un d’exceptionnel ». 42 Fab. Pict. fr. 31 ap. Polyb. 3.8.1-8. 43 Cat. Orig. 4.9 ap. Non. p. 142 L. 44 Cat. Orig. 4.13 et Coel. Antip. fr. 27 ap. Gell. 10.24.7 et Macr. Sat. 1.4.26 ; Cat. Orig. 4.14 ap. Gell. 2.19.9. 45 Coel. Antip. fr. 35 ap. Liv. 26.11.8-11.

L’image des Barcides chez les historiographes latins de la République

215

Le rôle joué par l’annalistique dans l’élaboration d’une certaine image des Barcides est en effet incontestable. J’en veux pour preuve—et c’est par là que je terminerai—le récit du songe d’Hannibal en Espagne. Ce récit, d’abord relaté par Silénos nous l’avons vu, a été suivi par Coelius Antipater selon les dires mêmes de Cicéron,46 il serait plus exact de dire suivi et adapté ;47 dans le récit de l’annaliste, le divin guide interdit en effet à Hannibal de se retourner lors de sa marche mais le chef punique ne peut s’empêcher de se retourner et voit le monstre à l’action. Tum ei ducem illum praecepisse ne respiceret ; illum autem id diutius facere non potuisse elatumque cupiditate respexisse ; tum ipsam beluam vastam et immanem circumplicitam serpentibus quacumque incederet omnia arbusta, virgulta, tecta pervertere ; et eum admiratum quaesisse de deo quodnam illud esset tale monstrum ; et deum respondisse vastitatem esse Italiae, praecepisseque ut pergeret protinus, quid retro atque a tergo fieret ne laboraret48.

D’autres avant nous ont supposé à juste titre que cette fin, qui montre Hannibal désobéissant aux dieux et sert à rendre compte de l’échec final du Barcide, ne peut pas remonter à la présentation faite par Silénos.49 Les récits de Silénos et de Coelius Antipater divergent : chez Silénos, Hannibal est sans doute investi d’une mission divine ; chez Coelius Antipater, il détruit bien l’Italie mais est puni pour avoir désobéi. TiteLive, il est vrai, apportera encore des modifications à l’anecdote dans son propre récit du rêve50 puisqu’il le place non pas après la prise de Sagonte, mais avant de franchir l’Ebre et ne parle pas d’un « conseil des dieux » auquel Hannibal aurait été convoqué par Jupiter et dont le « guide » du chef punique était membre ; le Barcide a pour guide « un jeune homme d’aspect divin qui déclare avoir été envoyé par Jupiter pour lui servir de guide jusqu’en Italie » ; les données ont donc changé chez le Padouan. On mesure ainsi le changement total de perspective de Silénos à Tite-Live avec, comme maillon intermédiaire, Coelius Antipater51.

46

Pour la traduction, cf. supra, n. 25. Seibert 1993, 188suiv. ; Briquel 1997, 46 n. 99. 48 Coel. Antip. fr. 11 ap. Cic. Div. 1.49. 49 Briquel 1997, 46 n. 99. 50 Liv. 21.22.5-9. 51 La volonté de Coelius Antipater d’insérer des songes dans son œuvre s’expliquerait par une polémique anti-polybienne, dirigée contre la conception de l’histoire « pragmatique » de l’historien grec, selon La Penna 1975. Pour les 47

216

Chapter Fourteen

Le panorama auquel nous nous sommes livrée amène de fait plusieurs remarques. Comme cela a été signalé plus haut, l’historiographie romaine antérieure à Salluste est parvenue jusqu’à nous sous forme de fragments. Cette tradition indirecte n’est pas sans faire difficulté étant donné que les citateurs opèrent immanquablement un choix parmi leurs sources et que l’aperçu de ces œuvres est forcément incomplet ou déformé. A lire TiteLive, Valérius Antias est ainsi un fieffé menteur, auquel il ne convient pas d’accorder de crédit : le Padouan en effet ne le cite qu’à propos de données chiffrées, jugées excessives, et ne manque pas de discréditer systématiquement son prédécesseur52. Au vu des fragments en notre possession, il apparaît par ailleurs très clairement que les Barcides ont davantage retenu l’attention des historiographes des IIIème et IIème siècles que celle de l’annalistique récente. Cassius Hémina a ainsi consacré à la guerre d’Hannibal un livre entier, le livre 4, intitulé Bellum Punicum posterior, sur les quatre que comportaient ses Annales et qui allaient de l’époque de Saturne jusqu’en 146 ; chez Calpurnius Pison le conflit devait occuper une partie du livre 5—sur un total de sept ; Coelius Antipater était quant à lui l’auteur d’une monographie en sept livres publiée vraisemblablement après le mort de C. Gracchus et désignée par Cicéron sous le nom de Belli Punici alterius historiae. Quant à Caton, selon Cornélius Népos, il aurait consacré deux livres de ses Origines sur sept aux deux premières guerres puniques ; un examen plus approfondi montre que le témoignage du biographe est légèrement inexact ; il n’en est pas moins vrai que les guerres puniques occupaient une place importante dans l’oeuvre du Censeur, soit la totalité du livre 4, qui, d’après nos fragments, devait s’arrêter à la bataille de Cannes, et sans doute une partie du livre 5. Les historiographes du Ier siècle ont en revanche généralement privilégié les Historiae, récit des événements contemporains, voire l’autobiographie ; quant à Claudius Quadrigarius et à Valérius Antias, s’ils évoquent bien les conflits romanocarthaginois, il ne semble pas qu’ils leur aient accordé la même importance que leurs prédécesseurs des deux siècles antérieurs. Ce relatif désintérêt pour la deuxième guerre punique, et par voie de conséquence pour les Barcides, s’explique aisément. La structuration de la deuxième guerre punique en tant qu’événement majeur de l’histoire romaine s’est faite au IIème siècle av. J.-C., notamment grâce à Caton. Au Ier siècle en différentes interprétations possibles du songe d’Hannibal selon Coelius Antipater, cf. Cipriani 1984, 115-19. 52 Val. Ant. fr. 30 ; 33 ; 45.

L’image des Barcides chez les historiographes latins de la République

217

revanche, l’intérêt des historiographes se déplace vers l’histoire contemporaine de ce siècle, à l’instar par exemple de Sisenna, dont les Histoires devaient avoir pour sujet les événements compris entre 91 et 78 av. J.-C. ; les auteurs d’annales, comme Claudius Quadrigarius et Valérius Antias, s’ils font débuter leur récit, le premier par la prise de Rome par les Gaulois, le second par la fondation de Rome, ont consacré quant à eux la plus grande partie de leur œuvre aux événements de leur temps.53 Il faudra attendre l’époque augustéenne pour que Tite-Live redonne à la deuxième guerre punique et à Hannibal une place prépondérante. Il est vrai que le Padouan y trouvera une collection d’exempla propres à illustrer des thèmes qui lui sont chers ; c’est certainement l’un des événements qui lui a donné l’occasion par excellence d’étudier « les grands hommes et la politique, intérieure et extérieure, qui ont créé et agrandi l’empire », avant que Rome ne connût « une sorte de fléchissement des mœurs puis un affaiblissement progressif et enfin un mouvement d’effondrement rapide » jusqu’à l’époque du Padouan.54 Ces grands hommes romains, tels Scipion, sont bien évidemment d’autant plus exceptionnels qu’ils ont eu des adversaires hors du commun. Tite-Live attribuera donc à l’ennemi de l’Africain les qualités du courage, de l’endurance et du sens du commandement, développées au plus haut point, tout en le taxant de cruauté, de perfidie, d’avarice et d’impiété, défauts portés eux aussi au plus haut degré. L’historien augustéen semble par ailleurs avoir innové en érigeant un véritable système de continuités sémantiques à propos d’Hannibal autour de fraus, crudelitas, simulatio mais aussi benignitas, qui seront autant de leit-motiv de l’image du Barcide. Si l’image des Barcides a pu évoluer des débuts de l’historiographie romaine jusqu’à Tite-Live pour tout à la fois s’enrichir et devenir un type littéraire, il est tout aussi avéré qu’un certain nombre de constantes visibles chez le Padouan sont déjà présentes dans la représentation qu’en ont faites les prédécesseurs : commentaires de l’historien sur certains traits comme la finesse d’esprit ou le Punicus astus d’Hannibal ; présentation du caractère du personnage à travers ses propos ou ceux des autres ; anecdotes. Les conflits romano-carthaginois et par voie de conséquence les Barcides sont donc, on l’a vu, non seulement apparus dans l’historiographie romaine dès la seconde guerre punique mais sont même à l’origine de la naissance 53 Claudius Quadrigarius a consacré plus de la moitié de son œuvre aux trente ou quarante dernières années précédant sa mort, Valérius Antias probablement près de la moitié de ses Annales au récit de la période postérieure à 136 : cf. Chassignet 2004, XXIX et LXXXI. 54 Liv. Praef. 9 (trad. G. Baillet, Les Belles Lettres).

218

Chapter Fourteen

du genre à Rome. Poussés par une volonté de contre-propagande, au demidieu des historiens grecs pro-carthaginois, les annalistes romains ont opposé une image très différente d’Hannibal et des Barcides en général : ils leur reconnaissent des mérites mais font porter sur Hasdrubal et sur Hannibal l’entière responsabilité d’une guerre, ruineuse pour les deux adversaires mais surtout terrifiante pour Rome. Cette tradition latine, différente de celle de Polybe, qui est beaucoup plus nuancé,55 est celle que suivra en tout cas Tite-Live. L’exemple du récit du songe montre l’infléchissement qui a été donnée à l’image du personnage, incarnation jusque là du metus Punicus. Il faudra attendre l’époque impériale où plus personne ne pouvait plus faire trembler Rome, pour voir l’image d’Hannibal se débarrasser « des oripeaux de l’épouvantail » :56 l’imprécation fait place à l’ironie simplement moqueuse chez Juvénal ;57 les Carthaginois qui ont fait trembler Rome deviennent un thème de déclamation comme un autre pour apprenti rhéteur,58 l’exemple le plus célèbre étant sans doute le passage de la Rhétorique à Hérennius59 qui ne retient plus que les procédés rhétoriques d’un discours probablement prononcé par Caton. Ce qui est sûr, c’est que peu d’hommes ont autant fasciné les Romains qui ont pourtant une vision très romanocentrique de l’histoire et ont surtout cultivé la mémoire de leurs propres grands hommes : il est vrai aussi que les Romains ont rarement eu des adversaires aussi près de les plonger dans l’abîme. Carthage et les Barcides ont été les seuls à avoir failli empêcher une des plus grandes entreprises de domination politique et territoriale que notre monde ait connu.

55

Polybe semble avoir parfois suivi de près le compte-rendu rédigé par Silénos : exemple Polyb. 8.24-34 ; cf. Walbank 1967, 100suiv. 56 Lancel 1997, 349. 57 Iuv. 10.147-67. 58 Iuv. 7.160-4. 59 Rhet. Her. 4.20 : « Qui sunt qui foedera saepe ruperunt ? Karthaginienses. Qui sunt qui crudele bellum gesserunt ? Karthaginienses. Qui sunt qui Italiam deformaverunt ? Karthaginienses. Qui sunt qui sibi postulant ignosci ? Karthaginienses » (« Quels sont ceux qui ont souvent rompu les traités ? Les Carthaginois. Quels sont ceux qui ont mené une guerre cruelle ? Les Carthaginois. Quels sont ceux qui ont dévasté l’Italie ? Les Carthaginois. Quels sont ceux qui veulent qu’on leur pardonne ? Les Carthaginois » ; trad. G. Achard, Les Belles Lettres). Sur le fait qu’on estime généralement que ce propos s’inspire d’un discours de Caton, voir par exemple Malcovati 1975. Quint. 9.3.31 donne quasiment le même exemple à propos de la repetitio.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN PRINCIPES SEMPER GRAECIAE: POMPEIUS TROGUS/JUSTINUS AND THE AETOLIAN POLITICS OF HISTORY JACEK RZEPKA

Historical arguments are invariably present in political debates, and it is certain that the Greek world did not differ from our age too much in this respect. A more or less mythologized past was often a device of political struggle, both in the internal discussions within Greek states and on the inter-state level. Arguments borrowed from both more distant and very recent history were applied in border disputes of shadowy communities and could be exploited by states competing for the status of super power in Greece. To some extent we are able to estimate how rich and how different these local historical traditions of Greece were (partly owing to Pausanias, partly to local historians, today lost, but quoted in the Late Antiquity), but we cannot give a comprehensive picture of this richness. The areas not being covered by Pausanias, like North-Western Greece, are much less known. On the other hand, modern ancient historians are the last people to cry for these shortfalls, since they most often seem content to view the Greek history from the Athenian perspective. Thus, when one thinks about states that effectively exercised hegemony over Greece for a time, it is Sparta, Athens and Thebes or Macedonia that comes to mind. Admittedly, in the eyes of the Ancient Greeks the same were principal competitors in the never-ending struggle for supremacy in Greece (probably the Greeks would add to the above list the city of Argos in the Archaic period). A series of literary texts discussing the hegemony from the theoretical and practical point of view

220

Chapter Fifteen

is known for Athens.1 In the case of the remaining challengers, the state of ancient evidence hardly allows attempts at reconstruction of political debates concerning their power status in the Greek world. Greek federal states that became major powers in late Classical or early Hellenistic Age are totally absent from accounts of struggles for hegemony through the period. Attention, as much that of wider publicum, as that of scholars, focuses on the rivalry of Hellenistic dynasties, and on royal ideology of success. Among federal states, the Achaean Confederacy with its ideological basis as described by Polybius attracts some attention, and that is usually restricted to the internal politics of the Confederacy or to its fight for liberty of cities, as outlined in the Histories of Polybius (2.37-44). Conversely, modern historians, though admitting that for a period of time it was Aetolia that was the most powerful state of proper Greece, estimate Aetolian ability to create and enforce deliberate long-term political strategies to be low. Even historians, whose fascination with the Aetolian achievement is apparent, did not, in fact, note a problem2. Sometimes we find ourselves in a paradox while admitting that the Aetolian Confederacy of the Hellenistic Age developed the clever propaganda centred on Delphi on the one hand and suggesting that there was no historical tradition of the Aetolian people on the other. The modern historians are aware that Polybius was above all an Achaean and that his origins had shaped history, and complain that we can never investigate the “popularity of the Aetolian empire”3 and never get to know the Aetolian vision of history. It is the aim of the present paper, however, to show, how (if ever) the Aetolians pictured their history. At first sight this task could seem Herculean, since Scriptores Rerum Aetolicarum in Friedrich Jacoby’s Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker consist of two poets, better-known Nicander of Colophon (FGrHist 271/2) and half-anonymous Aristodama of Smyrna (BNJ 483) and three even more shadowy authors (Dercyllus, FGrHist 288; Dositheus, FGrHist 290 and Diocles of Rhodes, FGrHist 302). Both poets, however, devoted their Aitolika to the events of the Heroic Age of Greece, and are, therefore, interesting for the Aetolian use of myth, but not of history. I used this phrasing (i.e. the Aetolian use of myth) deliberately—in both cases, we can safely state that the Aetolians welcomed with gratitude a publication, and then an entertainment of the works by both poets. Two decrees passed by Aetolian member states, 1

Schuller 1977. See e.g. Grainger 1999, 549-52. 3 Cf. Rigsby 1996, 17; Scholten 2000, 5. 2

Pompeius Trogus/Justinus and the Aetolian Politics of History

221

Lamia4 and Chaleion,5 in honour of Aristodama, are known. By these decrees both cities bestowed the poetess the right of citizenship and other privileges usually granted to proxenoi. The city decrees, as seems, followed a similar earlier privilege of the Confederacy.6 Nicander, too, was rewarded by the Aetolians. In the surviving epigraphical material we find a Delphic privilege for him. Liber Suda in the entry on Nicander hesitates between naming him a Colophonian and an Aetolian. The most likely reason of this confusion is the fact that Nicander of Colophon, the best known editor of Aitolika received an Aetolian grant of citizenship and, moreover, he made use of his new rights. Fragmentary information in decrees for Aristodama permits us to conclude that the poetess was original while inventing mythical blood relationships between the main trunk of native Aetolians and “recovered Aetolians” in annexed neighbourhoods (it does not matter if the common descent was a fact, we usually can neither prove nor disprove it). Average Greeks believed in these stories, even if they felt that it was not history equally as valuable as that which grew from a study of contemporary events initiated by Herodotus and Thucydides. These stories belonged in the eyes of ancient Greeks to the history. It is well illustrated by the recurring confusion with which purely literary works (e.g. epic poems) were classified as historical writings in the later scholarly literature: the lexica of Late Antiquity and Byzantine Age have contributed much to our doubtful classification of some pieces of Hellenistic poetry as historiography. Undoubtedly, neither Nicander of Colophon nor Aristodama of Smyrna was an exceptional phenomenon in the history of Greek literature. The Aetolians’ main claim to be respected by the rest of the Greeks was the successful defence of Central Greece against the Gauls under Brennus in the years 281-279 BC. The Aetolian propaganda exploited this victory heavily, and the festival of Soteria held in Delphi and commemorating the Aetolian achievement gained great popularity in the third century—there is also a degree of agreement in the today’s scholarship that the Aetolians skilfully manipulated the historical traditions.7 The recent students of the Soteria were even able to indicate different layers of the tradition and one of them dared to guess how the Aetolians switched from sharing with Apollo the glory of defeating the 4

IG IX 2.62; Syll.3 532; Ferrandini Troisi 2000, no. 2.3, p. 31-3; Rzepka 2006. Daux 1922, 439-45 (= SEG II 263); IG IX 12 3.740; Ferrandini Troisi 2000, no. 2.2, p. 28-30. 6 Rzepka 2000, 170f. 7 See Nachtergael 1977, 196; Elvyn 1990, 177-80; Champion 1995, 213-20. 5

222

Chapter Fifteen

Gauls to claiming that they were the only saviours of Greece.8 This is, however, not proven. Since the decree of Chaleion underlines Aristodama’s piety towards Apollo (IG IX 12 3.740, ll. 12f.), it seems very likely that the poetess included an account of his intervention in human affairs in her poems. If the works of Aristodama reflected the official interpretation of Aetolian history, the decrees in her honour show that there was no radical opposition between Apollo and the secular in the Aetolian consciousness. Propaganda of the Aetolians commemorating the victory over the barbarians was successful for a few decades of the third century, but had no impact on later generations. As was said the Polybian rather antipathetic view of the Aetolians9 had a great impact on later historians, ancient as much as modern. There is no need to recall that the Polybian antipathy towards the Aetolians was surpassed by his usual epitomizer in res Graeciae, Livy, who left us the one-sided account of Aetolian-Roman relations and surpassed earlier writers in underscoring the barbarian nature of the Aetolians.10 Traces of what we could understand as the Aetolian vision of history we must therefore collect from authors who did not represent the Aetolian point of view, but who, at the same time, could use pro-Aetolian sources. The most strikingly positive statements on a role which the Aetolians played in Greek history are two passages in the Abridgement of Philippic Histories by Justinus (28.1f. and 32.1.1-3). It is questionable whether Pompeius Trogus, abbreviated by Justinus, found a source with evident pro-Aetolian bias or rather with strong anti-Roman prejudice. Both passages refer to the Aetolian relations with Rome, but touch on the Aetolian contribution to Greek history as a whole. The first of them describes a Roman embassy in Greece ca. 240. The authenticity of the story was questioned by an eminent scholar,11 for Justinus stood in discord with Polybius stating that the first Roman official mission in Greece took place directly before the First Illyrian War (in 229, Polyb. 2.2.1f. and 2.12.7). Now, there is rather an agreement that Pompeius Trogus/Justinus described one of the lesser-known facts in history of Roman expansion in

8

See Champion 1995, 219f. Although Sacks (1975, 92-106) tried to show that for the most of 190s Polybius gave up his usual hostility towards the Aetolians, his argument seems rather unconvincing, and was rejected by the later students (Mendels 1984-1986, 63-73; Antonetti 1990, 133f.; Champion 19, 151f.; Franko 1995, 170f.). 10 Antonetti 1990, 139-41. 11 Holleaux 1921, 5-22, 9

Pompeius Trogus/Justinus and the Aetolian Politics of History

223

Greece.12 For the study of the Aetolian political consciousness, more important is, of course, the content of the speech. There remains a question whether a boastful speech of an unknown Aetolian orator was really delivered, and if so, to what degree the actual oration was mirrored in subsequent abridgement by ancient historians. It is plausible that the speech might have possessed, as many others sermons in Greek historians including Thucydides, the quality of seeming true or of having the appearance of reality.13 Iust. 28.1f.: [1.1] Olympias, Pyrri Epirotae regis filia, amisso marito eodemque germano fratre Alexandro cum tutelam filiorum ex eo susceptorum, Pyrri et Ptolomaei, regnique administrationem in se recepisset, Aetolis partem Acarnaniae, quam in portionem belli pater pupillorum acceperat, eripere volentibus ad regem Macedoniae Demetrium decurrit. [1.2] Eique habenti uxorem Antiochi, regis Syriae, sororem, filiam suam Phthiam in matrimonium tradit, ut auxilium, quod misericordia non poterat, iure cognationis obtineret. [1.3] Fiunt igitur nuptiae, quibus et novi matrimonii gratia adquiritur et veteris offensa contrahitur. [1.4] Nam prior uxor, velut matrimonio pulsa, sponte sua ad fratrem Antiochum discedit eumque in mariti bellum inpellit. [1.5] Acarnanes quoque diffisi Epirotis adversus Aetolos auxilium Romanorum inplorantes obtinuerunt a Romano senatu, ut legati mitterentur, [1.6] qui denuntiarent Aetolis, praesidia ab urbibus Acarnaniae deducerent paterenturque liberos esse, qui soli quondam adversus Troianos, auctores originis suae, auxilia Graecis non miserint. [2.1] Sed Aetoli legationem Romanorum superbe audivere, Poenos illis et Gallos, a quibus tot bellis occidione caesi sint, exprobrantes [2.2] dicentesque prius illis portas adversus Karthaginienses aperiendas, quas clauserit metus Punici belli, quam in Graeciam arma transferenda. [2.3] Meminisse deinde iubent, qui quibus minentur. [2.4] Adversus Gallos urbem eos suam tueri non potuisse captamque non ferro defendisse, sed auro redemisse; [2.5] quam gentem se aliquanto maiore manu Graeciam ingressam non solum nullis externis viribus, sed ne domesticis quidem totis 12

The authenticity of the story is now beyond any doubt thanks to a brilliant argument by Corsten 1992, 195-210, cf. also Richter 1987, 135-8 (with a detailed presentation of earlier studies). 13 Edson 1961, 200f.; Alonso-Núñez 1987, 68 consider the speech a rhetorical invention. Although the latter observed rightly that Pompeius, for patriotic reasons, stressed the importance of Gauls as the only real victors over the Romans, and mentioned the sack of Rome on many occasions in speeches of Rome’s enemies (our case, Hannibal in 31.5.9 and Mithridates in 38.4.7-10), he overlooks, too, that the Aetolian speech included motives which were hardly nice to Pompeius’ Celtic heart. Edson is by the way correct when pointing that these speeches, even if they had been composed by Trogus himself, cannot prove his hostility toward Rome.

224

Chapter Fifteen adiutos universam delesse, sedemque sepulcris eorum praebuisse, quam illi urbibus imperioque suo proposuerant; [2.6] contra Italiam trepidis ex recenti urbis suae incendio Romanis universam ferme a Gallis occupatam. [2.7] Prius igitur Gallos Italia pellendos quam minentur Aetolis, priusque sua defendenda quam aliena appetenda. [2.8] Quos autem homines Romanos esse? Nempe pastores, qui latrocinio iustis dominis ademptum solum teneant, [2.9] qui uxores cum propter originis dehonestamenta non invenirent, vi publica rapuerint, [2.10] qui denique urbem ipsam parricidio condiderint murorumque fundamenta fraterno sanguine adsperserint. [2.11] Aetolos autem principes Graeciae semper fuisse et sicut dignitate, ita et virtute ceteris praestitisse, [2.12] solos denique esse, qui Macedonas imperio terrarum semper florentes contempserint, qui Philippum regem non timuerint, qui Alexandri Magni post Persas Indosque devictos, cum omnes nomen eius horrerent, edicta spreverint. [2.13] Monere igitur se Romanos, contenti sint fortuna praesenti nec provocent arma, quibus et Gallos caesos et Macedonas contemptos videant. [2.14] Sic dimissa legatione Romanorum, ne fortius locuti quam fecisse viderentur, fines Epiri regni et Acarnaniae depopulantur. [28.1] When Olympias, daughter of Pyrrhus king of Epirus, had lost her husband Alexander, who was also her brother, she took upon herself the guardianship of her sons Pyrrhus and Ptolemy, whom she had by him, and the administration of the kingdom; and finding that the Aetolians wanted to take from her a part of Acarnania, which the father of the boys had received as a recompense for assisting them in war, she addressed herself to Demetrius king of Macedonia, and gave him her daughter Phthia in marriage (though he was already united to a sister of Antiochus king of Syria), that she might secure by right of relationship the assistance which she could not obtain from his compassion. A marriage was accordingly solemnized, by which Demetrius gained the love of a new wife, and the hatred of his former one; who, as if divorced, went off to her brother Antiochus, and excited him to make war upon her husband. The Acarnanians also, fearing to trust for support to the Epirots, requested of the Romans assistance against the Italians, and prevailed on the senate to send ambassadors to order the Aetolians “to withdraw their garrisons from the cities of Acarnania, and allow those to be free, who alone, of all the people of Greece, had not contributed aid to the Greeks against the Trojans, the authors of the Roman race.” [28.2] But the Aetolians listened to the embassy of the Romans with haughtiness, upbraiding them with their fortune against the Carthaginians and Gauls, by whom they had been fearfully slaughtered in so many wars, and saying that “their gates, which the terror of the Punic war had closed, should be opened to meet the Carthaginians, before their arms were brought into Greece.” They then desired them to remember “who they were that threatened, and whom they threatened. That the Romans had not been able to defend their city against the Gauls; and, when it was taken,

Pompeius Trogus/Justinus and the Aetolian Politics of History

225

had recovered it, not by the sword, but with gold; but that when that people entered Greece, in considerably greater numbers, they themselves had utterly destroyed them, not only without the assistance of any foreign power, but without even calling into action the whole of their own force, and had made that a place for their graves which they had intended for the seat of their cities and empire; while Italy, on the other hand, when the Romans were still trembling at the recent burning of their city, was almost entirely occupied by the Gauls. That they should therefore have expelled the Gauls from Italy before they threatened the Aetolians, and have defended their own possessions before they sought those of others. And what sort of men were the Romans? Mere shepherds, who occupied a territory wrested from its lawful owners by robbery; who, when they were unable to procure wives, from the baseness of their origin, seized them by open force; who, moreover, had founded their very city in fratricide, and sprinkled the foundation of their walls with the blood of their king’s brother. But that the Aetolians had always been the chief people of Greece, and, as they surpassed others in dignity, excelled them also in bravery; that they were the only nation who had always despised the Macedonians, even when flourishing in possession of the empire of the world; who had felt no dread of king Philip, and who had spurned the edicts of Alexander the Great, after he had conquered the Persians and Indians, and when all trembled at his name. That they therefore advised the Romans to be content with their present fortune) and not provoke the arms by which they knew that the Gauls had been cut to pieces, and the Macedonians set at nought.” They thus dismissed the Roman embassy, and, that they might not seem to speak more boldly than they acted, laid waste the borders of Epirus and Acarnania (trans. by J.S. Watson).

The very tenor of the speech must have been as surprising to the readership of Pompeius Trogus/Justinus as it was to the original readers of their ultimate source. The Aetolians “principes Graeciae semer” with the adverb semper repeated twice, the Aetolians who “sicut dignitate, ita et virtute ceteris praestitisse,” must surprise a learned public of each age, and that of the first century BC, too. The author used by Trogus could, of course, aim at astonishing his readership by picking this story to be recalled. We should however note that this focus on the perpetuity of Aetolian super-power status may be a conscious polemic with the authors that considered the Aetolians as newcomers among leading powers of the Greek world. The most definite statement of the Aetolian Confederacy “flourishing in youth” in the early Hellenistic Age, and eo ipso being rather a late-comer among Greek powers, comes from the pen of a late writer, who was not a professional historian. Even so, Pausanias seems to use in the great historical excursion of his first book well-informed sources (one may discuss whether Hieronymus of Cardia or one of his

226

Chapter Fifteen

followers14). The comment on the Aetolians during the Celtic invasion of Greece (1.4.4: ǭ̕ ǜ̍Ǫ ƻ˕ǭDzǤǢǣ̕Ǧ ǩǪǨǞͭǰǞǦ ʩǣǥ͠ ǦǞ̖ǭǠǭǨǫ ǭ̕Ǧ ǰǪ̖ǦǨǦ ǭǨͼǭǨǦ, “for in that time the Aetolian (tribe) was in bloom of youth”) may reflect not his own views, but rather opinions of a capable historian being an eyewitness of Aetolia’s rapid growth in the late fourth and early third century. Certainly, Pausanias was much closer to, let us say, the historical consciousness of the majority of Greeks than the Aetolian speaker. The Aetolian politician with such naïve statements responded, therefore, to the wishes of the Aetolian Assembly. Was this body so much nationally inclined to believe this political fiction in whole? The answer is obviously that the Aetolian Assembly was not exceptional in this respect15—let us recall Lycurgus with his speech Against Leocrates delivered at Athens in 330. This oration, overloaded with untrustworthy historical parallels, represents an apologetic interpretation of a role played in Greek history by Athens, but the Athenian audience readily followed Lycurgus and condemned Leocrates. Thus, the Aetolian orator would have tried less to insult the Romans and more to please his compatriots. The comparison between the fates of Celtic invasions in fourth-century Latium and third-century Greece provides the starting point for the extraordinary interpretation of the Aetolian conflicts with the Macedonians. In both cases, the orator underscores the ability of the Aetolians to fight successfully against great enemies with no external support. The speech is only a few years later than the decrees of recognition of Soteria passed by Chios (FD III 3.215), Tenos (FD III 14

Pausanias’ charge against Hieronymus’ unequal treatment of diadochi (Paus. 1.9.8), together with other premises, may suggest that he had read the author he criticized (Habicht 1998, XV, 85f., 103; Ameling 1996, 145-58). There is, however, a differing trend of scholarship, which doubts Pausanias’ use of Hieronymus (Segrè 1928, 217-37 and more explicitly Hornblower 1981, 72), because the latter was too archaic and obscure in the age of the Periegete. This approach was rightly criticized by Meadows (1995, 100f. n. 41), who points out that Hieronymus was read widely in the last century BC and the first two centuries AD (Diodorus of Sicily, Pompeius Trogus, Curtius Rufus, Plutarch and Arrian knew his work). 15 It would be easy to ridicule the naïvety of the Aetolian assembly, which believed to have witnessed the miraculous resurrection of the late fourth century Aetolian strategos Polycritus (Proclus, In Pl. Remp. comm. vol. 2, 115.13 and Phlegon of Tralles, FGrHist 257 F 36, 1 quoting Hieron of Ephesus or Alexandria). According to our sources, which trace back to Hieronymus of Cardia (cf. Rzepka 2005, 131f.) this very event had strengthened unity of Aetolia and recently absorbed Western Locris. However, we can have here an example of symbolic language, which was used to mythologize Aetolian past and present.

Pompeius Trogus/Justinus and the Aetolian Politics of History

227

1.482), Athens (IG II2 680) and an unknown Aegean island (FD III 1.481) in 246/5. These documents focus on the Aetolian role in the victory over Gauls, and omit the contribution by other combatants (Apollo included). It would be tempting to see in this speech a trace of the same tendency to eliminate other combatants from the historical and official records of the war against Brennus.16 However, the second passage of Justinus provides even more striking evaluation of the Aetolian contribution to the Greek history. The other passage depicts the state of minds in Aetolia after the war against Rome, so in early 180s: Iust. 32.1.1-3: Aetoli, qui Antiochum in bella Romana inpulerant, victo eodem soli adversus Romanos et viribus inpares et omni auxilio destituti remanserunt: [2] nec multo post victi libertatem, quam inlibatam adversus dominationem Athenensium et Spartanorum inter tot Graecie civitates soli retinuerant amiserunt. [3] Quae condicio tanto amarior illis, quanto serior fuit, reputantibus tempora illa, quibus tantis Persarum opibus domesticis viribus restiterint, quibus Gallorum violentiam Asiae Italiaeque terribilem Delphico bello fregerint: quae gloriosa recordatio maius desiderium libertatis augebat. The Aetolians, who had persuaded Antiochus to make war on the Romans, were left, after he was defeated, to oppose them by themselves, unequal in force, and unsupported by assistance. Being soon after, in consequence, subdued, they lost that liberty which they alone, among so many states of Greece, had preserved inviolate against the power of the Athenians and Spartans. This state of things was the more grievous to them, as it was later in befalling them; for they reflected on those times in which they had withstood the mighty power of the Persians by their own strength, and had humbled, in the Delphic war, the violent spirit of the Gauls that was dreaded by Asia and Italy; and these glorious recollections increased their grief at the loss of their liberty (trans. by J.S. Watson).

At first glance, this mention seems easier to interpret than the speech from book 28. Yet, it will never be certain whether the model of Pompeius Trogus did make his own assertion or rather describe actual feelings of the Aetolians after sources contemporary with the events (the latter seems more likely). Let us note also that this chapter is not favourable towards the Aetolians in every respect. Pompeius Trogus/Justinus admits clearly that it was the Aetolian Confederacy that was responsible for the outbreak of war between Rome and Antiochus. In spite of a discrepancy between blaming the Aetolians for war and remembering their past glory there is no 16

See above, n. 7.

228

Chapter Fifteen

reason to doubt that the whole passage as quoted above was borrowed by Pompeius Trogus from one source. The causes of the Aetolian distress correspond with the earlier scene. There is a mention of a successful defence against Gauls in 280-279, of course. Invincibility and continuous independence of the nation is stressed, too. Some details, however, vary. Although the Gaulish invasion remains a bigger event of the Aetolian past in both passages, the historian’s report of Aetolian sentiments in 190s and 180s traces back to the more remote past. Instead Philip and Alexander,17 the enemies unsuccessful in subduing Aetolia, are fifth-century Athens and Sparta18 and, even more surprising, Persia. That does not mean either an attempt at replacing better-known defenders of Hellas in 48019 or the introduction of the Aetolian tribe among them. Absence of the Aetolians from a great anti-Persian coalition led by the Lacedaemonians is acknowledged, and the stress is laid on Aetolia’s standing of uncommitted power in Greece then (Iust. 32.1.3: “tantis Persarum opibus domesticis viribus restiterint”) and thereafter.20 Needless to say we have no account which would have included the Aetolian war with the Persian Empire, whereas the conflicts with Athens and Sparta are known. On the other hand, it is not easy to explain how and why the Aetolians could have invented fights they never fought. Full of assertiveness, which can seem like arrogance, both sections of Justinus transmit a striking idea of the Aetolian autarkia and sovereignty rooted in the national past. Another “piece of the Aetolian political rhetoric,” a fiercely discussed speech, delivered by Agelaus of Naupactus

17

For relations between Aetolia and Macedonia in earlier 330s, see Bosworth 1976; Rzepka 2004, 157-66. 18 Whereas a disastrous Aetolian campaign of the Athenians under Demosthenes became, due to Thucydides (3.94-8), famous in the Ancient World, less clear is an allusion to Aetolian resistance to Sparta’s supremacy. I believe that this could refer to the humiliating defeat of the Lacedaemonian hoplites at Aetolian hands before the city of Elis in 402 (Diod. 14.17.9). If the Aetolians immortalized such insignificant events, it would testify to their extraordinary ability to create politics of mythologised history. 19 The Aetolians, of course, tried to make equal their contribution to the Delphic temple in 279 and the merits of the anti-Persian coalition in 480-479. 20 The speech, too, makes an allusion to lack of support for the Aetolians during the Gaulish invasion, Iust. 28.2.5: “quam gentem se aliquanto maiore manu Graeciam ingressam non solum nullis externis viribus, sed ne domesticis quidem totis adiutos universam delesse.”

Pompeius Trogus/Justinus and the Aetolian Politics of History

229

before Greeks participating in the Peace Congress of 217, may reflect the (similar) Aetolian political programme in wider Greek context.21 Polyb. 5.104.10: ˾ǫ ʹ̍Ǧ ʮǩǚǧ ǭ̍ ǩǪǨǯǚǢǦ̖ǥǞǦǚ ǦͼǦ ʩǩ̕ ǭ͟ǫ ʺǬǩ̐Ǫǚǫ Ǧ̐ǯǠ ǩǪǨǬǝ̐ǧǠǭǚǢ ǭǨͭǫ ǣǚǭ̍ ǭ̑Ǧ ˀǤǤ̎ǝǚ ǭ̖ǩǨǢǫ ʹǩǢǬǭ͟ǦǚǢ, ǣǚ̓ Ǥ̔ǚǦ ʩǜDzǦǢ͐Ǧ ʽǯǠ ǥ̑ ǭ̍ǫ ʩǦǨǰ̍ǫ ǣǚ̓ ǭǨ̗ǫ ǩǨǤ̐ǥǨǮǫ ǣǚ̓ ǣǚǡ̖ǤǨǮ ǭ̍ǫ ǩǚǢǝǢ̎ǫ, ʬǫ ǦͼǦ ǩǚ̔ǟǨǥǞǦ ǩǪ̕ǫ ʩǤǤ̒ǤǨǮǫ, ʹǣǣǨǩ͟ǦǚǢ ǬǮǥǛ͠ ǩ̎ǦǭDzǦ ˆǥΉǦ ʹǩ̓ ǭǨǬǨͼǭǨǦ ̂ǬǭǞ ǣʫǦ Ǟ˵ǧǚǬǡǚǢ ǭǨͭǫ ǡǞǨͭǫ ˲ǩ̎ǪǰǞǢǦ ˆǥͭǦ ǭ̑Ǧ ʹǧǨǮǬ̔ǚǦ ǭǚ̘ǭǠǦ, ǣǚ̓ ǩǨǤǞǥǞͭǦ ˪ǭǚǦ ǛǨǮǤ̚ǥǞǡǚ ǣǚ̓ ǝǢǚǤ̘ǞǬǡǚǢ ǩǪ̕ǫ ʩǤǤ̒ǤǨǮǫ, ǣǚ̓ ǣǚǡ̖ǤǨǮ ǣǮǪ̔ǨǮǫ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ ǭΉǦ ʹǦ ǚ˲ǭǨͭǫ ʩǥǯǢǬǛǠǭǨǮǥ̐ǦDzǦ. For if once you wait for these clouds that loom in the west to settle on Greece, I very much fear lest we may all of us find these truces and wars and games at which we now play, so rudely interrupted that we shall be fain to pray to the gods to give us still the power of fighting in general with each other and making peace when we will, the power, in a word, of deciding our differences for ourselves (trans. by W.R. Paton).

In spite of Polybian antipathy towards the Aetolians, we can see in this passage testimony that some theoretical reflection on interstate relations in Greece was ascribed to the Aetolians by their contemporaries. It seems that this reflection focused on the problem of sovereignty.22 Still, it seems likely to me that this development was much earlier, and that it is visible in the use of political myths as well. The ideal of autarkia we can trace in 21 It would be again vain to re-open the old debate over authenticity of Agelaus’ speech, which is far from being settled. Although I am more convinced by those who argued for its authenticity (Walbank 1972, 69 n. 11; Deininger 1973, 103-8) than by their opponents (Mørkholm 1971, 240-53 and 1974, 127-32) or those who tried to take a conciliatory approach and claimed that Polybius remodelled the authentic speech of Agelaus according to his theory of symploke (Champion 1997, 117f.), the most important for our purpose is that Polybius stresses the very value of unrestricted freedom of action possessed by the Greek states, and that the most compelling spokesman of this freedom was, according to him, the Aetolian. 22 The same claim for the absolute sovereignty may be reflected in the Polybian account of the multilateral negotiations the Aetolians demanded after the Cynoscephalae, i.e. in Flamininus’ answer to Alexander Isius that “the Aetolians were at liberty to take their own counsel” (Polyb. 18.37.10: ƻ˕ǭDzǤǨ̗ǫ ǝ̏ ǣǮǪ̔ǨǮǫ Ǟ˛ǦǚǢ ǛǨǮǤǞǮǨǥ̐ǦǨǮǫ ˲ǩ̏Ǫ ǬǯΉǦ ǚ˱ǭΉǦ). Although Sordi (1997, 105) slightly adjusts the words of Polybius to “essere padroni di se stessi,” she is right, while arguing that the paraphrased words of Polybius must have been an answer to the originally Aetolian demand, which “resta la vocazione degli Etoli, l’unico ǣǨǢǦ̖Ǧ che dall’età arcaica abbia saputo sopravvivere all’età delle poleis e che ne abbia vissuto, in modo communitario e federalistico, gli ideali di ǚ˱ǭǨǦǨǥ̔ǚ e di ʹǤǞǮǡǞǪ̔ǚ, che delle Grecia classica sono la grandezza e la rovina.”

230

Chapter Fifteen

earlier times in the person of Titormus the Aetolian, the legendary vanquisher of Milo of Croton and the “second Heracles” (Ael. VH 12.22), “fleeing from the sight of men to the most remote parts of the Aetolian land” (Hdt. 6.127).23 Since his myth was elaborated already in the late sixth century BC,24 we cannot fail to notice the exceptional continuity of historical motives constructing the Aetolian identity. However, without Pompeius Trogus/Justinus we could not construe these shadowy remarks of Polybian Agelaus and the personality Titormus as traces of the Aetolian historical and political self-definition. It would be interesting to answer the question to whom among Greek authors read by Pompeius Trogus we owe these extremely pro-Aetolian insertions. Obviously, the Historiae Philippicae are famous for being inspired by these Greek accounts of the universal history which focused on the rise (and eventual fall) of Macedonia. It is not easy to imagine a source which would combine sympathy to Macedonia (in spite of some critical passages still visible in Trogus/Justinus)25 with friendly interest in Aetolia construed as Macedonia’s enemy. Yet, it is tempting to conclude that Pompeius Trogus/Justinus transmitted to us an echo of the speech delivered before the Aetolian assembly. Similarly, the explanation of Aetolian sentiment in 190s and 180s, though surprising, may be drawn from a well-informed source. This purported author gives us knowledge of a few elements of the Aetolian political consciousness, which seem to correspond well with the stress on autarkia and sovereignty visible in other episodes of the Aetolian history collected above. The particular emphasis on self-sufficiency and independence (and last but not least on apartness) of the Aetolians recurs from the fifth century onwards. So, it is tempting to conclude that in these two passages of Trogus/Justinus we have the vestiges of Aetolian historical policy which determined individual geopolitical decisions and shaped longer term trends in the Aetolian foreign politics.

23

The complete ancient dossier on Titormus is collected and analysed in Rzepka 2007. 24 Antonetti 1990, 46f. and Rzepka 2007. 25 Although there are many critical remarks on the role played by Macedonia in Greece in 340s and 330s or about the end of Macedonian empire, it is interesting that Pompeius ascribes the fall of the Antigonid kingdom to fortuna, whereas the earlier growth of Macedonian monarchy is credited to virtus of the kings and industria of the people, see Alonso-Núñez 65-7.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN CURTIUS RUFUS, THE MACEDONIAN MUTINY AT OPIS AND ALEXANDER’S IRANIAN POLICY IN 324 BC MAREK JAN OLBRYCHT

The years 331-330 BC marked the end of the old Achaemenid order in Asia. At Gaugamela, Alexander III called the Great and his Macedonian armed forces finally defeated the army of Darius III and occupied Babylon. On entering Susiana, Persis and Media, Alexander crowned his victorious war against the Achaemenid empire. Darius’ death at the hands of his Iranian officials (summer 330) gave Alexander room for more political manoeuvring. So far, the Macedonian king had concentrated on military conquest of Asia. But his empire needed institutions, court, ceremonies, and a defined state concept. Alexander had not taken any major steps to that end in the old Achaemenid centres of Persis, Susiana, or Media but he did in eastern Iran; a complete about-face in Alexander’s policies came about as he entered the Parthia-Hyrcania satrapy in 330 (Olbrycht 2004, 26-8 and 2006-07). At that time Alexander ostentatiously stood up as an admirer of Iranian ways (Diod. Sic. 18.48.5). Among Alexander’s innovations in the year 330, the most spectacular was his acceptance of Iranian dress and regalia.1 The act was designed to ingratiate him with the Iranians: Arrian (7.29.4) stresses that Alexander’s acceptance of vestments and insignia was a shrewd move to win “barbarians” over to his side. Alexander’s concept of royal rule in Asia was being filled with a new content in Central Asia (329-327) as is aptly described by Plutarch 1

Curt. 6.6.1-11; Diod. Sic. 17.77.4-7; Arr. 4.7.4; Plut. Alex. 45.1-3; 47.5; Eratosthenes, FGrHist 241 F 30 ap. Plut. De Alex. fort. 1.8; Ephippus, FGrHist 126 F 5 = Athen. 537E-538B; Iust. 12.3.8-12; Epitoma Metensis 2. Details in Olbrycht 2004, 286-93.

232

Chapter Sixteen

(Alex. 47.5), who used such notions as mixing up and community (ʩǦ̎ǣǪǚǬǢǫ and ǣǨǢǦDzǦ̔ǚ) between Macedonians and Iranians. It was becoming increasingly clear that Alexander’s empire was to be governed by Iranians next to Macedonians. The latter, however, were not about to accept this state meekly. The surge in pro-Iranian innovations introduced by Alexander surprised most Macedonians, who were opposed to them. Beginning with the official proclamation of the new policy toward the Iranians in Parthia, Alexander’s attitude to the Macedonians underwent a considerable change. Increasingly pro-Iranian policy was bound to pit the king against his Macedonian environment. A conflict mounted between Alexander, who was yielding to “barbarity” and increasingly relying on his Iranian subjects, and traditionally-minded Macedonians.2 Source accounts often quote the chief accusations hurled by Macedonians at Alexander. Over the years, the breach deepened and came to a head in the Opis mutiny and its consequent bloody quelling by Alexander. After returning from India, Alexander decided to introduce sweeping reforms in the army and further changes in his policy toward the Iranians. Both processes were closely interlocked. The first wave of reforms took place at Susa in 324. Several months later, at Opis, Alexander took further essential steps that crowned his policies and monarchical concept developed from 330. The Macedonian mutiny at Opis, closely related to the preceding occurrences at Susa, may well mark the climax of Alexander’s pro-Iranian policy. Here it was that a rebellion of Macedonian soldiers was ruthlessly suppressed and the Iranians were put into positions of power (Curt. 10.2.8-4.3 with large lacunae; Diod. Sic. 17.109.2f.; Plut. Alex. 71.2-9; Iust. 12.11.4-12.10; Arr. 7.8.1-11 and 7.9). The crucial confrontation between Alexander and Macedonian traditionalists at Opis deserves special attention for it was one of the most significant events of Alexander’s reign. But in spite of its importance, there are just few studies devoted to this mutiny and the related sources.3 It seems therefore worthwhile to re-examine the ancient accounts dealing with the Opis events. The most detailed evidence is in Curtius Rufus’ Historiae Alexandri Magni 10.2-4. Curtius’ account, mutilated by some gaps, is highly rhetorical and a number of essential points are contained in speeches. According to some scholars, Curtius’ rhetorical methods include 2

Heckel 1996; Badian 2000; Müller 2003; Olbrycht 2004, 31-41. Cf. Wüst 1953a, 1953b and 1954; Carney 1996, 37-42; Nagle 1996. The Opis mutiny has been briefly analyzed in works generally devoted to Alexander’s reign, see Schachermeyr 1973, 492ff.; Lauffer 1993, 173-5; Bosworth 1988a, 159-61. Useful comments are offered by Hamilton 1969, 197; Dempsie 1991, 93-119; Hutzel 1974, 189-214.

3

Curtius Rufus, the Mutiny at Opis and Alexander’s Iranian Policy

233

not only the manipulation of his material but also the invention of facts (Atkinson 1980, 187; Baynham 1998, 94f.). The major accusation raised against Curtius is that he wrote his work without concern for historicity.4 But if one rejects Curtius’ evidence in its entirety, many of the essential elements concerning Alexander’s policy in 324 would be called into question. This attitude is pointless for it takes scepticism too far. It seems rather that scholarly research has overestimated the rhetorical and artistic contribution of Curtius while neglecting its actual relation to historical events. Any estimation of Curtius’ reliability requires an investigation of his attitude to facts by comparing with other evidence. Most important is the next research premise: any assessment of whether Curtius provides “bad history”5 or whether he displays concern for factual accuracy largely depends on a proper and coherent reconstruction of Alexander’s policy in 324. Within the compass of this paper it is only possible to indicate briefly how the events at Opis are to be placed in the framework of Alexander’s political agenda. I hope to demonstrate that Curtius’ narrative concerning the confrontation between Alexander and his Macedonian soldiers in 324 is consistent and fits in with other evidence available. Main sources dealing with Alexander’s reforms at Opis are, besides Curtius’ Historiae Alexandri Magni, Arrian’s Anabasis and the heavily abbreviated accounts by Diodorus and Pompeius Trogus (in the epitome of Justinus). Informative references are offered by Plutarch’s Life of Alexander. The present analysis does not try to search through for the lost primary sources written by Ptolemy, Aristobulus, Clitarchus and others.6 * At Susa, a sumptuous wedding was held in which Alexander and about 90 Macedonian Companions (hetairoi) married aristocratic Iranian women.7 The weddings were celebrated in the “Persian” style (Arr. 7.4.7). 4

In a recent study it has been argued that one should not trust any evidence from Curtius’ book 10, unless it is supported by another historian; according to this view, Curtius provides mainly “imaginative fiction” (McKechnie 1999, 60). 5 As argued by Nagle 1996, 152. 6 On the primary sources for the reign of Alexander the Great, see Seibert 1981, 161; Schachermeyr 1974, 149-61; Pédech 1984; Goukowsky 1991; Hammond 1983b and 1993; Baynham 2003. 7 Diod. Sic. 17.107.6; Arr. 7.4.4-8; 7.6.2; Plut. Alex. 70.3; Iust. 12.10.9f.; Phylarchus, FGrHist 81 F 41 = Athen. 539B-540A; Chares, FGrHist 125 F 4 = Athen. 538B-539A. Cf. Bosworth 1980, 11f.; Badian 1985, 480; Lauffer 1993, 169f.

234

Chapter Sixteen

The great tent in which the ceremony was held was part of Achaemenid tradition (Athen. 12.538B-D after Chares of Mytilene (FGrHist 125 F 4); 12.539D-E after Phylarchus; Ael. VH 9.3; Polyaen. 4.3.24). Characteristically, some Macedonians were opposed to the “Persian” ritual, but the marriages themselves, as far as we know, were not questioned by anyone (Arr. 7.6.2). The king ordered at Susa that Macedonians legalize their unions with Asiatic women. Their number ran to more than 10,000 (Arr. 7.4.8). Those women were predominantly Iranian (cf. Berve 1938, 158f.). Unquestionably, the Susa weddings were a display of Alexander’s proIranian policy and continued in this respect, as is best demonstrated by Alexander himself, his earlier endeavours, especially those in Central Asia. In the spring of 327, Alexander married Roxana (Arr. 4.19.5f.; Curt. 8.4.21-30; Plut. Alex. 47.7), and a number of his Companions married Iranian women (Diod. Sic. 17, arg. Ǥΐ; Epitoma Metensis 31). The king’s union with Roxana was designed, in a larger sense, to bring about peace and closer ties between Macedonians and Iranians (Curt. 8.4.25: “ut diceret ad stabiliendum regnum pertinere Persas et Macedones conubio iungi: hoc uno modo et pudorem victis et superbiam victoribus detrahi posse”). For the Iranians, the marriage was a proof that Alexander had changed his policy toward them to a more conciliatory and peace-minded stance. The split between Alexander and Macedonian traditionalists manifested itself forcefully after Susa saw the arrival of 30,000 young Iranian soldiers called epigonoi whose appearance triggered an outburst of Macedonian discontent (Diod. Sic. 17.108.1-3; Arr. 7.6.1; Plut. Alex. 71.1; Iust. 12.11.4. In Curtius’ text, the account of the epigonoi in Susa is not preserved). Rank-and-file Macedonians finally realized that they were not irreplaceable. Alexander’s threat made on the Hyphasis in India (326) to the effect that he would be followed by barbarians if his countrymen failed him could now be fulfilled (Curt. 9.2.33). Arrian points to the fact that Alexander was contriving every means of reducing his dependence on Macedonians in future (Arr. 7.6.2). Apparently the king pushed for a confrontation in order finally to break Macedonian resistance against his concept of monarchy and the empire with a dual Macedonian-Iranian élite. This supposition is supported by Alexander’s ostentatious praise for the Iranian epigonoi phalanx as well as for Peucestas’ adoption of Iranian ways. A long list of Macedonian accusations formulated at Susa in Arrian’s account (7.6.1-5) embraces not only recruiting Iranian soldiers called epigonoi and introducing wedding ceremonies after the Persian rite, but

Curtius Rufus, the Mutiny at Opis and Alexander’s Iranian Policy

235

also wearing “Median” dress, admission of Iranian cavalrymen into the ranks of the Companions and the royal guard (agema), expanding the whole cavalry by enlisting “barbarians,” and Peucestas’ “barbarization.” The main complaint targeted the entire behaviour of Alexander, who had “completely changed into a barbarian” and abandoned Macedonian ways. Among problems recited by Arrian 7.6.1-5 on the occasion of the Susa conflict, a distinction should be made between current issues and past developments. This distinction is of much consequence for an assessment of Alexander’s policy toward the Iranians. Past developments would definitely include the king’s use of “Median dress,” in evidence from 330. Similarly, inclusion of Iranians in the cavalry is confirmed from 330 when the hippakontistai were formed, again in 328 in Sogdiana and Bactria, and during the Indian campaign (Olbrycht 2004, 113-71). Finally, accusations of Alexander as a “barbarian” span a longer period, beginning in 330. Current issues included the appearance in the king’s camp of Iranian epigonoi and the Iranization of Peucestas. Arrian also refers to a substantial reorganization of the Companions shortly after the Indian campaign according to which the hipparchies’ number was at that time diminished to four. Additionally, Alexander established a new fifth hipparchy, which “was not entirely barbarian” (Arr. 7.6.4). Apparently, it was a mixed Iranian-Macedonian formation, dominated by Asians. While describing the events at Susa, Diodorus (17.108.1-3) stresses that the Macedonians had mutinied in India but were frequently unruly when called into an assembly and ridiculed Alexander’s pretence that Ammon was his father. For these reasons Alexander had formed the new unit from a single age-group of Persians which was capable of serving as a counter-balance to the Macedonian phalanx, i.e. antitagma. Indeed, Alexander took delight in the skill of that Macedonian-trained Iranian formation; the epigonoi “were warmly commended by the king after demonstrating their skill and discipline in the use of their weapons” (Diod. Sic. 17.108.2) and “displayed remarkable skill and agility” (Plut. Alex. 71.1). Clearly, the epigonoi were to be Alexander’s new army to replace his Macedonian phalanx. Strikingly, Arrian fails to describe the origin of the epigonoi whose appearance at Susa infuriated Macedonians. After all, they were formed before the Indian expedition, their presence at Susa only triggering the dormant tensions caused by the king’s policies.8

8

Creation of the epigonoi in 327: Curt. 8.5.1. Diod. Sic. 17.108.2 uses the phrase ǰǪ̖ǦǨǦ ˖ǣǚǦ̖Ǧ implying a longer timespan embracing the training of epigonoi prior to the Susa conflict.

236

Chapter Sixteen

In agitation, Macedonians now openly criticized the rapidly rising importance of Iranians in the king’s army and any signs of the court and ceremonial becoming Iranized. Alexander was accused of utter barbarization and rejection of Macedonian ways. Interestingly, the king did not launch repressions against the Macedonian opposition at Susa. Apparently Alexander deliberately postponed the confrontation until he was at Opis, the better to prepare for it. Among the Macedonians attitudes toward the Iranians varied. Most Macedonians, especially among the infantry troops, were apprehensive of Alexander’s pro-Iranian policy and insulted by what they perceived as his changing the traditional kingship. Those who openly criticized the king for his “barbarization” were usually ruthlessly eliminated. Beginning in 330 with the Philotas affair, repression recurred against Alexander’s critics, their accusations as a rule focusing on “barbarization” seen in adoption of Iranian ways and support to Iranians, although in truth these charges were often accompanied by other factors, such as Alexander’s desired deification as the son of Zeus-Ammon and the soldiers’ weariness of incessant combat. Moderate resistance to Alexander’s pro-Iranian polices was personified in Craterus, whose criticism of the “barbarization” was common knowledge (Plut. Eum. 6.3; Alex. 47.9). But Macedonians also included admirers of pro-Iranian policies who were clearly favoured by the king from 330. Among them was Hephaestion, a supporter of Alexander’s innovations in Iranization (Plut. Alex. 47.9). It is therefore hardly surprising that, by Alexander’s order, Hephaestion was responsible at the court for matters involving “barbarians,” just as the traditionalist Craterus had Macedonians and Hellenes to deal with. Both Macedonians, by the way, were deeply at odds with each other (Plut. Alex. 47.9-12), this personal conflict reflecting the division in the Macedonian élite over attitudes toward Asians, and especially Iranians. Incidentally, this division among Macedonians reached a peak after Alexander’s death at Babylon. Among the Companions, pro-Iranian tendencies are definitely confirmed for Peucestas. A similar attitude was displayed by Leonnatus9 and Perdiccas, who—after Hephaestion died—took his place as second to the king, and later received the royal seal from the dying Alexander,10 “a fact that Ptolemy the historian took pains to suppress.”11 9

Arr. Succ. 1a.2; Suda s.v. ‘Leonnatos’ = Arr. Succ. fr. 12. Cf. Heckel 1992, 103f. Curt. 10.54.4; Iust. 12.15.12; Diod. Sic. 17.117.3; 18.2.4; Nep. Eum. 2.1; Liber de morte Alexandri 112. 11 As rightly observed by Heckel 1992, 143f. 10

Curtius Rufus, the Mutiny at Opis and Alexander’s Iranian Policy

237

According to Curtius Rufus (10.2.8f.), before final decision concerning the veterans, Alexander announced that all soldiers’ debts would be paid by him.12 In the preserved account, no location is given. All the other sources place the payment of debts at Susa. According to Plutarch (Alex. 70.3ff.), the freeing of debts ensued after the wedding ceremonies at Susa. A similar sequence is provided by Arrian who speaks of Alexander deciding to pay the debts of his soldiers after the wedding ceremonies (Arr. 7.5.1ff.). The available accounts give various amounts of money.13 Curtius (loc. cit.) shortens the time sequence between the Susa debts settlement and the demobilization plans as well as the Macedonian mutiny at Opis. Likewise, in Justinus 12.11.1, the payment of the debts immediately precedes the demobilization order and the mutiny. Diodorus (17.109.1f.) argues that the veterans were discharged first, and then freed of debts. His wrong sequence of events seems to stem from misunderstanding concerning Alexander’s intentions to discharge parts of his army, announced probably at Susa, and the king’s final decision at Opis. Both in Curtius’ and in Arrian’s accounts (Curt. 10.2.10; Arr. 7.5.1-3), Alexander’s decision to pay the debts caused common mistrust for the soldiers believed the king intended to test them. This is another testimony to a lack of mutual confidence between Alexander and his Macedonian soldiery in 324. Incited at Susa, Alexander’s conflict with masses of Macedonians mounted to a peak at Opis. An open revolt was staged, but by then Alexander had built a perfect substitute for the rebellious Macedonians in the form of an Iranian phalanx force called in the sources epigonoi or antitagma. Desires for deification and acceptance of Iranian customs are quoted in sources as the main causes for Alexander’s moral decline.14 It is clear that the mutiny was actually a political confrontation concerning Alexander’s policies, his relationship to the army and to the kingship and state.15 12 On the freeing of the army’s debts at Susa, see Dempsie 1991, 87-92; Hutzel 1974, 170-5. 13 Details in Dempsie 1991, 87f. and Hutzel 1974, 170f. 14 Arr. 7.8.3; Iust. 12.11.8. Cf. Schachermeyr 1973, 492ff. 15 The confrontation between Alexander and his Macedonian soldiers can be termed “mutiny” for it was an open rebellion of soldiers directed against the king. Diodorus uses the word ǭǚǪǚǰ̒ (‘disorder, confusion,’ 17.109.2). Curtius applies the terms tumultus (10.2.13), seditio (10.2.12; 10.4.3) and consternatio (10.2.15), while Justinus (12.11.8) gives seditio. Cf. OLD s.v. ‘seditio,’ 1726; Adams 1986, 50. Carney (1996, 37-42) tries to demonstrate that the “confrontation at Opis”

238

Chapter Sixteen

The location of the mutiny at Opis is given by Arrian (7.8.1). Curtius offers no hints for there is a lacuna in his text. On the basis of Diodorus’ account, it is generally assumed that the Vulgate tradition places the mutiny at Susa. Actually, in Diodorus events at Susa and the following open Macedonian mutiny are pressed in three different passages. In the first account Diodorus describes the antitagma, i.e. the epigonoi coming to Susa (17.108.1-3). But the Macedonian mutiny itself, without naming a place, is described in another chapter, 17.109. In 17.110.1f., Diodorus reports Alexander’s military reforms favouring Iranians. It is only in passage 17.110.4, after naming the discharge of veterans, that Diodorus mentions Susa which implies that the preceding events took place in this city. Justinus 12.11.4 does not name Susa at all. Plutarch (Alex. 70f.) seems to locate the mutiny at Susa for his account of the Susa weddings and the epigonoi who came first to Susa is immediately followed by the description of the Macedonian rebellion. However, Arrian’s location of the mutiny at Opis seems to be more probable and is accepted in the present study.16 The confrontation at Opis was closely related to the issue crucial to most Macedonians, i.e. to demobilization. It is at Opis that Alexander finally decided to send home a number of his Macedonian veterans under the command of Craterus (Iust. 12.11.4; 12.7; Arr. 7.12.1; Diod. Sic. 17.109.1, cf. 18.4.1; 18.12.1, 18.16.4; Curt. 10.10.15). The sources vary in the details. Arrian and Diodorus speak of 10,000 veterans (Arr. 7.12.1; Diod. Sic. 17.109.1; 18.4.1; 18.12.1). The number of 11,000 soldiers, given in Justinus (12.12.7), must include 1,000 Persian slingers and bowmen, mentioned with Craterus’ corps by Diodorus (18.16.4). They were apparently an escorting formation for the heavy Macedonian units. This is corroborated by Curtius (10.2.27) claiming that the Iranians should make up the escort for the leaving Macedonians soldiers. Alexander did not demobilize all the Macedonians—the king ordered a force of 13,000 infantry and 2,000 cavalry from Europe to be selected for him to keep back in Asia (Curt. 10.2.8f.).17 Usually, reasons for the mutiny at Opis are not clearly stated in recent studies. Some scholars tend to evaluate the mutiny as “illogical” or

cannot be termed “mutiny,” but her arguments, based on playing down the dimensions of the rebellion, fail to convince. 16 Cf. Lauffer 1993, 173-5. 17 It is not explicitly stated that all those soldiers were Macedonians. Bosworth (1980, 19) argues that not only Macedonians but also troops from other countries are understood.

Curtius Rufus, the Mutiny at Opis and Alexander’s Iranian Policy

239

“irrational.”18 The evidence contradicts such views. Curtius’ account (10.2.12), the fullest one for the origins of the rebellion, gives a consistent picture of the situation. Thus, Alexander demobilized 10,000 Macedonians, and retained the rest in Asia. The act of discharging soldiers met with a staunch opposition from those Macedonians who were to stay with the king. The others feared that the king would establish a permanent residence in Asia. Apparently the upset soldiers felt that Alexander intended to replace them with Iranians.19 In sum, all wanted to be dismissed from service. Other Macedonian resentments must have been preserved in the lost fragments of the text. To the accusations Curtius refers in the statement that the rebelling soldiers filled the camp “with mutinous comments and attacked the king with more abuse than even before” (transl. by J.C. Yardley). The ever-present mistrust was to be confirmed when the veterans’ children were retained in Asia. Generally, Curtius gives a consistent picture of the reasons for the mutiny. Arrian’s narrative (7.8.1-3) is essentially similar to the picture given by Curtius. According to him, Alexander announced sending home men unfit for active service. Initially, Arrian stresses that the veterans felt insulted for they believed Alexander considered them useless for war. The historian puts emphasis on the emotional dimension, i.e. on jealousy and feelings of rejection which led to Macedonian rebellion. Afterwards, however, Arrian gives a list of grievances including the Macedonian demand that all soldiers should be discharged (7.8.3). In other words, general demobilization was the crucial issue. According to Arrian, the army had long harboured discontent with the king’s “Persian” dress, creation of the epigonoi, and admission of barbarians to the Companions (7.8.2). Alexander, courted in a barbarian manner, was not so “kindly to the Macedonians” anymore. Moreover, the soldiers called on him to campaign himself in company with his father, referring in mockery to Ammon (7.8.3). The whole list of the grievances in Arrian 7.8.2-3 is sometimes considered to be a doublet of the list in Arrian 7.6.2-5 referring to the Susa conflict (Badian 1985, 482 n. 1). Their similarity is based rather on the fact that Macedonian accusations hurled against Alexander both at Susa and at Opis were in fact identical. Justinus 12.11.5 states that those Macedonians who were retained in Asia resented the fact that the veterans were leaving and demanded 18

Bosworth (1988a, 159) maintains that the discharge “was a logical enough move” but the ensuing protest was “understandable if illogical.” Carney (1996, 37) states that “some aspects of the Opis quarrel defy rational analysis.” 19 Wüst 1953a, 422; Badian 1985, 481f.

240

Chapter Sixteen

demobilization too. According to Diodorus the Macedonians who remained with the king became insubordinate interrupting Alexander’s speech by shouting (17.109.2). Plutarch (Alex. 71.1) stresses that the Macedonians asked the king to send them all away and combines the feelings of rejection with fear of the new royal Iranian formations; the Macedonians were worried and depressed because of the display of the epigonoi. The evidence is thus unambiguous—the main demand of the Macedonians, as transmitted in Curtius, Arrian, and all the other authors, was that of general demobilization. There is another issue which requires attention. The Macedonian traditionalists felt alienated by Alexander’s claim to be Ammon’s son which implied the rejection of his “terrestrial” father Philip. Macedonians regarded Alexander’s pretensions to divinity as ridiculous and derided the king and his alleged father Ammon, a fact that drove Alexander furious (Iust. 12.11.6; Diod. Sic. 17.108.3; Arr. 7.8.3.). At the same time, some scholarly attempts to narrow Macedonian resentments to Alexander’s claim to divine descent as the focal point are unconvincing. It should be noted that the main contentious issue, inflamed already at Susa, as stressed in Arrian, Diodorus, Justinus, and Plutarch, was fear of the Iranian epigonoi and other Iranian formations and growing Macedonian hostility to the more and more privileged Iranians. In this connection, Alexander’s claim to be Ammon’s son was just one of the examples of the king’s “barbarization” offensive to Macedonian sentiment (cf. Badian 1985, 483). The real moot point remained the growing significance of the Iranians and their—in some respects—predominating position in the army of Alexander. In his account of the Opis events, Curtius mentions Alexander’s punishment of the mutineers and their humiliation and underscores the king’s manifestly positive attitude to the Iranians. In this framework, Curtius reports three speeches (cf. Helmreich 1927; Baynham 1998, 4656). It seems very probable that the speeches were really given at Opis according to the long established Macedonian tradition. Alexander used speeches and oratory skills to control his army (Carney 1996, 28f.; Hammond 1999, 249f.). Each of the orations offers credible facts, although, of course, speeches in Curtius are not accurate records of what was really said. Possibly they existed in the primary sources used by Curtius and were reworked by the Roman writer. But the essential point is that they offer historical substance of primary importance, disregarding the fact whether they are genuine or not.

Curtius Rufus, the Mutiny at Opis and Alexander’s Iranian Policy

241

According to Curtius (10.2.15-29), Alexander delivered a stern speech to the Macedonian assembly (Helmreich 1927, 121-6; Dempsie 1991, 97107). The king accused Macedonians of deserting him, of disobedience and of flouting his authority and kingship. He declared to treat the rebellious Macedonians as no more soldiers but “thoroughly ungrateful hirelings” (10.2.21). These were serious accusations, much stronger than during the mutiny at the Hyphasis (Helmreich 1927, 122-5). What is striking is another point—in his Opis speech, Alexander names the “Persians”, i.e. the Iranians, as his real support. The Iranians should make up the escort for the leaving Macedonian soldiers (10.2.27). Moreover, Alexander declares he would bestow “honour and preference upon those who were left with him” (10.2.29). All these elements are in parallel with Alexander’s threats from the Hyphasis confrontation (Curt. 9.2.33: “Scythae Bactrianique erunt mecum, hostes paulo ante, nunc milites nostri,” cf. Helmreich 1927, 125f.). There follows a lacuna in Curtius’ account. From the historical point of view, the speech gives a faithful depiction of Alexander’s pro-Iranian policy at the time. Justinus summarizes Alexander’s speech to the Macedonians in which the king rebuked the soldiers, and “proffered gentle advice against tarnishing a glorious campaign with mutiny” (12.11.7). Plutarch (Alex. 71.3) and Diodorus (17.109.2) refer to the speech too. Arrian (7.9f.) also gives a speech of Alexander to the Macedonians, but he places it after the repressions.20 His concern is to show the conflict between the king and his Macedonian soldiers as merely a momentary confrontation not involving a third party, the Iranians’ position being intentionally diminished at the beginning. The desertion of the Macedonians is mentioned (7.10.5). Alexander underscores his pro-Iranian measures, naming the Macedonian-Iranian marriages (“I have made the same marriages as you,” 7.10.3). The growing military role of the Iranians comes to a head when Alexander speaks derisively of deserting Macedonians at Susa who “handed him over to the protection of the barbarians he had conquered” (7.10.7). This formula points to the fact

20 Cf. Hutzel 1974, 195-208; Dempsie 1991, 97; Hammond 1983a and 1999, 249f. Scholarly opinions on the speech are quite different. According to Wüst 1953b, Alexander’s speech in Arrian is not authentic and was composed by Clitarchus, and then transmitted by Aristobulus. Hammond (1999, 249) argues that the speech rests “on good evidence” (Ptolemy with the imaginary Royal Journal and Aristobulus are meant). Nagle (1996, 152) assumes that the speech’s “substance was spoken by Alexander at Opis.”

242

Chapter Sixteen

testified in the Vulgate and in Plutarch—that the Iranians became the bodyguards of the king. In sum, there is no reason to doubt that Alexander tried to appeal to his soldiers, for Macedonian kings or generals often addressed the armies in that way. A closer examination of the facts delivered in the speech shows that Arrian transmits the same focal points as Curtius.21 The common focus is on the desertion of the Macedonians and the king’s necessity of turning to the “Persians.” Significantly, Alexander did not respond to single grievances but related to the monarchy’s character and the Iranians’ role in the empire. Alexander’s speech failed to convince the Macedonian audience and the king decided to use repressive measures. According to Curtius, after his speech Alexander leaped down from the platform and handed personally 13 ringleaders to his bodyguard (custodes corporis) to be kept in custody (10.2.30). The same action is reported in Justinus 12.11.8 (the king seized 13 ringleaders), and in Diodorus 17.109.2 (without figures). Arrian 7.8.3 counts 13 detained but he says, in a less dramatic way, that the king pointed to the instigators and had them arrested by his hypaspists. According to Arrian this action took place before the speech to the Macedonians but this sequence is inconsistent. Curtius is more convincing in showing that Alexander first tried to persuade his soldiers to remain obedient, but, seeing their open hostility, decided to use repressions. Significantly, Arrian tries to whitewash Alexander and does not describe the execution of the Macedonian ringleaders. Curtius offers a sinister picture of the Macedonians’ surrender: the soldiers became terror-stricken for they learned towards evening of their comrades’ execution and now they did everything to express individually their increased loyalty and devotion (10.3.1-4.). It seems that those 13 rebels were not the only Macedonians to be executed for Curtius names other soldiers sentenced to death and executed after the speech of Alexander to the Iranians (10.4.1f.). Death penalties were deliberately conducted against Macedonian custom to humiliate the victims further. The executioners were Iranians. The punishment employed was drowning—the prisoners were to be hurled into the river, still in their bonds (10.4.2). This kind of punishment was shameful to the sentenced for executions in Macedonia were conducted through stoning (“according to Macedonian custom,” Curt. 6.11.10 and 38) or spearing to death (Arr. 3.26.3). There is no reason to doubt Curtius’ evidence concerning the kind

21

This point was made by Wüst 1953a, 424 and Bosworth 1988b, 101ff.

Curtius Rufus, the Mutiny at Opis and Alexander’s Iranian Policy

243

of punishment.22 Drowning as punishment is documented in ancient Babylonia, not in Macedonia or Greece (Duncan 1904, 190; cf. Latte 1940). It must have been used by the Persians in the Achaemenid period. Trying to suppress the Macedonian mutiny, Alexander took decisive steps carried out for their intimidating effect. Curtius 10.3.3 stresses that the Macedonians were terror-stricken “because of the confidence with which he so forcefully exerted his authority.” It seems that initially the Macedonians hoped to repeat the situation from India when their mutiny forced Alexander to sound the retreat. Now the king’s position changed— the next day after the executions the Macedonians were denied an audience (10.3.5). Faced by the Macedonian uprising, the king called an assembly of Iranian soldiers to give a speech to them. Significantly, he ordered to confine the Macedonians in their camp (Curt. 10.3.6), another humiliation for them. It was the epigonoi and Iranian cavalry who enabled Alexander to overcome his Macedonian soldiers. Actually, Curtius uses the term “foreign soldiers” (peregrini milites) for the assembly. But they were not soldiers of different nations. The text says that Alexander had an interpreter called and gave an address (10.3.6). The testimony is striking—one interpreter apparently means one language. At that time Iranian languages were in fact dialects closely connected with each other. Eratosthenes (cited in Strabo 15.2.8) speaks of the peoples in Ariana, i.e. Iran and Central Asia, including Persians, Bactrians, Medes, and Sogdians, as “speaking approximately the same language, with but slight variations.” Curtius’ passage supports the assumption that “foreign soldiers” of Alexander assembled at Opis were in fact Iranians. That conclusion is additionally corroborated by the statement that in his speech Alexander addressed only “Persians”, the term being the common designation of the Iranians at that time. Justinus 12.12.1 speaks of “auxilia Persarum.” Curtius (10.3) is the only writer to give a direct speech of Alexander to the Iranians (Helmreich 1927, 126-8; Dempsie 1991, 109-16). Justinus 12.12.2f. reports a very similar speech in oratio obliqua. Other sources do not know the speech, but have Alexander talking to some “Persians” and then giving them positions of power (Diod. Sic. 17.109.3; Plut. Alex. 71.4; Arr. 7.11.1). The speech in Curtius is incompletely preserved but offers meaningful insights into the character of Alexander’s policies at that time and the role 22

Dempsie (1991, 116) wrongly assumes that “Curtius is choosing a particularly sensational means...seen by the Romans as an example of foreign punishment.”

244

Chapter Sixteen

played by the Iranians. Alexander praises dedication to loyalty (even to the former Persian kings, cf. Helmreich 1927, 127) and courage amongst the Iranians as well as stresses their obedience (10.3.7-10). Then he underscores the significance of his marriages to Roxana and Stateira, and the marriages of his Macedonian dignitaries to Iranian princesses (10.3.11f.) arguing that his intention was by “this sacred union to erase all distinction between conquered and conquerors” (10.3.12: “ut hoc sacro foedere omne discrimen victi et victoris excluderem”). Some phrases sound like Alexander’s political slogans: “So you can believe that you are my soldiers by family, not conscription. Asia and Europe are now one and the same kingdom. I give you Macedonian arms. Foreign newcomers though you are, I have made you established members of my force: you are both my fellow-citizens and my soldiers” (10.3.13, transl. by J.C. Yardley). All these ideas fully coincide with Alexander’s political agenda and are attested in other evidence. Curtius 10.3.14 assigns to Alexander the statement: “Those who are to live under the same king should enjoy the same rights” (“eiusdem iuris esse debent qui sub eodem rege victuri sunt”). The same idea of “harmony and partnership in rule” between Macedonians and Persians is expressed in Arrian 7.11.9 while describing the banquet at Opis. Then the speech deals with the customs and stresses that “everything is taking on the same hue: it is no disgrace for the Persians to copy Macedonian customs nor for the Macedonians to imitate the Persians” (10.3.14: “omnia eundem ducunt colorem. Nec Persis Macedonum morem adumbrare, nec Macedonibus Persas imitari indecorum,” transl. by J.C. Yardley). As to the mutual contacts and customs concerning Macedonians and Iranians, the balance of demands is not equal. Curtius (10.3.14) uses two different verbs to show the demands for Macedonians (imitari) and Iranians (adumbrare).23 As rightly observed by Dempsie (1991, 115), “it is the Macedonians who will have to change more” in their customs. A similar conclusion is offered by Justinus 12.12.2: “how he [scil. Alexander] had adopted their modes of conduct and not imposed his own on them” (“denique se in illorum, non illos in gentis suae morem transisse”). And that observation perfectly fits with Alexander’s pro-Iranian policies in 330-323. In the speech related in Curtius, Alexander mentions the Iranian phalanx consisting of select younger soldiers integrated in the main body of royal troops with the same uniform and the same weapons as the Macedonians (10.3.10). The king stresses (10.3.13) that the Iranians were 23

Characteristically, Curtius also uses two different objects—Macedonum morem and Persas.

Curtius Rufus, the Mutiny at Opis and Alexander’s Iranian Policy

245

“his soldiers by family, not conscription” (“proinde genitos esse vos mihi, non ascitos milites credite”). This declaration, accompanied by several similar formulas, alludes to the fact that the Iranian soldiers, probably their élite, were called syngeneis, i.e. “kinsmen” (as related in Arr. 7.11.1) by Alexander, in a striking imitation of the Achaemenid Persian custom (Wiesehöfer 1980). After this significant speech there is a gap in the text. By comparison with Justinus and Diodorus it is to be supposed that Curtius would have mentioned, either in Alexander’s speech or in his own narrative, the appointment of Persians to former Macedonian posts and the Macedonian unrest. Alexander’s speech in Curtius is a consistent manifestation of the king’s political programme. Each point made by Alexander is attested in other Curtius’ passages and in other related sources. Justinus 12.12.2f. summarizes the speech of Alexander to the Iranians in oratio obliqua. First, the king highlights the incorporation of Iranian soldiers (“auxiliaries”) into his army, and praises the Persian soldiers for their unfailing loyalty both to himself and to their former rulers. Secondly, he reminds them of acts of his pro-Iranian policies—they were not regarded as defeated enemies but as partners in victory. Third, he stresses the adoption of their modes of conduct while his own were not imposed on them. Fourth, he names the marriages between Macedonians and Iranians (12.12.2). As to political programme, all the points Justinus relates are identical with those transmitted in Curtius. Thus, the speech in Curtius is not a free invention of the author. It was surely existing in the original source shared by Curtius and Justinus.24 Curtius 10.4 provides a speech of one of the Macedonians sentenced to punishment. The officer accuses the king of ordering executions of a foreign kind. He demands “at least to change the executioners” (10.4.1). Apparently the latter were Iranians.25 What Curtius clearly states is that after the previous executions the apologetic soldiers offered up their persons to Alexander urging him to slaughter them as their comrades (10.4.3). This attitude shows that the mutineers tried to win Alexander. Unfortunately, following that passage, there is a large lacuna in the

24

Hammond (1983b, 107 and 158f.) argues for a shadowy Diyllus which seems unconvincing. More plausible is Clitarchus, see Dempsie 1991, 271f. 25 Dempsie (1991, 116) argues that this section does not match up with “anything in other sources and would appear to be Curtius’ own addition to add to the pathos.” It is an unfounded interpretation ignoring Alexander’s political concepts at this time.

246

Chapter Sixteen

Historiae Alexandri Magni, reaching up to Alexander’s death. Other sources report the further events. Facing the Macedonian mutiny, Alexander took measures which at once changed the character of his army. Now, the Iranians completely predominated in his armed forces and most of the Macedonians felt humiliated. Alexander’s decision to call the Iranians his fellow-citizens and soldiers was not a hollow claim. His Iranian epigonoi replaced the élite Macedonian phalanx formation (Diod. Sic. 17.110.1f.; Iust. 12.11.4). Another issue demonstrates Alexander’s political aims: as attested in Diodorus, Justinus, Arrian and Plutarch, the Iranians were advanced into positions of high command and monopolized, at least temporarily, the personal protection of the king. That point is not contained in Curtius’ preserved account. Justinus (12.12.3f.) reports that Alexander selected a thousand young men to join his bodyguard and entrusted to Iranians next to Macedonians his personal protection (custodia corporis). The same is said in Diodorus: the king assigned a thousand of Persians to the guards (hypaspistai) stationed at the court. In all respects he showed “the same confidence in them as in the Macedonians” (17.110.1). Plutarch (Alex. 71.4) goes even further—Alexander dismissed his former guards, and brought in Persians to do the job instead, using them to make up his units of bodyguards and attendants. The Iranians were given high military commands of the royal brigades. According to Arrian (7.11.1 and 3) and Diodorus (17.109.3), Alexander summoned the select Persians and distributed among them the commands of the royal brigades (taxeis). The Iranian troops were divided into lochoi (Arr. 7.11.3). The king created the Iranian formations of pezhetairoi, asthetairoi and argyraspides, labelling them with names hitherto reserved for Macedonian units (Arr. 7.11.3). A new royal Iranian infantry guard (agema, Diod. Sic. 17.110.1; Arr. 7.11.3; Iust. 12.12.3f.) and the separate Iranian cavalry formations of hetairoi and agema basilike (Arr. 7.11.3) were established. Alexander made the rule that only those Iranians whom he proclaimed his kinsmen (syngeneis) should have the honour of saluting him with a kiss (Arr. 7.11.1). Due to the evidence of Diodorus, Justinus and Arrian it is possible to see how the Opis mutiny finished (Curtius’ text is lacunous). Communis opinio says that following the initial rebuttal by Alexander, the Macedonian soldiers eventually prevailed upon Alexander to forgive them (Dempsie 1991, 119), which is not a convincing explanation. Also, “psychological” interpretations of the mutiny do not seem plausible.26 It is 26

E.g. Bosworth 1988a, 160: “the tension was broken, the hysterical lamentation replaced by equally hysterical rejoicing.”

Curtius Rufus, the Mutiny at Opis and Alexander’s Iranian Policy

247

therefore worthwhile to examine the evidence again to evaluate the events. It was after Alexander appointed commanders from amongst the Persians that the Macedonians became repentant. Diodorus (17.109.3) says that they petitioned Alexander to forgive them and with difficulty persuaded him to take them back into favour. In Justinus 12.12.5-7 the appointments of the Iranians were resented by the Macedonians who complained that the king had transferred their duties to their enemies. The Macedonians came in tears to the king and begged him to vent the displeasure by punishing rather than humiliating them. By this “moderate request they prevailed upon him to discharge 11,000 veterans.” According to Plutarch (Alex. 71.5-8), when the excluded and reviled Macedonians saw the king being escorted by Persians, they were humbled, and went—without carrying arms or wearing armour over their clothes—to Alexander’s tent, staying there for two days and nights. Plutarch uses the term “jealous anger” (ǟǠǤDzǭǮǩǘǚ) to describe Macedonian sentiments. On the third day Alexander emerged from his tent and spoke “kindly” to the soldiers. This statement matches with Arrian who claims Alexander remained in his tent for three days and Companions were not admitted to the king (7.11.1). Arrian provides more information on the final settlement ending the mutiny. Hearing about commands given to Persians and about Alexander's other pro-Iranian measures, the Macedonians ran together to the royal residence and begged to be let in. They displayed readiness to give up the “instigators of the disturbance and those who began the clamour.” In describing Macedonian pleas for forgiveness, Arrian reports an officer, Callines, a spokesman for the rebels, as pointing to Macedonian envy of the king’s calling Persians his “kinsmen” (syngeneis) and granting them the privilege to kiss him. Now Alexander named Macedonians “kinsmen” and allowed them to offer him the same greeting. At that point, the delighted Macedonians returned to the camp “shouting and singing their victory song” (Arr. 7.11.3-7). The end of the mutiny was staged by Alexander for the greatest effect. If we trust Arrian, the whole “conciliation” borders on the grotesque. The motives for the mutiny as quoted by Callines do not at all tally with earlier Macedonian accusations against the king; in terror, the Macedonians demonstrated what must be seen as an unconditional surrender. No more mention was made of the king’s Iranian dress, of the epigonoi, of Iranians dominating the army, or of other contentious issues. All had been reduced to mere envy—a sign that Macedonian traditionalists had beaten a complete retreat. An apparent concession cost Alexander nothing, and gave Macedonians no actual privileges. On the contrary, kissing the king was related to proskynesis, a gesture once fiercely opposed by most

248

Chapter Sixteen

Macedonians. On Alexander’s part there was no reciprocity, for a royal kiss was a privilege.27 This issue invites a little comment. A detailed description of proskynesis in Persia is provided by Herodotus 1.134: Persians of equal rank kissed each other on the lips, with slight inferiority, the person of lower rank kissed the superior on the cheeks, while with great difference in status, the person of lower rank prostrated himself completely before the more dignified one.28 Alexander introduced proskynesis in his court in 330 but, faced with strong opposition from Macedonians, he limited the practice probably only to Asians (Curt. 6.6.3; Plut. Alex. 45.1). For most Macedonians and Greeks proskynesis was associated with the divine sphere, and although, possibly, the king himself did not at that point claim recognition as a god, his demands were deemed to be going too far (cf. Badian 1996, 22). They were seen in the context of Alexander’s “barbarization” and his acceptance of “Persian” ways. In Bactria (327), Alexander attempted to introduce this greeting also for Macedonians; some of them honoured Alexander in this way (Arr. 4.12.3-5 and Plut. Alex. 54.4-6 = Chares, FGrHist 125 F 14a).29 Yet, Alexander’s plan to introduce proskynesis was not accepted by most Macedonians and also by Hellenes in the court and military élite (Badian 1985, 458).30 It was at Opis that proskynesis and the Persian title “kinsmen” (syngeneis) were imposed on the Macedonians. Alexander’s political measures at Susa and at Opis make up a consistent agenda relying on his concept of supporting Iranians as part of the imperial élite and predominating element in the army. It seems obvious that Susa was the “ultimate provocation” (rightly so Badian 1985, 482 n. 1), and Opis the decisive confrontation between Alexander and Macedonian traditionalists. At Susa, Alexander restrained himself to a display of power (Iranian epigonoi) and pro-Iranian measures, addressing 27

Roisman 2003, 299f. Cf. Hdt. 7.136; Plut. Arist. 5.7. Xenophon, who knew Persian realities, writes that the king’s so-called kinsmen or syngeneis kissed him on the lips as they took their leave. A kiss from the king was a sign of his favour (Xen. Cyr. 1.4.27f.; Ages. 5.4f.). 29 For the proskynesis affair in Bactria, see Curt. 8.5.9-6.1; Arr. 4.12.3-6; Plut. Alex. 54.3-55.1 (after Chares, FGrHist 125 F 14); Iust. 12.7.1-3. Cf. Hamilton 1987, 475f.; Seibert 1981, 202-4; Atkinson 1994, 201; Lauffer 1993, 136; Bosworth 1995, 77-90. 30 It seems, however, that proskynesis for Macedonians was partially retained in 327-324, only limited to some hetairoi. This is implied by Arr. 4.14.2. Contra Iust. 12.7.3. 28

Curtius Rufus, the Mutiny at Opis and Alexander’s Iranian Policy

249

the discontent Macedonian soldiers, while at Opis he was able to take revenge on them for the mutiny in India, for rejecting his “barbarian customs” and regalia, his pro-Iranian reforms and for all the scoffs concerning his “father” Zeus-Ammon. After the epigonoi-display at Susa, Alexander did not have to be afraid of the Macedonian mutiny for he created a new royal and loyal armed Iranian force. The epigonoi were fully capable of serving as a counterbalance to the Macedonian phalanx. The same can be said about the Iranian cavalry, dominating in the army since the campaign in India. At Opis, Alexander used different means to be in control of the situation and to break the Macedonian resistance—he punished the mutineers, appointed Iranian commanders, and established new Iranian guards units replacing the Macedonians or at least counterbalancing them. Following the capitulation by the Macedonians, Alexander held a public banquet for thousands of people chiefly including Macedonians and Iranians.31 Recent scholarly descriptions of the feast as a reconciliation find no basis in source accounts.32 A unique description of the feast is provided by Arrian; considering its importance for the present study, his account must be cited in full: Alexander celebrated the occasion by sacrificing to the gods he normally sacrificed to, and offering a public banquet. He sat down and so did everyone else, the Macedonians around him, the Persians next to them, then any of the other peoples who enjoyed precedence for their reputation or some other quality. Then he and those around him drew wine from the same bowl and poured the same libations, beginning with the Greek seers and the Magians. He prayed for other blessings and for harmony and partnership in rule between Macedonians and Persians. It is said that there were 9,000 guests at the banquet, who all poured the same libation and then sang the song of victory (Arr. 7.11.8f., transl. by Austin 2006, no. 18).

It seems obvious that to Arrian and his source the banquet at Opis is “not of outstanding importance” (Badian 1958, 428). This much-debated ceremony is described very briefly in a passage which is approximately of the same length as the rendition of Callines’ speech. 31

Cf. Tarn 1948, vol. 2, 434-8; Badian 1958, 428-32; Hutzel 1974, 212-4; Bosworth 1988a, 160f. 32 Tarn 1948, vol. 2, 440: “a thanksgiving for reconciliation”; Lauffer 1993, 174: “Versöhnungsfest.” Wüst 1953a rightly argues that the Opis banquet was a forced “Bittgottesdienst.” Similarly, Badian (1958, 428) shows that the banquet was not a reconciliation or “conclusion of peace.”

250

Chapter Sixteen

Many scholars treat Arrian’s narrative as giving a deliberate hierarchy among Alexander’s subjects. According to this view, what is crucial is the order of the participants at the feast and their distance to Alexander which allegedly point to the assumption that the “Macedonians enjoy precedence” (Brunt 1983, 240 n. 6). In turn, this “precedence” should suggest that Alexander’s pro-Iranian reforms at Susa and at Opis were revoked. As a matter of fact, there is no evidence to believe that proIranian reforms and decisions were cancelled. On the contrary, after the banquet Alexander dismissed veterans and retained some Macedonian units with him according to his previous plan. Arrian tells us how the participants were grouped. Around Alexander (ʩǥǯ’ ǚ˱ǭǵǦ) were Macedonians, next to them (ʹǦ ǭΊ ʹǯǞǧ͟ǫ ǭǨ̘ǭDzǦ) Persians, and behind them (ʹǩ̓ ǭǨ̘ǭǨǢǫ) persons from the other peoples. To describe the Persians’ placement, Arrian uses the term ʹǯǞǧ͟ǫ which may be translated as “next to,” and thus it is possible to place the Persians in the same circle as the Macedonians, both peoples around Alexander. Representatives of other nations are clearly placed by Arrian behind the central group around Alexander (ʹǩ̓ ǭǨ̘ǭǨǢǫ). The assumption that Macedonians and Persians were grouped together around Alexander is decisively corroborated by the fact that the whole ceremony and sacrifice concerned first of all those two peoples, for Arrian writes about partnership between Macedonians and Persians. Alexander prayed for harmony (˦ǥ̖ǦǨǢǚ) and a sense of community in one state and in the exercise of power (ǣǨǢǦDzǦ̔ǚ ǭ͟ǫ ʩǪǰ͟ǫ) for Macedonians and Persians (Arr. 7.11.8f.). In Arrian’s account, the emphatic repetition of the phrase ʩǥǯ’ ǚ˱ǭǵǦ within the same passage is to be underscored. First it refers to the group seated around Alexander. Then it refers to the persons who, next to Alexander, drank from the same bowl and poured the same libations. Importantly, the prayers and ceremony were initiated by Alexander’s Greek soothsayers33 and Iranian Magoi, representing, respectively, the Macedonian and Iranian elements. In other words, the initial drinking and pouring of libations must have been common to both peoples— Macedonians and Iranians alike.34 Indeed, what Arrian transmits is the same political programme of Alexander as reported in Curtius, particularly in Alexander’s speech to the Iranians given in Opis (see especially Curt. 10.3.14). It is a concept of combined Iranian-Macedonian élite, fiercely opposed by most 33

Philip II and Alexander kept a staff of seers including persons like Aristander and Demophon, see Berve 1926, vol. 2, 62f. and 141. 34 Badian (1958, 429) is not convincing in his conclusion that “the sharing of Alexander’s own krater was limited to the Macedonians”; the source is precise.

Curtius Rufus, the Mutiny at Opis and Alexander’s Iranian Policy

251

Macedonians. For the traditionally-minded Macedonians, the king’s banquet marked their capitulation to him. The feast at Opis was another show of Iranian power in the state. None of the demands put forward by the Macedonian mutineers was fulfilled. Quite the opposite: it was the Iranians who now predominated in the army and formed royal guards. Arrian (7.12.4) maintains that Alexander expected Antipater to bring reinforcements from Macedonia, but it is apparently a hollow claim. No fresh Macedonian troops came to Alexander until his death. After the Opis ceremony, veterans left for Macedonia, “of their own accord,” Arrian informs us. It is, however, doubtful that the Macedonians had freedom of choice (Hutzel 1974, 215). But even at this stage another humiliation was in store for them: the king kept with him their children born in Asia (Arr. 7.12.1f.). They were to serve as hostages and recruits for the royal army in Asia. At the head of the departing veterans rode Craterus, definitely a defender of Macedonian tradition. The king’s political gains were considerable: he had got rid of hard-core Macedonian opposition in his army and of a potential opponent in Craterus (Arr. 7.12.3). The rest of the Macedonians were forced to stay in Asia. No general demobilization ensued. * Defining Alexander’s policy toward Asians, and particularly Iranians, is a key issue in a full reconstruction of the history of Alexander and the peoples of his empire. From 330 on, his concept of power was based on the fundamental assumption that Macedonians and Iranians were together to make up the élite running the new empire. Beginning with the official proclamation of the new policy toward the Iranians in Parthia in summer 330, Alexander’s attitude to the Macedonians underwent a considerable change. Increasingly pro-Iranian policy was bound to pit the king against his Macedonian environment. The wedding ceremonies of the king and the hetairoi at Susa conducted according to the “Persian” ceremonial and the legalization of unions of Macedonians with Asian women were an essential step in the process that made Iranians equal to Macedonians. Now that was more than the most Macedonians could stomach. Over the years, the breach deepened and came to a head in the Opis mutiny and its consequent bloody quelling by Alexander (324). After the 330 reforms in Parthia, more reforms in Bactria and Sogdiana in 328-327, after his army had become mostly Iranian, finally after the measures taken in Persis (including Peucestas’ appointment) and Susa, Alexander’s political

252

Chapter Sixteen

programme as declared at Opis cannot be seen as surprising. If anything, it is a direct consequence of Alexander’s policy toward the Iranians. The available sources give a consistent picture of Alexander’s proIranian policy at Susa and at Opis. Curtius’ narrative in the Historiae Alexandri Magni 10.2-4 , although mutilated by some gaps, offers a vivid and at some points unique account of the Iranians’ role and Alexander’s policies towards the Iranians in 324. The speeches Curtius provides in 10.2-4, although rhetorically embellished and showing similarities to speeches known in Roman historical tradition,35 are in substance genuine, i.e. they offer historical information of essential significance. An examination of the details offered by Curtius proves a high degree of coherence in his account.36 The evidence given by him must be used with caution but he often gives details compatible with other sources: the works of Diodorus, Justinus, Plutarch and Arrian contain elements descriptive of Alexander’s political concept vis-à-vis the Iranians. These elements interlock to make up a consistent whole. In Curtius, pronouncements of Alexander’s policies, his “barbarization,” and rebellions or conspiracies against him are concurrent with the larger context and, in their core, include arguments and notions that cannot be dismissed as artistic ornaments or rhetorical inventions. Facts embedded in an utterance should be carefully distinguished from embellishments. Finally, if Curtius is blamed for rhetorical ambitions, it does not have to be as deprecatory as it is often thought. Suffice it to mention Cicero (De or. 2.62-4), who thought of history as a category of literary prose akin to speeches. Indeed, speeches in Curtius, especially in 10.2-4, are crucial to their context. It is evident that they are often grounded in his sources rather than being random enunciations unrelated to actual figures and events. And although they may contain some clear allusions to contemporary political events (so, for example, Curtius catalogues Alexander’s virtues, including fortitudo and liberalitas, so as to echo Roman emperors’ propaganda), they do not distort the central issues derived from primary sources.

35

Cf. Helmreich 1927; Rutz 1983. While introducing a speech by a Scythian envoy in Central Asia, Curtius 7.8.11 stresses his concern for reliability: “Sed, ut possit oratio eorum sperni, tamen fides nostra non debet; quae utcumque sunt tradita incorrupta proferemus.” 36

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN THE TRUTH ABOUT TYRANNY: TACITUS AND THE HISTORIAN’S RESPONSIBILITY IN EARLY IMPERIAL ROME KURT A. RAAFLAUB

To William F. Wyatt on his 75th birthday

Tacitus Tacitus came from a “middle-class” family and rose into the ranks of the highest imperial nobility.1 As is often the case with social upstarts, Tacitus too identified very strongly with the values and ideals of this élite, even though these were based in part on a long-gone past. He grew up under Nero, began his career under Vespasian and Titus, rose to greater prominence under Domitian, and held high offices under Nerva and Trajan; he died at the very end of Trajan’s reign or, more likely, in that of Hadrian (Syme 1958, 59-74; Birley 2000). More than half of these emperors were good and responsible rulers, but it was the bad ones, the oppressive tyrants, Nero and especially Domitian, who made a deep impression on Tacitus’ conception of monarchy, politics, and history. 1

I thank the organizers of the conference in Wrocáaw for their initiative and generous hospitality and the participants for stimulating discussions as well as useful comments on my paper. I owe special thanks for helpful suggestions to Jakub PigoĔ, Steven Rutledge, Franz Römer, and Johannes Engels as well as, in a different context, Carolyn Dewald and John Marincola. I use Michael Grant’s familiar Penguin translation of the Annals (though often with slight modifications), keeping Tony Woodman’s fine new translation close at hand. On Tacitus, see generally Syme 1958; Mellor 1993. On the aspects discussed in this chapter esp. Woodman 1988; 1998.

254

Chapter Seventeen

Remarkably, he believed that only one princeps had improved during his reign: initially, “Vespasian’s reputation was doubtful; he was the first princeps who ever changed for the better” (Hist. 1.50). Tacitus knew another great intellectual of his time well: Pliny the Younger, an equally prominent senator, consul, and brilliant orator, whose letters and praise oration (panegyric) on the emperor Trajan survive (Syme 1958, 112-20, 542, 615f.). Suetonius, a minister and head of archive under Trajan and Hadrian, author of biographies of the first twelve emperors, was a younger contemporary, though with a different background, both in family and experience (Syme 1958, 781f.; Wallace-Hadrill 1983, 200f.). The extant works of these two authors offer insights that help at least partially to balance the grievous loss of most of Tacitus’ Histories (the extant first four books cover almost exclusively the civil wars of 68/9). Most importantly, they shed light on élite contemporaries’ reactions to Domitian’s tyranny.2 The Annals has established Tacitus’ fame as one of the greatest historians ever; it is a masterpiece in conception, narrative, style, and interpretation—and it offers many puzzles because Tacitus’ understanding of the historian’s task differs so starkly from ours. This is the issue I want to explore in the present chapter.

Question and Purpose I begin by defining the specific problem that has long preoccupied me—and, of course, a long series of scholars before me.3 Tacitus writes at the very beginning of the Annals (1.1.2f.): Famous writers have recorded Rome’s early glories and disasters. The Augustan Age, too, had its distinguished historians. But then the rising tide of flattery (adulatio) exercised a deterrent effect. The reigns of Tiberius, Gaius, Claudius, and Nero were described during their liefetimes in fictitious terms (falsae), for fear (metus) of the consequences; whereas the accounts written after their deaths were influenced by still raging hatred (recentibus odiis). So I have decided to say a little about Augustus…and then to go on to the reign of Tiberius and what followed. I shall write without anger and partisanship (sine ira et studio): in my case the customary incentives to these are lacking (quorum causas procul habeo).

2

Pliny: Soverini 1989. Suetonius: Bradley 1991. See the commentaries by Koestermann 1963: 59-62; Goodyear 1972: 94-101; in addition, among many others, Vogt 1936/1969; Schottlaender 1975; Classen 1986; Luce 1989.

3

Tacitus and the Historian’s Responsibility in Early Imperial Rome

255

It is particularly Tacitus’ claim to write “without anger and partisanship” that interests me here. For his work seems to bear, almost on every page, the marks of nothing but anger and partisanship. Admittedly, of the Julio-Claudian emperors covered by the Annals, Caligula, young, inexperienced, traumatized by the extermination of his family under the previous regime, and unfit for the throne, quickly deteriorated into a raging monster (Barrett 1989; Ferrill 1991)—although this assessment has been subject to revision recently (Winterling 2003)— and was assassinated after only four years. His uncle Claudius had survived only because nobody considered him fit to rule; though a conscious administrator and intent on collaborating with the Senate, he easily succumbed to manipulation by cunning and ambitious persons surrounding him; in his last years he became oppressive and prosecuted, exiled, or executed many leading senators (Levick 1990). Nero, again young and inexperienced when he became emperor, accepted the advice of good counsellors during his first five years but then replaced them with freedmen and women who allowed him to do what he wanted; especially his last years, after the discovery of a great conspiracy, were among the bloodiest in the history of the entire empire (Griffin 1984; Champlin 2003; see also Rudich 1993; Rubiés 1994). Hence for much of this period there was little to report that was positive and uplifting. Even where it could be found, though, anticipating the impending turn to the worse, Tacitus saw mostly deception and pretence. Human nature, he thought, like many in antiquity, was unchangeable; thus the emperors initially must have concealed their true nature which did not wait long to break through.4 This is true especially for the first two emperors. Others recognized in Augustus a man who had brought peace and stability to the empire, introduced crucial reforms that benefitted everybody, and sought collaboration rather than confrontation (Tac. Ann. 1.9). Tacitus, however, believed those who saw only a powermonger who had fought his way to the top by enveloping the empire in a series of civil wars, cruelly eliminated all opposition, bribed all classes into submission, destroyed republican liberty, and enslaved the once powerful Roman nobility (ibid. 1.2-4 [below], 10 [here referring to popular opinions: dicebatur]). Even worse, in his narrative of Tiberius Tacitus offers all the information we need to demonstrate that this emperor tried his best to rule responsibly and co-operatively, to stem the tide of increasing flattery and 4

See Reinhold 1985. Woodman 1989 (1998, ch. 9) discusses the standard view and offers an alternative explanation. Gill 1983 argues that the ancients’ beliefs about character were more complex.

256

Chapter Seventeen

submission, and maintain some measure of collegiality between himself and the senate. But Tiberius lacked the charisma of Augustus and suffered debilitating personal disappointments before and after he became emperor. His last years were a nightmare of prosecutions and executions (Levick 1999). To Tacitus, the Tiberius of these last years was the real Tiberius; earlier, as he tries to demonstrate in incident after incident, Tiberius had dissimulated his real nature.5 To us moderns, this effort may well seem a supreme example of historical bias. With the information he provides we are able to reconstruct a very different image of Tiberius. Here, we are tempted to conclude, Tacitus wrote with anger and partisanship. Can we trust him elsewhere if he is so obviously untrustworthy in assessing Augustus and Tiberius? I shall argue that we should not jump to such conclusions. Tacitus’ statement, to write without anger and partisanship, I suggest, intends both less and more than we tend to read in it. In order to understand Tacitus’ historical judgment, we need to place him in a larger context, both generally of historical developments in his time and specifically of the experiences of the Roman élite. We also need to consider the possibility that, like other ancient historians, in writing history he pursued purposes that are far from identical with those we take for granted; that he perceived his task as a mission that needs to be translated into terms more immediately resonating with us. First of all, we need to figure out what exactly Tacitus’ statement intends to convey. I am aware of an ongoing debate about the interpretation of Tacitus’ prefaces. I know that they must be read in the rhetorical context of a long tradition of historians’ efforts to distinguish themselves from their untrustworthy predecessors and to emulate the great models of their art (Marincola 1999). In particular, the claim to be free of bias had become somewhat of a commonplace by the early empire (Luce 1989, 1). I also know what Tony Woodman has demonstrated impressively, that the influence of rhetorical traditions of dramatization and embellishment is pervasive in Tacitus (Woodman 1988, ch. 4; see also Aubrion 1991). Based on a broad and thorough investigation, Woodman writes, “in my view classical historiography is different from its modern namesake because it is primarily a rhetorical genre and is to be classified (in modern terms) as literature rather than as history” (Woodman 1988, 197). Whether or not we fully agree with this, I do not think that it is incompatible with the attempt I undertake here. My purpose is, on the one hand, to resolve an 5

See especially his obituary of Tiberius in 6.51.1-3 with Woodman (previous note). On Tacitus and Tiberius also Klingner 1953/1986; Baar 1990.

Tacitus and the Historian’s Responsibility in Early Imperial Rome

257

apparent conflict between authorial intention and execution by finding more specific substance in at least parts of Tacitus’ prefaces.6 On the other hand, I wish to draw attention to another aspect of ancient historiography that I consider equally pervasive and influential: its didactic purpose.

Sine Ira et Studio What Tacitus says is this: during the republic and even the age of Augustus, history as a genre flourished and was written by distinguished authors. We think, of course, of names like Livy who was supposedly teased as a “Pompeian” by Augustus (Syme 1959; Deininger 1985) and Sallust, a fierce critic of the nobility (Earl 1961; Syme 1964). But later, fear of adverse repercussions kept historians from writing honestly: nothing that was, or could be construed as, even remotely critical could be expressed because the crime of offending the emperor carried almost certain capital punishment (Bauman 1974; Rutledge 2001; Raaflaub 1987a with bibliography). The fate of Cremutius Cordus is a case in point. In his history he had praised Julius Caesar’s assassins, Brutus and Cassius, as the “last of the Romans.” Caesar was (by adoption) Tiberius’ grandfather. Cordus’ words were interpreted as an insult to the emperor and prompted a treason trial. Despite a spirited defence, Cordus knew that conviction was inevitable, and starved himself to death. Tacitus concludes: “The Senate ordered his books to be burnt...But they survived, first hidden and later republished. This makes one deride the stupidity of people who believe that today’s authority can destroy tomorrow’s memories” (Ann. 4.34f.).7 For such reasons, Tacitus says, contemporary histories during the early empire contained more fiction than fact. Later historians, remembering the oppression they had suffered, were influenced by hatred and thus again failed to be objective. Neither applies to Tacitus himself: he has suffered nothing on the part of these emperors; hence he is able to write without anger and partisanship. In other words, whatever he writes on these earlier emperors is not influenced by personal experiences inflicted or animosities caused by them.

6

This in turn flies in the face of recent doubts about the validity of investigating an author’s intention, since any “intentionalism…cannot be definitively retrieved” (Rutledge 1998, 154 n. 1, with ref. to Kennedy 1992). On modern literary approaches to Tacitus, see Dircksen 2007. 7 See Cancik-Lindemaier and Cancik 1986; Luce 1989: 28-31; Martin and Woodman 1989 ad loc.; McHugh 2004.

258

Chapter Seventeen

The preface to the Histories (1.1) expresses similar thoughts (Woodman 1988, 160-7; Damon 2003, 5, 78-80). Historiography flourished with eloquence and independence during the republic. Under the monarchy, truth (veritas) was shattered under a variety of blows. Initially, it was ignorance of politics which were no longer a citizen’s concerns. Later came the taste for flattery or, conversely, hatred (odium) of the rulers. So between malice on the one side and servility on the other the interests of posterity were neglected...But those who lay claim to unbiased trustworthiness (incorrupta fides) must speak of no man with either hatred or affection (neque amore et sine odio; trans. by W.H. Fyfe and D.S. Levene).

The Histories, written before the Annals, included the reign of Domitian. Here Tacitus could not claim temporal and emotional distance. The Agricola, the biography of his father-in-law, illustrates his feelings about this emperor (below). Still, the historian has to ban both positive and negative emotions. We would love to know how Tacitus mastered this challenge—even if his solution was perhaps not what we would expect. Fortunately, Cicero offers a clue to how we should understand such remarks. In 46 BCE, Julius Caesar, victor in the civil war and holding virtually sole power, surprisingly pardoned one of his leading opponents, Marcus Claudius Marcellus. Overcome by emotion, Cicero praised Caesar’s generosity and goodwill and urged him to devote all his efforts to re-building the state and healing the wounds caused by the bitter conflict. Through such works of peace, more than through his brilliant military victories and conquests, he said, Caesar would be able to achieve everlasting fame. And now I quote (Pro Marcello 29; Luce 1989, 27 with parallel passages): Work, I ask you, for a verdict from those judges who are going to judge you many centuries from now. Their decision is likely to be more unbiased than our own, since they will be judging without partisanship or selfinterest (sine amore et sine cupiditatibus), without rancour or animosity (sine odio et sine invidia).

We understand: those directly involved in the events and political struggles, cannot help but being influenced by partisan and self-serving sentiments, such as sympathy, self-interest, hatred, anger, jealousy, and partisanship (amor, cupiditas, odium, ira, invidia, studium). By contrast, those who are far removed from such immediate involvement, will be able

Tacitus and the Historian’s Responsibility in Early Imperial Rome

259

to look back and in their judgment be free of these kinds of partisan emotions. This helps explain Tacitus’ comment in the Annals. That of the Histories requires a broader interpretation. The historian, I conclude, is permitted to criticize or judge, but not out of emotion or for personal reasons, as if he were (still or at all) directly involved in the events he is describing and assessing. This will be helpful for clarifying the issue of objectivity, but before we do so we need to consider background and personal experiences. Why, we ask, is Tacitus so negative about emperors and the principate? An attempt to answer this question requires an examination, on the one hand, of historical developments from the late republic to Tacitus’ own time—developments that resulted in the political system in which he and his fellow-nobles were operating and which shaped their experiences—and, on the other hand, of the situation and experiences of the Roman nobility under the monarchy in general and at the time of Tacitus in particular.

Historical Background The former, an analysis of historical background, would involve a discussion of the causes of the fall of the republic and emergence of the principate, of the failure of Caesar’s openly monarchic and the success of Augustus’ more moderate solution. I do not need to offer this discussion here.8 Suffice it to say that Augustus’ “restored republic” was republican enough to be believable and acceptable, especially to a generation exhausted by civil wars, and monarchical enough to guarantee peace, stability, and effective government. With few changes, this system remained in place for two centuries. The peace it guaranteed resulted in unprecedented prosperity for the entire Roman empire. Inevitably, however, the balance of power shifted more and more to the side of the princeps. Augustus had eliminated the political significance of plebs and assemblies but not the important role of the senate in decision making processes. Senators therefore continued their rivalries for influence, but now increasingly sought the support of the most powerful member, the princeps himself, who became a convenient weapon to eliminate hated rivals (Raaflaub 1987a, esp. 41-7). Hence, despite a long tradition originating in the republic, flattery, denunciations, and accusations soon 8

See, e.g., Syme 1939; Christ 1984; Deininger 1996; von Ungern-Sternberg 2004; Konrad 2006; Tatum 2006. See also, on Caesar and Augustus, Meier 1980; 1995; Bleicken 1999; Kienast 1999; Eck 2007.

260

Chapter Seventeen

became much more rampant and vicious, now enhanced by the impact of maiestas (Bauman 1967; 1974; Rutledge 2001). As Tacitus puts it, the “senators rushed headlong into slavery” (Ann. 1.7.1). Much of the bloody oppression described by Tacitus was brought about by the senators themselves. As we now know from a series of important documents, recently found in Spain and dating to the early years of Tiberius’ reign (especially the Piso decree: Eck, Caballos and Fernández 1996; Damon and Takács 1999), all this happened very quickly and very early in the principate. The principate was a compromise. Compromises function only when those involved have the will and political skills to make them work. Most senators did not know how to handle the system. Nor did those among Augustus’ successors who were “born in purple.” They took their power and privileges for granted. They feared rivals and sought to eliminate them. They became the easy prey of flatterers, informers, powerhungry servants and ambitious women. Every change in government, like every change in industrial leadership, results in the replacement of the highest-ranking personnel. For the sake of peace and reconciliation, Augustus had refrained from replacing the traditional republican élite with a new one of state functionaries. The Roman aristocracy paid a heavy price: a long series of conspiracies against hated emperors and bloody persecutions that ended only when the carriers of the old system were all gone and the new system was established enough to seem natural (Raaflaub 1987a; the contrast to Augustus’ long reign is stunning: Raaflaub and Samons II 1990). This essentially was the case after the death of Nero and the civil wars of 68, with the accession of a new dynasty. Nevertheless, old ideals stayed alive in the nobility, eagerly embraced by upstarts like Tacitus himself—even if these ideals, insofar as they aimed beyond Augustus’ “restored republic” at the former res publica libera, were anachronistic and unrealistic. Such thinking was re-inforced by the experiences of Domitian’s reign which, though an unfortunate fall-back to earlier conditions, shaped the views of Tacitus’ generation.

The Experiences of Tacitus’ Generation Many of Tacitus’ contemporaries were afflicted by two serious psycho-social syndromes: traumatization and collective guilt.

Tacitus and the Historian’s Responsibility in Early Imperial Rome

261

Traumatization by tyranny Tacitus begins the Annals with a brief summary of the history of Rome to the time of Augustus. He makes three points.9 (1) Rome initially was ruled by a monarchy. (2) During the Republic monarchical power was temporarily restricted and remained exceptional. (3) Later, attempts at establishing autocracy proliferated and culminated in Augustus, “who found the whole state exhausted by internal dissensions, and established over it a personal regime known as the Principate.” In other words, Rome began as a monarchy and became a monarchy again. Tacitus obviously did not think much of the Augustan “compromise,” of the “principate” or the “restored republic.” In his view, these words were nothing but ideological fictions; the reality was monarchy. He writes: Augustus seduced the army with bonuses, and his cheap food policy was successful bait for civilians. Indeed, he attracted everybody’s goodwill by the enjoyable gift of peace. Then he gradually pushed ahead and absorbed the functions of the senate, the officials, and even the law. Opposition did not exist. War or judicial murder had disposed of all men of spirit... Practically no one had ever seen truly Republican government. The country had been transformed, and there was nothing left of the fine old Roman character. Political equality was a thing of the past; all eyes watched for imperial commands (1.2.1, 3.7-4.1).

Why did Tacitus think this way? In part because by his time the system had become more openly monarchical—although Pliny’s Panegyric shows that the ideal of a productive collaboration between princeps and senate was still very much alive. More importantly, Tacitus and his contemporaries had suffered through a bad period of autocratic tyranny, that of Domitian. Domitian, the younger son of Vespasian, lacked the authority and modesty of his father and the charisma of his popular brother, Titus. Growing up in the shadow of these strong personalities, he may have 9

Tac. Ann. 1.1: “When Rome was first a city, its rulers were kings. Then Brutus created the consulate and free Republican institutions in general. Dictatorships were assumed in emergencies. [Other arrangements giving individuals extraordinary power were short-lived.] Subsequently Cinna and Sulla set up autocracies, but they too were brief. Soon Pompey and Crassus acquired predominant positions, but rapidly lost them to Caesar. Next, the military strength which Lepidus and Antony had built up was absorbed by Augustus. He found the whole state exhausted by internal dissensions, and established over it a personal regime known as the Principate.” See, e.g., Classen 1986.

262

Chapter Seventeen

developed an inferiority complex. When he became emperor, he tried to assert himself. His first ten years were by no means all bad but he made mistakes and never gained the trust of the élite and the support and admiration he craved for. Finally, misunderstandings, mutual suspicion, and a large conspiracy destroyed any reasonable basis of collaboration. Denunciations, trials, executions, and a regime of terror ensued. Two years later Domitian was assassinated.10 In the memory of the survivors, these oppressive years overshadowed the entire reign. Whenever Tacitus and Pliny speak of Domitian, they think of the monster and tyrant, who had become a second Nero, imposed on them constant fear for their lives, suppressed freedom of expression, killed the best members of society, and forced the others to seek refuge in an internal exile. What we perceive in the statements of these men is how deeply they were traumatized by these experiences. A couple of passages will suffice to illustrate this. The description of Domitian’s time in Tacitus’ Histories is lost. Several months after Domitian’s death, Tacitus wrote the following passage in the biography of Agricola: Eulogies that were written [by virtuous men for other men of distinction] were treated as capital offences, and the savage rage of their enemies was vented upon the books as well as upon their authors. The public executioners, under official instructions, made a bonfire in public places of those masterpieces of literary art. So much is in the record. In those fires doubtless the Government imagined that it could silence the voice of Rome and annihilate the freedom of the Senate and men’s knowledge of the truth...We have indeed set up a record of subservience. Rome of old explored the utmost limits of freedom; we have plumbed the depths of slavery, robbed as we were by informers even of the right to exchange ideas in conversation... Now at long last our spirit revives. In the first dawn of this blessed age, the emperor Nerva harmonized the old discord between autocracy and freedom; day by day Trajan is enhancing the happiness of our times...Yet our human nature is so weak that remedies take longer to work than diseases...The mind and its pursuits can more easily be crushed than brought to life again...Think of it. Fifteen whole years—no small part of a person’s life—taken from us. All the most energetic men have fallen victims to the cruelty of the emperor. And the few of us that survive are no 10 On Domitian, see Bengtson 1979; Jones 1979; 1992; Southern 1997; see also Pailler and Sablayrolles 1994 with some revisionist assessments of Domitian and his reign. On Tacitus’ assessment of Domitian: Urban 1971. On that of Suetonius: Jones 1996; Jones and Milns 2002; on that of Pliny: e.g., Soverini 1989; Hoffer 1999: 6-10, 61-6, and index s.v. ‘Domitian.’

Tacitus and the Historian’s Responsibility in Early Imperial Rome

263

longer what we once were, since so many of our best years have been taken from us... (2f.; trans. by H. Mattingly and S.A. Handford).

Agricola, though one of the most eminent senators and successful generals, retired early and studiously avoided giving any offence to the emperor. He died a natural death. Tacitus comments: It was no small compensation for his untimely cutting off that he was spared those last days when Domitian, instead of giving the state a breathing-space to recover from one blow before the next fell, rained them upon its head so thick and fast that its life-blood was drained as though by a single mortal wound. Agricola did not live to see the senate-house under siege, the senators surrounded by a cordon of troops, and that one stroke that sent so many high dignitaries to their death, so many noble ladies into banishment or exile (44f.).

Around the same time, Pliny, then holding the consulship, gave his famous speech in honour of Trajan (Bartsch 1994, ch. 5). I cite a few sentences; behind every thought lurks the trauma of the Domitianic experience: Away with expressions formerly prompted by fear: I will have none of them. The sufferings of the past are over...Times are different, and our speeches must show this...Nowhere should we flatter our princeps as a divinity and a god; we are talking of a fellow-citizen, not a tyrant, one who is our father not our master...Indeed I can honour my princeps best by saying that in thanking him my fears are not that he will think I say too little in his praise but that I say too much...There is no danger that in my references to his humanity he will see a reproach for arrogance; that he will suppose I mean extravagance by modest expenditure, and cruelty by forbearance...or that I judge him a coward when I speak of him as a brave man. We gather around you, [Trajan,] no longer pale and terrified, slow of step as if in peril of our lives, but carefree and happy...When our respects are paid, there is no immediate flight to leave the hall empty—we stay behind to linger on...though this is the place where recently that fearful monster built his defences with untold terrors, where lurking in his den he licked up the blood of his murdered relatives or emerged to plot the massacre and destruction of his most distinguished subjects. Menaces and horror were the sentinels at this doors...then himself in person, dreadful to see and to meet, with arrogance on his brow and fury in his eye...None dared approach him, none dared speak (Paneg. 2f., 48; trans. by B. Radice).

Instead of piling up other samples, I suggest to look at a parallel case. About a century later, after a series of excellent emperors, another young

264

Chapter Seventeen

and immature princeps succeeded to the throne: Commodus, the son of Marcus Aurelius. His beginnings were not inauspicious but—at least so we are told—he soon abandoned himself to physical pleasures and extravagances. A number of senators conspired with his sister to assassinate the irresponsible leader whom they detested. The plot failed, and the emperor became fearful, suspicious, and vindictive, producing another reign of terror (Barber 2001; Hekster 2002). One of the senators who survived was a historian, Cassius Dio, who went on to write a long history of Rome. In his report on Commodus the early years have vanished; his description is dominated entirely by the trauma caused by Commodus’ mad and threatening behaviour. Again, I quote but a brief selection: I should render my narrative very tedious were I to give a detailed report of all the persons put to death by Commodus, of all those whom he made away with as the result of false accusations or unjustified suspicions or because of their conspicuous wealth, distinguished family, unusual learning, or some other point of excellence...[As Dio then tells us, Commodus was especially fond of fighting publicly in the arena, with gladiators and wild animals.] When he was fighting, we senators together with the knights always attended...We would shout out whatever we were commanded, and especially these words continually: “You are lord and you are first, of all men most fortunate. Victor you are, and victor you shall be...” And here is another thing that he did to us senators which gave us every reason to look for our death. Having killed an ostrich and cut off its head, he came up to where we were sitting, holding the head in his left hand and in his right hand raising aloft his bloody sword; and though he spoke not a word, yet he wagged his head with a grin, indicating that he would treat us in the same way. And many would indeed have perished by the sword on the spot, for laughing at him (for it was laughter rather than indignation that overcame us), if I had not chewed some laurel leaves, which I got from my garland, myself, and persuaded the others who were sitting near me to do the same, so that in the steady movement of our jaws we might conceal the fact that we were laughing (Cass. Dio 73.7.3, 20.1f., 21.1f.; trans. by M. Cary).

In democratic countries with firmly established laws, civic rights, and protections, it is hard to imagine the impact of such experiences on the minds of the victims. Unfortunately, even in our days many readers in certain parts of the world will have no difficulties in doing so (e.g., Rudich 1993; 1997). Under the terror of these oppressive emperors, Rome virtually became a totalitarian state. The trauma people often suffer in such states is well known from recent experiences in Nazi, fascist, and

Tacitus and the Historian’s Responsibility in Early Imperial Rome

265

communist times. Thoughtful observers living through this kind of nightmare could easily have concluded that monarchy was the source of all evil, no matter the intentions of its founder, the efforts of some good emperors to avoid excesses, and the ideologies or appearances maintained to conceal the system’s evil face. Monarchy that made such terror possible was fundamentally bad: under Nero, Domitian, and Commodus it revealed not a perversion and aberration but its true nature.

The collective guilt syndrome This assessment, I suggest, was re-inforced by a second sentiment which I call the “collective guilt syndrome.” By no means all senators submitted to imperial oppression and shouted praises to the monster in order to save their lives. As Cassius Dio says of one of his colleagues, he “never appeared in the arena, but…preferred even to be killed for this rather than to behold the emperor, the son of Marcus Aurelius, conducting himself in such a fashion” (73.20.1). In the Annals, Tacitus describes the resistence to Nero of a small group of senators who had adopted the precepts of Stoic philosophy and considered the behaviour expected of them in the senate incompatible with their personal honour, the dignity of their class, and the liberty of the senate. Their leader was Clodius Thrasea Paetus.11 When Nero had assassinated his own mother, Agrippina, he wrote a letter to the senate, accusing her of having planned his destruction. The lies were obvious. “Nevertheless,” writes Tacitus, “leading citizens competed with complimentary proposals,” heaping honours on the emperor. “It had been the custom of Thrasea Paetus to pass over flatteries in silence or with curt agreement. But this time he walked out of the senate—thereby endangering himself without bringing general freedom any nearer” (14.12.1, my italics). This comment is significant. A few years later, in the aftermath of a large conspiracy, Thrasea was put on trial and forced to commit suicide because he had been conspicuously absent from official events honouring the emperor, and because he had proposed a more lenient sentence against an official who was supposed to die for having composed offensive verses about Nero (Ann. 16.21-35). Interestingly, we find in the Agricola a similar comment. Although many tried to slander the retired general, his high prestige and his unprovocative behaviour saved him: 11

Syme 1958, 556-61; Griffin 1984, ch. 10; Rudich 1993, index s.v. ‘Clodius Thrasea Paetus’; see also PigoĔ 2003 with recent bibliog.

266

Chapter Seventeen Even Domitian, though he was quick to anger…was softened by the selfrestraint and wisdom of Agricola, who declined to court, by a defiant and futile parade of independence, the renown that must inevitably destroy him. Let it be clear to those who insist on admiring disobedience that even under bad emperors men can be great, and that a decent regard for authority, if backed by industry and energy, can reach that peak of distinction which most men attain only by following a perilous course, winning fame, without benefiting their country, by an ostentatious selfmartyrdom (42, my italics).

In the Annals, giving a brief eulogy of a senator of high distinction, Marcus Lepidus, Tacitus writes: I find that [he] played a wise and noble part in events. He often palliated the brutalities caused by other people’s sycophancy. And he had a sense of proportion—for he enjoyed unbroken influence and favour with Tiberius. This compels me to doubt whether, like other things, the friendships and enmities of rulers depend on destiny and the luck of a man’s birth. Instead, may not our own decisions play some part, enabling us to steer a way, safe from intrigues and hazards, between perilous insubordination and degrading servility? (4.20, my italics)

Still, Thrasea Paetus and his friends had acted and risked death while others lied low and hid their heads in the sand. Neither Tacitus nor Pliny or Cassius Dio were involved in the conspiracies that eventually brought Domitian and Commodus down and prompted the “dawn of liberty” and “the new age” that Tacitus celebrates at the beginning of the Agricola (above). His comments can be interpreted in two ways: as a correct assessment of the futility of demonstrative acts of defiance in a totalitarian regime, and as the expression of a feeling of guilt, a collective syndrome typical of the survivors of tyranny who know that they were passive when others spoke out, resisted—and died. This too is a phenomenon known well from recent totalitarian regimes.12 Ronald Mellor takes this interpretation even further: [Tacitus] had served Domitian loyally and been rewarded generously, yet the scars of those years inform all his writing. We cannot tell whether he felt the guilt of an unwilling collaborator, or merely the shame of a 12 Jakub PigoĔ (personal communication) reminds me of yet another phenomenon (also paralleled in recent totalitarian systems) that fits Tacitus and his friends: “that of a time-server who presents himself, after the upheaval, as a member of the opposition to the ancien régime, faced with danger on account of his uncompromising attitudes. I think Pliny the Younger is the perfect example.”

Tacitus and the Historian’s Responsibility in Early Imperial Rome

267

survivor…While we will never know what Tacitus actually did under Domitian, we cannot doubt the personal agony which he suffered…For Tacitus, Domitian was a microcosm of the century of Empire, and his own relation to Domitian becomes the model for the relations of the Senate with the emperors since the accession of Augustus: collaboration, resentment, hatred. Through his devastating portrait of Tiberius, Tacitus attempts to exorcize his own guilt. He hates tyrants, but he also condemns the ostentatious deaths of selfproclaimed martyrs who do the state no good. He gropes toward the vindication of a middle path, which he calls moderatio, the path followed by his hero Agricola and, Tacitus would like to pretend, by himself…But the historian is too intelligent and finally too honest not to recognize the terrible truth of the senators’ complicity: “Soon our hands dragged Helvidius to prison; the reproachful looks of Mauricus and Rusticus shamed us and we were stained with Senecio’s innocent blood.” Cowardice and complicity followed by guilt, rage, and self-justification; not an unfamiliar story but in its candor a very human one… (Mellor 1993, 8f.; quote: Tac. Agr. 45.1).

On top of all this, Tacitus was a historian. Unquestionably, he was convinced that the principate, whatever its name and ideology, was a monarchy, that monarchy was potentially totalitarian and oppressive, and that this potential lurked under the surface even when it was not overtly visible. By overthrowing the government of the republican aristocracy, Augustus had introduced tyranny, and every princeps so far had been a tyrant whatever he seemed or pretended to be and however long he succeeded in disguising it—up to the dawn of the present “new age” where for the first time two incompatible principles, principate and liberty, were—or seemed to be—reconciled (Agr. 3.1).13 Even now, Tacitus postponed his final judgment. As he writes in the Histories, “I have reserved for my old age...the reigns of Nerva and Trajan, which afford a richer and a safer theme: for it is the rare fortune of these days that a man may think what he likes and say what he thinks” (1.1.4). So, to return to the question posed at the beginning, did Tacitus lie when he said in the Annals that he was going to write without anger or partisanship? Was he really, as he claimed in the Histories, committed to pursue historical truth without hatred or love of individual emperors? To a large extent, I think, he was. We have discussed the meaning of sine ira et studio. Now we must, in conclusion, take a brief look at another issue.

13

Tacitus’ view of principate and principes: Shotter 1991; of liberty: Morford 1991.

268

Chapter Seventeen

The Purpose of Writing History in Antiquity Ever since Leopold von Ranke in the 19th century formulated the principle of reconstructing history “as it really was” (Finley 1986, ch. 5; cf. Iggers 1983, ch. 4; Clark 2004, ch. 1), modern historians have considered objectiveness one of the most important goals of their discipline. We try to step back and to disengage ourselves, and attempt not to allow personal feelings, social prejudices, and political experiences to interfere with our interpretation of sources and reconstruction of events. At the same time, we know well that complete objectivity is impossible— some think it is not even desirable—even if we do not live and write in a state that is dominated by a totalitarian ideology. Ideologies, nevertheless, are ubiquitous. The thinking of every age, every generation, every country is shaped by its own experiences and prevalent ideologies, and such thinking inevitably colours our interpretation of history.14 To the ancients, I suggest, objectivity was not a goal in itself. Certainly, all historians claimed to aim at establishing the truth (Marincola 2007). Cicero (De or. 2.62) says it categorically: the first law of history is “not to dare to say anything but the truth,” the second, never “not to dare to say the truth” (“ne quid falsi dicere audeat…ne quid veri non audeat”) and to avoid partiality (gratia) and malice (simultas). Historians were perfectly aware of the obstacles that hindered this pursuit and of the difficulties involved in establishing reliably what had happened and was thought or said by the principal actors—hence, for example, Thucydides’ method chapters (1.20-2) and Polybius’ constant Auseinandersetzung with the shortcomings of his predecessors (Meister 1975). Yet their concepts of truth differed markedly from ours.15 Most especially, historical truth was not to be confused with lack of personal engagement on the part of the historian. To understand this, we need to make another brief digression. History as a genre and discipline developed in the fifth century BCE. One of the ancestors of this new genre was epic poetry, especially Homer’s Iliad (Strasburger 1972; Boedeker 2002). From epic the historians learned admiration for great deeds, especially in great wars, where the individual met his ultimate challenge, and the art of telling such deeds in dramatic narrative, interspersed with direct speeches. More importantly for our present purpose, the epic poet was not only an entertainer but also an educator, a voice of public conscience. He 14

On objectivity in history, see, e.g., Junker and Reisinger 1974; Koselleck, Mommsen and Rüsen 1977; Novick 1988; Appleby, Hunt and Jacob 1994, ch. 7. 15 See, e.g., Fornara 1983, 99-120, 137-41; Wheeldon 1989; Grant 1995, esp. ch. 5; Marincola 1997a, 158-74, esp. 160f., and relevant chs. in Gill and Wiseman 1993.

Tacitus and the Historian’s Responsibility in Early Imperial Rome

269

dramatized, in the context of a great story, the dilemmas and problems that exercised his own society; he alerted his audience to aspects they might have ignored, and thus helped them to think about possible solutions (Raaflaub 2000, 26-34; 2001, 73-89). Myth maintained its relevance by being shaped and reinterpreted in ways that were meaningful to the present of the listener. Similarly, the poets of Greek tragedy utilized mythical settings and stories, familiar to all, to work through problems that were important to their audiences (Boedeker and Raaflaub 2005). Remarkably, the historians appropriated this principle (Raaflaub forthcoming). Herodotus wrote the history of the great Persian Wars in which the small but free Greek city-states had defeated the might of the Persian empire ruled by an autocratic king. Upon close inspection, however, one discovers that this history, although remarkable and worth knowing in and by itself, was written and interpreted especially in order to be relevant to the historian’s own present. Through selection, dramatization, emphasis, occasional explicit hints, and even fictitious elaboration, the historian constantly reminds his readers of issues that are of greatest importance in their own time.16 Thucydides, writing about a contemporary “world war,” not a past one, makes this explicit in the famous “method chapters” of his introduction (1.20-2): his work is intended to be “an everlasting possession (ktƝma es aiei)” rather than a prize composition which is heard and then forgotten (22.4). He sees one of his main tasks in de-ideologizing history, in revealing the truth behind the ideological façades erected by the warring states.17 Again, the purpose is to educate his readers, to make them more critical and politically aware. Polybius takes this a big step further: history is an education for life and the best training ground for aspiring politicians.18 The Romans pick this up but emphasize moral aspects as much as political ones. Sallust is an obvious example, and Livy, as his preface illustrates (praef. 9-12), explicitly writes exemplary history to propagate the ancestors’ moral virtues (Chaplin 2000). It is again Cicero (De or. 2.36) who formulates the famous phrase of historia magistra vitae, in a sentence in which he also praises history as “bearing witness to past times, illuminating the truth, bringing memory alive, and reporting about olden days” (“testis temporum, lux veritatis, vita memoriae…nuntia vetustatis”).

16

Fornara 1971b; Stadter 1992; Moles 1996; Raaflaub 1987b; 2002a; 2002b. See, e.g., Percival 1971; Greenwood 2006. On de-ideologizing history: Raaflaub 2004, 166-202; 2006. 18 E.g., Pol. 1.1; 3.12; 3.31f.; 3.118; 12.25a. See esp. Walbank 1957: 6-9; Sacks 1981, chap. 4; Fornara 1983, 112f.; Eckstein 1995, 16-27. 17

270

Chapter Seventeen

Tacitus and Historical Truth Here, I suggest, lies also one of the main purposes of Tacitus’ writing. He, the “most manipulative of writers,” as Woodman and Martin call him (1996: 20), no less than Thucydides unmasks ideology, de-ideologizes history, re-orients (and, from our modern point of view, to some extent “re-ideologizes”) the perspective, and conveys to his readers a deeper, “true reality” and a profoundly “real truth.” Returning more specifically to our line of inquiry, we conclude: Tacitus’ objective is truth, but not an impersonal or impassionate truth, not austere objectivity. His objective is to reveal the truth that is hidden behind the ideological façades erected and the beautiful words uttered by those in power, a truth that is particularly difficult to perceive under a system that does not allow the open flow of information and the free discussion of ideas.19 His treatment of the trial of Cn. Calpurnius Piso in December 20 CE offers an outstanding example.20 So, is Tacitus influenced by the rhetorical precepts of literature? No doubt! Is he engaged in an intertextual discourse with his great predecessors? Certainly! But this is not all. His study of the history of the Principate has led him to understand that, whatever those on top proclaim, the reality is different: princeps, the first man, really means autocrat; principate means tyranny; freedom is normally incompatible with autocracy! He pulls up the rug and shows us the dirt the makers of history have swept under it; he tears off the paper from the wall and exposes the holes and cracks which those in power want to hide. He writes without anger or partisanship but with passion and critical insight: he judges history and has a message for his contemporaries and for posterity— including us!

19 See Tacitus’ Dialogus de oratoribus; Agr. 2; Hist. 1.1: “ignorance of politics which were no longer a citizen’s concern”; ibid. fin. (quoted above); Dio 53.19 (on the difficulty of writing history under a regime that suppresses the flow of information). On Tacitus and historical truth, see recently Dircksen 2007 with ample bibliography. 20 Tac. Ann. 3.10ff. See Eck, Caballos and Fernández 1996; Woodman and Martin 1996: 110-8; Damon and Takács 1999; Eck 2000.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN RECONSIDERATIONS ON THE INTENTION AND STRUCTURE OF TACITUS’ ANNALS FRANZ RÖMER

When we ask general questions about Tacitus, we will hardly ever find straightforward answers or definite solutions. This applies to his opinions on historical developments and political necessities, to his moral and religious views, his assessment of individual characters, and last but not least his aims in writing history. In fact, in all these regards we might even suspect inconsistencies, for Tacitus seems to change his attitude towards persons and problems from earlier to later works and even between single passages within one work, especially in his last and greatest achievement, the Annals.1 On the other hand, when reading Tacitus one gets the impression that this author does not content himself with describing events of the past, but is reflecting on the course of history and on political principles at the same time. Thus, the question raises itself: what these principles are and what ideas Tacitus actually wants to convey? Clearly, this is a point on which opinions differ greatly, and there are almost as many answers as there are scholars—but not only scholars—who have dealt with the problem. Furthermore, there is a specific difference between traditional approaches and recent trends in literary studies. Traditionally, it was accepted that there could only be one truth about one author, and that this truth had to be found out by the methods of historical or philological research. According to the principles of modern reception aesthetics and of narratology, on the other hand, there may be many relevant answers to each question, reflecting the knowledge and cultural backgrounds of 1

Germanicus and Seneca, e.g., are treated quite critically at their first appearances in the Annals, and only later, when they fall victim to a tyrant, they become blameless, idealized characters. Cf. Römer 1999.

272

Chapter Eighteen

individual readers, who play an important part in constituting the various “truths” of a text.2 Therefore, the following observations will first give a survey of the most interesting opinions on Tacitus’ intentions. Then the development of the relevant ideas will be traced in his earlier works as well as in the Annals (which implies the quotation of many well known passages). Finally, an attempt will be made to outline an independent answer to the question—or, if one prefers to put it that way, to add one more to the many “truths” about Tacitus. To begin with, it is highly improbable that the renowned senator and consular Tacitus should not have really been interested in politics and should have had only literary ambitions when writing history.3 Thus, if he had only repeated historical facts and adopted the political programme of somebody else, or if his aim had only been to improve the literary achievement of a predecessor, his language and style would hardly fit so well to the moral message and the content of his narrative. Concerning Tacitus’ political views some critics thought that his only intention was to disparage all emperors. This opinion was frequently held by scholars of the traditional type far into the 20th century, among them Ranke4 who thought Tacitus a slanderer. But it was also shared by no lesser person than Napoleon, who accused Tacitus of being hostile towards rulers on principle: Heinrich Heine,5 among others, found it worthwhile to comment on this. Some attributed this hostility to a fundamental attitude of Tacitus, while others tried to show that he generalized his condemnation of 2

At present Dircksen 2007 (with detailed bibliography) is the most recent publication dealing with this aspect. Further literature will only be quoted very selectively. There are full bibliographies in most monographs, and a survey of publications from 1939 to 2003 can be found in the reports of Hanslik 1971-72 and 1973-74; Römer 1984 and 1985; and Benario 1995; 2005. 3 Even this has been maintained by way of a narratological reading. Cf. Dircksen 1996 and 2007, 249. 4 Ranke 1883, 293: “Man kann sich darüber nicht täuschen, daß Tacitus die Vorfälle doch keineswegs ohne Rücksicht auf seine eigene politische Meinung berichtet…Kaiser Tiberius mag strafen oder verzeihen, er wird überall mit auffallender Ungunst behandelt.” Also 303: “Die Erzählung des Tacitus ist stilistisch und literarisch ein Meisterstück, aber der historischen Kritik gegenüber ist sie unhaltbar.” 5 “A.W. Schlegel…haßte den Molière aus demselben Grunde, weshalb Napoleon den Tacitus gehaßt hat…Napoleon sagte von Tacitus, er sei der Verleumder des Tiberius.” (Heinrich Heine. Werke und Briefe in zehn Bänden, edited by H. Kaufmann, vol. 5, 77. Berlin: Aufbau, 1961).

Reconsiderations on the Intention and Structure of Tacitus’ Annals

273

Domitian to all previous emperors. This issue is connected with the question why Tacitus should have condemned Domitian at all, under whom he had made a successful career for himself. One reason may be that Domitian had degenerated into a tyrant during the last years of his reign, but to condemn Domitian was also in the interest of his (second) successor Trajan, whose propaganda strongly stressed the difference between the two emperors. Anyway, some scholars think that after the end of Domitian Tacitus decided to write history in order to justify his own political behaviour under the Flavian emperors. This is difficult to corroborate, since the relevant part of the Histories has been lost, but even in the Annals Tacitus seems to prefer sensible co-operation to radical opposition. This may be shown by the example of Marcus Lepidus (cf. Ann. 4.20), whose career and behaviour resemble that of Tacitus.6 Another, and very interesting, approach to our question is to assume that by characterizing single monarchs Tacitus wanted to characterize monarchy as such, and to imply the question whether this was the best possible constitution of the Roman state. His recognizable scepticism on this point may either reflect that he still supported the republican constitution, or that he became gradually disappointed by Trajan,7 on whose principate he had initially pinned his hopes. Indeed, the assumption that Tacitus became more and more sceptical about the principate as a political institution was brilliantly supported by Friedrich Klingner (by his famous Verdüsterungshypothese),8 and it must still be taken very seriously today. According to a different view which Francesca Santoro L’Hoir suggests in a recent book, Tacitus concentrated his criticism on the JulioClaudian dynasty (by frequent echoes of tragedy, as she tries to show) in order to segregate this period “from Rome’s enlightened present and its hopes for an auspicious post-Flavian future”.9 In another recent publication Stephan Schmal10 concludes that Tacitus’ political analyses do not amount to a clear solution at all. On the one hand he maintains the ideal of republican liberty, especially for the senate, while on the other hand he seems to acknowledge that, after what has happened, monarchy is the only remedy and that most contemporaries are willing to accept it as a fact. Actually, Schmal goes even further than that, and argues that Tacitus

6

Cf. e.g. Mellor 1993, 55f., 97-9. Klingner 1953/1986, 536. 8 Klingner 1956, 463-9. 9 Santoro L’Hoir 2006, 108. 10 Schmal 2005, 160-2. 7

274

Chapter Eighteen

was unable or unwilling to see the inherent contradictions of the two principles. Thus, being confronted with such a wide range of opinions—and, of course, with some enigmatic passages in the works of Tacitus himself— one might be inclined to agree with Viktor Pöschl, whose explanations reach a rather abstract level, but nevertheless a level which may be adequate for a genius like Tacitus: in some of his excellent studies Pöschl suggests that an important aim of Tacitus’ historical works was to demonstrate the ultimate irrationality of the course of history.11 This is a rather pessimistic view, but it is less closely connected with personal experiences than Klingner’s theory, and there are events which Tacitus describes in a way which indeed suggests the powerful influence of an irrational Fortuna. Nevertheless, irrationality represents a very abstract and general aspect, and can hardly be the only answer to the question (Pöschl himself does not claim that either). For this reason, we should turn to at least some of the most relevant passages of Tacitus’ texts before trying to find a definite answer. Throughout the works of Tacitus there are passages which seem to go beyond mere accounts of particular events or situations. They point to the question whether, under the current circumstances, monarchy should be considered as an adequate—if not the best form of government for the Roman state.12 In ch. 42 of the Agricola Tacitus defends the cautious behaviour of his father in law, who has avoided provoking the distrustful emperor Domitian and thereby becoming a political martyr. Agr. 42.4: Sciant, quibus moris est inlicita mirari, posse etiam sub malis principibus magnos viros esse, obsequiumque ac modestiam, si industria ac vigor adsint, eo laudis excedere, quo plerique per abrupta, sed in nullum rei publicae usum, ambitiosa morte inclaruerunt. Let those whose way it is to admire only what is forbidden learn from him that great men can live even under bad rulers; and that submission and moderation, if animation and energy go with them, reach the same pinnacle of fame, whither more often men have climbed by perilous courses but, with no profit to the state, have earned their glory by an ostentatious death.

11

Pöschl 1962/1986, 121; 1968, XXXI. The English translations generally come from the Loeb Classical Library (M. Hutton and W. Peterson: Agr. and Dial., C.H. Moore: Hist., J. Jackson: Ann.). 12

Reconsiderations on the Intention and Structure of Tacitus’ Annals

275

With ambitiosa mors Tacitus evidently criticizes the radical opposition of some Stoics, which he regards as exaggerated and useless. In the same passage he goes even further saying that there is the possibility of great achievements even under bad emperors, i.e. monarchy can work despite the bad qualities of a monarch. Tacitus’ scepticism about Stoic martyrdom will be found again in his later works, but there he will be less optimistic about the person of the emperor. Even more optimistic is his statement towards the end of the Dialogus. Dial. 41.4: Quid enim opus est longis in senatu sententiis, cum optimi cito consentiant? Quid multis apud populum contionibus, cum de re publica non imperiti et multi deliberent, sed sapientissimus et unus? Quid voluntariis accusationibus, cum tam raro et tam parce peccetur? Quid invidiosis et excedentibus modum defensionibus, cum clementia cognoscentis obviam periclitantibus eat? What is the use of long arguments in the senate, when good citizens agree so quickly? What is the use of one harangue after another on public platforms, when it is not the ignorant multitude that decides a political issue, but a monarch who is the incarnation of wisdom? What is the use of taking a prosecution on one’s own shoulders when misdeeds are so few and so trivial, or of making oneself unpopular by a defence of inordinate length, when the defendant can count on a gracious judge meeting him halfway?

Was Tacitus really convinced that one day a sapientissimus would rule the Roman state? There are quite a number of possible answers, and most of them have been given at some time:13 (1) Tacitus as a young man actually believed in the possibility of a wise emperor. (2) The passage is meant ironically. (3) Tacitus leaves the question open; he rather wants to make his readers think about it. In addition, interesting statements occur at the beginnings of the Agricola and of the Histories: here Tacitus presents a quite optimistic view of the reigns of Nerva and Trajan. Agr. 3.3: Non tamen pigebit vel incondita ac rudi voce memoriam prioris servitutis ac testimonium praesentium bonorum composuisse. But after all I shall not regret the task of recording our former slavery and testifying to our present blessings, even though with unpractised and stammering tongue.

13

Heubner in Güngerich 1980, 208f. (“Nachwort des Herausgebers”).

Chapter Eighteen

276

The promise to write a historical work on the praesentia bona is then repeated at the beginning of the Histories. Hist. 1.1.4: Quod si vita suppeditet, principatum divi Nervae et imperium Traiani, uberiorem securioremque materiam, senectuti seposui, rara temporum felicitate, ubi sentire quae velis et quae sentias dicere licet. Yet if my life but last, I have reserved for my old age the history of the deified Nerva’s reign and of Trajan’s rule, a richer and less perilous subject, because of the rare good fortune of an age in which we may feel what we wish and may say what we feel.

This promise, however, has never been fulfilled, although Tacitus even speaks of rara temporum felicitas. Felicitas temporum is an official catchword, to be found e.g. on coins of the time. Again there are three possibilities to understand this surprisingly positive statement:14 (1) Tacitus is convinced that under Nerva and Trajan happy times have begun. (2) The statement is tinged with irony. (3) Tacitus wants his readers (including the politically responsible) to think about it: has felicitas temporum really been achieved? Later on there are passages where Tacitus seems to recommend a sort of compromise between the emperor and his subjects. In the fourth book of the Histories, e.g., he seems to suggest that people simply have to accept realities. Hist. 4.8.2: Se meminisse temporum, quibus natus sit, quam civitatis formam patres avique instituerint; ulteriora mirari, praesentia sequi; bonos imperatores voto expetere, qualescumque tolerare. For his own part he remembered the time in which he was born, the form of government that their fathers and grandfathers had established; he admired the earlier period, but adapted himself to the present; he prayed for good emperors, but endured any sort.

Of course, it may be surprising that the speaker in this passage is Eprius Marcellus, a rather suspicious character, who has been collaborating with tyrants; but we must keep in mind that Tacitus sometimes decides to let evil characters speak the truth, so that we may doubt whether his own opinion is always identical with the statements of his speakers. A rather pessimistic mood seems to dominate the next passage:

14

Heubner 1963, 14f.

Reconsiderations on the Intention and Structure of Tacitus’ Annals

277

Ann. 4.20.3: Unde dubitare cogor, fato et sorte nascendi, ut cetera, ita principum inclinatio in hos, offensio in illos, an sit aliquid in nostris consiliis liceatque inter abruptam contumaciam et deforme obsequium pergere iter ambitione ac periculis vacuum. [This] compels me to doubt whether, like all things else, the sympathies and antipathies of princes are governed in their incidence by fate and the star of our nativity, or whether our purposes count and we are free, between the extremes of bluff contumacy and repellent servility, to walk a straight road, clear of intrigues and of perils.

We must, however, bear in mind that this pessimistic question follows after a quite encouraging scene: Marcus Lepidus is a friend of Tiberius, and exerts much positive influence upon the emperor, so that he even succeeds in saving persons who have already been taken to the court. Tacitus first relates this pleasant fact, but then he begins to ponder on the chances which tyranny has left the individual citizen to maintain his personal dignity: at the end there is no definite answer. A very crucial passage for Tacitus’ view on monarchy is the speech of the old emperor Galba15 in the first book of the Histories, which has even been called Tacitus’ political creed. In fact Galba is a member of an old senatorial family, and he would be the right man to restore the republic, as he himself says, but he is realistic enough to see that this is no longer possible. Hist. 1.16.1f.: Si immensum imperii corpus stare ac librari sine rectore posset, dignus eram a quo res publica inciperet: nunc eo necessitatis iam pridem ventum est, ut nec mea senectus conferre plus populo Romano possit quam bonum successorem, nec tua plus iuventa quam bonum principem. Sub Tiberio et Gaio et Claudio unius familiae quasi hereditas fuimus: loco libertatis erit quod eligi coepimus; et finita Iuliorum Claudiorumque domo optimum quemque adoptio inveniet. Nam generari et nasci a principibus fortuitum, nec ultra aestimatur: adoptandi iudicium integrum et, si velis eligere, consensu monstratur. If the mighty structure of the empire could stand in even poise without a ruler, it were proper that a republic should begin with me. But as it is, we have long reached such a pass that my old age cannot give more to the Roman people than a good successor, or your youth more than a good emperor. Under Tiberius, Gaius, and Claudius we Romans were the heritage, so to speak, of one family; the fact that we emperors are now 15

Geiser 2007, 270-3 and passim, argues convincingly that Tacitus’ portrait of Galba is characterized by a high number of contradictions.

278

Chapter Eighteen beginning to be chosen will be for all a kind of liberty; and since the houses of the Julii and the Claudii are ended, adoption will select only the best; for to be begotten and born of princes is mere chance, and is not reckoned higher, but the judgment displayed in adoption is unhampered; and, if one wishes to make a choice, common consent points out the individual.

Although it is no longer possible to restore the republic, it is possible to find a better form of monarchy. Galba suggests that hereditary succession should be replaced by an adoptive system. Consequently, there is a fundamental problem: Galba’s speech has long been read exclusively as Tacitus’ plea for an adoptive monarchy, and he might have come to this conviction under the impression of Nerva and Trajan. Once, Kornemann16 even demanded that the speech of Galba should be read independently of its context! This is of course a mistake which a philologist should never make, but it also shows the problem quite clearly: Galba’s short reign proved to be a complete failure. He was murdered only a few days after he had delivered this speech. Accordingly, Tacitus’ verdict upon Galba becomes evident in the famous obituary.17 Hist. 1.49.2-4: Hunc exitum habuit Servius Galba, tribus et septuaginta annis quinque principes prospera fortuna emensus et alieno imperio felicior quam suo…pro consule Africam moderate, iam senior citeriorem Hispaniam pari iustitia continuit, maior privato visus, dum privatus fuit, et omnium consensu capax imperii, nisi imperasset. This was the end of Servius Galba. He had lived seventy-three years, through the reigns of five emperors, with good fortune, and he was happier under the rule of others than in his own…As proconsul he governed Africa with moderation and, when he was already an old man, ruled Hither Spain with the same uprightness. He seemed too great to be a subject so long as he was subject, and all would have agreed that he was equal to the imperial office if he had never held it.

The last two words destroy everything that has been said in favour of Galba before—and such a man should pronounce Tacitus’ political creed? Therefore Heubner comes to a different conclusion:18 the speech, as seen in its context, is meant to demonstrate Galba’s political failure. To be sure, “failure” is certainly the dominant impression, but—as we have seen—in 16

Kornemann 1947, 27 n. 2. Cf. Geiser 2007, 278-82; PigoĔ 2001, 631-3. 18 Heubner 1963, 47-9. 17

Reconsiderations on the Intention and Structure of Tacitus’ Annals

279

Tacitus sometimes even negative or weak characters are allowed to pronounce an important truth. Therefore there seems to be a double message: first, that monarchy is necessary; second, that the adoptive system may be the best solution, but only if the right man adopts the right man. In the present case this holds true neither for Galba nor for his adoptive son Piso. But perhaps later on Nerva had succeeded in finding the right man, i.e. Trajan? One may get the impression that Tacitus wants to indicate this, but on the other hand he must have had a reason for not writing about contemporary history. Instead, he turned his mind to the beginnings of the principate and wrote the Annals. In this work Tacitus shows a very critical attitude against all emperors of the Julio-Claudian dynasty, but he was hardly the first historian to do so. In his time there must already have been a corresponding tradition, which Tacitus obviously regarded as very suitable for his purpose. At the beginnings of the Histories and of the Annals there are short reflections on the origins of the principate. Hist. 1.1.1: (after the battle of Actium) omnem potentiam ad unum conferri pacis interfuit. ...it was in the interest of peace to bestow all power on one individual person.

At the beginning of the Annals the tone is more pessimistic.19 Ann. 1.1.1: Non Cinnae, non Sullae longa dominatio; et Pompei Crassique potentia cito in Caesarem, Lepidi atque Antonii arma in Augustum cessere, qui cuncta discordiis civilibus fessa nomine principis sub imperium accepit. Neither Cinna nor Sulla created a lasting despotism: Pompey and Crassus quickly forfeited their power to Caesar, and Lepidus and Antony their swords to Augustus, who, under the style of “Prince,” gathered beneath his empire a world outworn by civil broils.

According to this, the ascent of Augustus to supreme power is marked by war and violence: princeps is only a nomen—in fact there was tyranny from the beginning. Therefore gloomy and sceptical passages become more frequent in the course of the Annals. A characteristic example is Ann. 3.65.

19

Klingner 1953/1986, 517.

280

Chapter Eighteen Ann. 3.65.2 : Ceterum tempora illa adeo infecta et adulatione sordida fuere, ut non modo primores civitatis, quibus claritudo sua obsequiis protegenda erat, sed omnes consulares, magna pars eorum qui praetura functi multique etiam pedarii senatores certatim exsurgerent foedaque et nimia censerent. But so tainted was that age, so mean its sycophancy, that not only the great personages of the state, who had to shield their magnificence by their servility, but all senators of consular rank, a large proportion of the expraetors, many ordinary members even, vied with one another in rising to move the most repulsive and extravagant resolutions.

This passage simply means that people are no longer worthy of freedom. Again, monarchy seems to be the only solution. The same idea is the gist of a longer statement on the political development of Rome, Ann. 4.33. Here Tacitus is clearly sceptical about the chances of a mixed constitution to survive for a longer period, although others like Polybius had recommended it. Ann. 4.33.1f.: Nam cunctas nationes et urbes populus aut primores aut singuli regunt: delecta ex iis et consociata rei publicae forma laudari facilius quam evenire, vel, si evenit, haud diuturna esse potest. Igitur ut olim, plebe valida vel cum patres pollerent, noscenda vulgi natura et quibus modis temperanter haberetur, senatusque et optimatium ingenia qui maxime perdidicerant, callidi temporum et sapientes credebantur, sic converso statu neque alia rerum salute quam si unus imperitet, haec conquiri tradique in rem fuerit, quia pauci prudentia honesta ab deterioribus, utilia ab noxiis discernunt, plures aliorum eventis docentur. For every nation or city is governed by the people, or by the nobility, or by individuals: a constitution selected and blended from these types is easier to commend than to create; or, if created, its tenure of life is brief. Accordingly, as in the period of alternate plebeian dominance and patrician ascendancy it was imperative, in one case, to study the character of the masses and the methods of controlling them; while, in the other, those who had acquired the most exact knowledge of the temper of the senate and the aristocracy were accounted shrewd in their generation and wise; so to-day, when the situation has been transformed and there is no other help for the world than a monarchy, the collection and the chronicling of these details may yet serve an end: for few men distinguish right and wrong, the expedient and the disastrous, by native intelligence; the majority are schooled by the experience of others.

In this passage “neque alia rerum salute, quam si unus imperitet” [“there is no other help for the world than a monarchy”] is a very clear statement indeed. It must, however, be admitted that the text is not quite certain.

Reconsiderations on the Intention and Structure of Tacitus’ Annals

281

Most editions have “neque alia re Rom,” which would just mean that “the constitution of the Roman state is practically that of a monarchy,” but this seems to be a rather weak statement. The text reproduced here is that of Heubner, and it fits well into Tacitus’ general argument, because it points out once more that the principate cannot be avoided. There are also some formal aspects which must not be neglected: according to Tacitus all, or at least all Julio-Claudian emperors have grown worse during their reigns. He illustrates this by various means, among which are turning-points within individual careers; especially well known and much discussed is that of Tiberius, Ann. 4.1. Ann. 4.1.1: C. Asinio C. Antistio consulibus nonus Tiberio annus erat compositae rei publicae, florentis domus (nam Germanici mortem inter prospera ducebat), cum repente turbare fortuna coepit, saevire ipse aut saevientibus vires praebere. The consulate of Gaius Asinius and Gaius Antistius was to Tiberius the ninth year of public order and of domestic felicity (for he counted the death of Germanicus among his blessings), when suddenly fortune disturbed the peace and he became either a tyrant himself or the source of power to the tyrannous.

A turning-point to the worse at this time of Tiberius’ reign seems rather artificial, because he was hardly a good ruler before, but it serves Tacitus’ purpose and it is an artistic masterpiece: referring to the power of Fortune Tacitus imitates Sallust, but he changes the meaning in a decisive way:20 Sall. Cat. 10 says “saevire fortuna ac miscere omnia coepit.” This is changed to “turbare fortuna coepit, saevire ipse.” Thus Tiberius becomes the personification of evil fate. Another turning-point, which is also important for the structure of the Annals as a whole, but seems to have been neglected by scholars, is to be found in the reign of Nero, Ann. 16.1. Ann. 16.1.1: Inlusit dehinc Neroni fortuna per vanitatem ipsius et promissa Caeselli Bassi, qui origine Poenus, mente turbida, nocturnae quietis imaginem ad spem haud dubiae rei traxit, vectusque Romam, principis aditum emercatus, expromit repertum in agro suo specum altitudine immensa, quo magna vis auri contineretur, non in formam pecuniae, sed rudi et antiquo pondere.

20

Martin and Woodman 1990, 79.

282

Chapter Eighteen Nero now became the sport of fortune as a result of his own credulity and the promises of Caesellius Bassus. Punic by origin and mentally deranged, Bassus treated the vision he had seen in a dream by night as a ground of confident expectation, took ship to Rome, and, buying an interview with the emperor, explained that he had found on his estate an immensely deep cavern, which contained a great quantity of gold, not transformed into coin but in unwrought and ancient bullion.

Here again Fortune plays a decisive role—she spreads the rumour about a hidden treasure—but whereas in the case of Tiberius the context is tragic, it is comic in the case of Nero: he becomes the object of ridicule and contempt and, of course, he has failed once more. The appearance of fortuna at the beginning of book 16 may also help to solve the old question about the structure of the Annals, i.e. whether they consisted of 16 or of 18 books. Fortuna marks a turning-point in the middle of the Tiberian books, and it is quite probable that, in a parallel way, she also marked a turning-point in the middle of the Neronian books. Consequently, their number should have been six, and the number of books of the Annals should have been 18 (with book 18 perhaps filling the gap between the death of Nero and the beginning of the Histories).21 In any case, the role of fortuna in both reigns creates a parallel feature, comparing both emperors to the disadvantage of Nero. The depravation of emperors and their gradual failure is also illustrated by contrasting characters. The deeper the princeps falls morally and politically, the higher the contrasting person rises. The best example of this is offered by Nero and Seneca:22 in Tacitus Seneca is by no means an ideal character from the beginning. Instead he is a vain teacher of rhetoric (showing his professoria lingua, Ann. 13.14.3) and a scheming politician. Later, when Seneca is forced to take his leave, his image becomes better, and finally he dies as a Stoic martyr and victim of a depraved emperor. Stephan Schmal thinks that the scene of Seneca’s death shows ironic features23, which seems difficult to believe. A similar contrast can probably be shown between Tiberius and Germanicus. The Tacitean Germanicus had long been regarded as an idealized figure, until in more recent literature his negative features were detected and stressed. In fact, his character changes from book 1 to book 2: during the mutiny of 21

In that case book 18 would have been “Neronian” only in a wider sense, i.e. showing the aftermath of Nero’s reign. Formally, however, it would have been a counterpart of book 13, which—describing the quinquennium Neronis—is also detached from books 14ff., thus creating a symmetry in the “Nero-hexad.” 22 Römer 1999. 23 Schmal 2005, 84.

Reconsiderations on the Intention and Structure of Tacitus’ Annals

283

the Rhine troops he plays a rather poor role, but later he proves to be a loyal and effective commander, who finally becomes a victim of Tiberius’ jealousy. Again, the better the character of Germanicus turns out to be, the worse the picture of Tiberius becomes. Negative and positive features can even be found in the portrayal of Claudius: his speech in favour of the ius honorum of the Gauls (Ann. 11.24) is a success, but at the end he fails completely, which is introduced by the sarcastic beginning of book 12. Ann. 12.1.1: Caede Messalinae convulsa principis domus, orto apud libertos certamine, quis deligeret uxorem Claudio, caelibis vitae intoleranti et coniugum imperiis obnoxio. The execution of Messalina shook the imperial household: for there followed a conflict among the freedmen, who should select a consort for Claudius, with his impatience of celibacy and his docility under wifely government.

Especially important for Tacitus’ judgement on emperors and on the principate are two chapters at the end of book 6. Here again the concept of depravation plays a decisive role. There is the well known, devastating sentence on Tiberius in his obituary at the very end of book 6. Ann. 6.51.3: Morum quoque tempora illi diversa: egregium vita famaque, quoad privatus vel in imperiis sub Augusto fuit; occultum ac subdolum fingendis virtutibus, donec Germanicus ac Drusus superfuere; idem inter bona malaque mixtus incolumi matre; intestabilis saevitia, sed obtectis libidinibus, dum Seianum dilexit timuitve: postremo in scelera simul ac dedecora prorupit, postquam remoto pudore et metu suo tantum ingenio utebatur. His character, again, has its separate epochs. There was a noble season in his life and fame while he lived a private citizen or a great official under Augustus; an inscrutable and disingenuous period of hypocritical virtues while Germanicus and Drusus remained: with his mother alive, he was still an amalgam of good and evil; so long as he loved, or feared, Sejanus, he was loathed for his cruelty, but his lust was veiled; finally, when the restraints of shame and fear were gone, and nothing remained but to follow his own bent, he plunged impartially into crime and into ignominy.

Nevertheless, a few chapters before, this judgement is substantially modified by a highly respected character, Lucius Arruntius. For a long time Arruntius had escaped the malice of many enemies, but now he has become a victim of the intrigues of the new prefect Macro. He will soon be forced to commit suicide, but there is no immediate hurry, as friends

284

Chapter Eighteen

point out to him. Thus he might easily survive Tiberius, whose death is to be expected in a few days, but Arruntius does not wish any further delay, because after Tiberius other and even worse tyrants are going to come. Ann. 6.48.1f.: Arruntius cunctationem et moras suadentibus amicis non eadem omnibus decora respondit: sibi satis aetatis, neque aliud paenitendum quam quod inter ludibria et pericula anxiam senectam toleravisset, diu Seiano, nunc Macroni, semper alicui potentium invisus, non culpa, sed ut flagitiorum impatiens. Sane paucos ad suprema principis dies posse vitari: quem ad modum evasurum imminentis iuventam? An, cum Tiberius post tantam rerum experientiam vi dominationis convulsus et mutatus sit, C. Caesarem vix finita pueritia, ignarum omnium aut pessimis innutritum, meliora capessiturum Macrone duce, qui ut deterior ad opprimendum Seianum delectus plura per scelera rem publicam conflictavisset? Prospectare iam se acrius servitium, eoque fugere simul acta et instantia. Arruntius, whose friends advised procrastination and delays, replied that “not the same things were becoming to all men. For himself he had lived long enough; and it was his one regret that he had borne with an old age of anxieties amid flouts and perils, long detested by Sejanus, now by Macro, always by one or other of the mighty, not through his fault, but because he was impatient of villanies. True, he might steer through the few days before the passing of the sovereign: but how to escape the youth of the sovereign who loomed ahead? Or, if absolute sway had power to convulse and transform the character of Tiberius after his vast experience of affairs, would Gaius Caesar, barely out of his boyhood, ignorant of all things or nurtured amid the worst, apply himself to better ways under the tutelage of Macro; who had been chosen, as the worse villain of the pair, to crush Sejanus, and had tormented the state by crimes more numerous than his? Even now he foresaw a yet harder servitude, and for that reason he was fleeing at once from the past and from the future.”

According to Arruntius, Tiberius was not an absolutely bad ruler from the beginning, but, on the contrary, had much experience. According to the obituary, on the other hand, Tiberius had been an evil character from the very beginning, but various persons, from Livia to Sejanus, kept him from indulging in cruelty and lust for a long time, so that he showed his true nature only late in life. According to Arruntius, Tiberius was an able ruler, but finally he could no longer bear the immense weight of the principate (“vi dominationis convulsus et mutatus sit”). Here, inevitably, a crucial question suggests itself: if not even Tiberius managed to bear the burden of his reign, who ever will? This is one of the most important passages for

Reconsiderations on the Intention and Structure of Tacitus’ Annals

285

the question of what intentions—beyond reporting events and portraying characters—Tacitus may have had. Before summing up, it might be useful to make a comparison between Tacitus, whom Friedrich Leo24 once called one of the few great Roman poets, and the absolute master of the genre, i.e. Vergil. Interpretations of the last half century have demonstrated that it would be far too simple to read Vergil’s works just as panegyric poetry for Augustus, as former times understood them. Instead, Vergil conveys messages on three different levels: first, he tells the story of Aeneas, secondly, he outlines the historical mission of Rome, and thirdly, he indicates the fate of mankind. In a similar, but of course not identical, way one can distinguish between three levels of Tacitus’ writings: on the first level, he relates historical events and developments. On the second one, he tries to discover and describe the reasons for these developments in a manner which he has learned from Sallust and Thucydides. This is what he defines as his task as an historian in Ann. 4.33:25 Igitur ut olim, plebe valida vel cum patres pollerent, noscenda vulgi natura et quibus modis temperanter haberetur…sic converso statu neque alia rerum salute quam si unus imperitet, haec conquiri tradique in rem fuerit, quia pauci prudentia honesta ab deterioribus, utilia ab noxiis discernunt, plures aliorum eventis docentur.

Of course, Tacitus’ political analyses have been frequently discussed, so that for the present purpose it should be enough to give just one example. When there is a civil war (Hist. 1-3) or a mutiny (Ann. 1), the details of Tacitus’ narrative show that what finally happens is never decided by the intentions or strategies of the commanders but by the greed and licence of the soldiers.26 In any case, even though such analyses may already be considered as part of Tacitus’ deeper meaning, his most important message is rather to be expected on yet a third level. On this level, Tacitus is pondering on the best form of government, on the changing constitution of the Roman state and on the inevitable transition to monarchy. The republic had destroyed itself in the turmoil of civil war, and events like that of the year 69 proved once more the necessity of a strong ruler, as Galba points out at the very beginning of his programmatic speech. Thus, already by the time of Tiberius people were quite ready to 24

Leo 1896/1986, 21. Full text above, p. 280. 26 Klingner 1940/1986, 404-10. 25

286

Chapter Eighteen

give up their democratic rights and to accept monarchy: “neque populus ademptum ius questus est” [“the people did not protest against the loss of their right”], as Tacitus remarks as early as Ann. 1.15.1. We have seen a number of other passages, where monarchy is not praised as the ideal form of government, but nevertheless accepted as a reasonable compromise, as long as personal dignity and liberty can be maintained. Therefore, Tacitus does not seem to be fundamentally opposed to the principate but rather sceptical about its actual development. Monarchy, he seems to suggest, can only work properly if there is an efficient monarch, capable and willing to fulfil his high task, i.e. somebody like the (real or potential) sapientissimus et unus of the Dialogus. But, as Tacitus seems to suggest, this is where the main problem comes: although the reigns of some emperors seemed quite promising at the beginning, they all degenerated and failed in the course of time. Even the experienced politician Tiberius “vi dominationis convulsus et mutatus sit”: he could not bear the burden of his reign, and the immensum imperii corpus was too heavy, even for him. The same holds true for all other emperors, as Tacitus shows many times and in various ways. This evidence seems to be responsible for the pessimistic mood of large parts of the Annals. A few chapters before the end of the work (Ann. 16.16.2) Tacitus laments the ira numinum in res Romanas, the wrath of the gods at the Roman state. On the one hand the republic cannot be restored, on the other hand the principate threatens to fail for lack of a capable princeps: this is what philosophers call an aporia—there is no way, no solution. Also Tacitus cannot convey a more optimistic message to his readers. He wants to make them more attentive to the perilous state of the imperium Romanum, but he cannot solve the problem, he can only define it.

CHAPTER NINETEEN THE PASSIVE VOICE OF THE HERO: SOME PECULIARITIES OF TACITUS’ PORTRAYAL OF GERMANICUS

IN ANNALS 1.31-49 JAKUB PIGOē

To the memory of Professor Tadeusz Kotula (1923-2007) Even a cursory reading of Tacitus’ Annals shows that in the first two books of this work, covering the period from the death of Augustus in AD 14 till the end of AD 19, the writer’s attention is focused not only on the new emperor Tiberius, but also on his nephew and adopted son Germanicus (whose death, allegedly from poison, is fully described towards the end of Book 2). The importance of Germanicus for Tacitus’ account of this early stage of Tiberius’ principate is emphasized by the fact that each consecutive narrative year, with one exception, begins with a reference to his person.1 To cite arguably the most arresting example, his account of AD 17 opens with a detailed description of the prince’s German triumph which is explicitly dated not, as one might expect, to the beginning of that year, but to 26th May.2 As the late Judith Ginsburg has

I am most grateful to Barbara Levick, Simon Malloch and Christopher Pelling for their careful reading of the penultimate version of this chapter and their insightful criticism. None of them should be held responsible for any views here presented. 1 The only exception is the opening of AD 16 at 2.1.1, but the reference there to the disturbance in the East is highly relevant for the Germanicus story (cf. 2.5.1). 2 2.41.2: “C. Caelio L. Pomponio consulibus Germanicus Caesar a.d. VII. Kal. Iunias triumphavit de Cheruscis Chattisque et Angrivariis quaeque aliae nationes usque ad Albim colunt...” (Tacitus very seldom gives exact dates of events which

288

Chapter Nineteen

shown in her book Tradition and Theme in the “Annals” of Tacitus, the historian carefully selects items to be placed at the beginning of a year’s narrative and the demands of chronology are here always subordinated to the need for stressing certain themes and ideas which the author wants to develop.3 The importance of Germanicus is underlined also, quite obviously, by the amount of space allotted by the historian to events in which the prince plays a prominent role.4 His campaigns in Germany, which were of rather limited historical significance, are treated in the Annals extensively, covering most of the narratives of AD 15 and 16. Thus it should hardly surprise us that Tacitus devotes 19 chapters, some 10 Teubner pages,5 to the account of the mutiny of the four legions in Lower Germany at the very beginning of Tiberius’ reign, since this account gives him the first opportunity in the Annals to present Germanicus directly (he is mentioned four times in the earlier chapters, but not as an active participant).6 We ought to bear in mind, however, that Tacitus’ account of the Rhine mutiny is preceded by a similarly detailed narrative of the military unrest in Pannonia, eventually stamped out by Tiberius’ own son, Drusus.7 These two accounts are to be read, obviously, in close connection to each other and we should look for other reasons, apart from the importance of Germanicus, for their prominent place at the beginning of the Tiberian narrative. One of them is the author’s wish to emphasize the basic instability of the principate as a political system and the role played therein

he records). All references in this chapter, unless stated otherwise, are to Tacitus’ Annals (quoted after the Teubner edition by H. Heubner). 3 Ginsburg 1981, 10ff., and esp. 22 for her discussion of 2.41.2. According to Ginsburg, the opening of AD 17 serves, along with ten other openings in Books 16, to mark the importance of the succession theme (or, more specifically, of what she somewhat confusingly describes as “Tiberius’ relationship with the Julians”). For the Tacitean arrangement of the narrative year, see also Syme 1983, 10: “Tacitus in ordering the annual rubric was able to operate with a bold hand—and with a purpose artistic or artful. Years tend to begin or end on strong emphasis— and often on an ominous note.” 4 Liebenam 1891, 717 notes that in the first book 39 chapters out of 81 and in the second 40 out of 88 are devoted to Germanicus. 5 The account of the mutiny proper ends with ch. 49, but some scholars regard also the following three chapters as belonging to the same narrative section (e.g. Goodyear 1972, 239). For yet another division, see Wille 1983, 367ff. 6 1.3.5; 1.4.5 (together with Drusus; neither of them is named); 1.7.6; 1.14.3. 7 1.16-30. For a recent analysis of Tacitus’ account of the Pannonian mutiny, see Pagán 2005 (with further bibliography).

The Passive Voice of the Hero

289

by the military.8 Since Tacitus intended his Annals to close with the turmoil of AD 68 leading to the collapse of Nero and the end of the JulioClaudian dynasty (although whether he realized this plan is another matter), describing the mutinies of AD 14 in such detail at the outset of his work seems to foreshadow that much more dangerous and eventful unrest fifty four years later9 (we note in passing that such a ring composition may be assumed also for the Histories, with the violent death of Galba anticipating the murder of Domitian in AD 96). To come back to Germanicus and his importance for our historian, the question should be asked as to what kind of picture Tacitus draws of him in the Annals. Until quite recently almost all scholars believed that Germanicus was his great hero, clearly surpassing all military or civilian figures whom we encounter in his work, with the sole, and understandable, exception of his father-in-law, Agricola. “Ein jeder Leser von Tacitus weiß,” as István Borzsák wrote in 1969, “daß der Historiker eine ausgesprochene Vorliebe für die lichte Gestalt des Germanicus besessen...hat.”10 Those who uphold this view draw attention to the fact that Germanicus is often either directly or implicitly contrasted with Tiberius. This contrast is perhaps most clearly stated at the beginning of the account of the Rhine mutiny, where the young prince’s unassumingness and affability are stressed: “nam iuveni civile ingenium, mira comitas et diversa a Tiberii sermone vultu, adrogantibus et obscuris” (1.33.2). Thus we would have, on the one hand, “die lichte Gestalt des Germanicus,” and, on the other, the dim, terrifying figure of his uncle.11 It

8

For “the essential instability of such a regime which is constantly in danger of perishing by the same violent means through which it rose to prominence,” see Keitel 1984 (the quotation is from p. 325). For Tacitus’ treatment of the soldiery, see Kajanto 1970; Breebaart 1987, 51-70 (both with important remarks on his presentation of the mutinies of AD 14); and, with the focus on AD 69 and the Histories, Ash 1999. In contrast to Tacitus, modern scholars are usually in agreement that the mutinies of AD 14 did not pose any serious threat to Tiberius and the empire; see Wiedemann 2000, 209. 9 See Syme 1958, 375; Pelling 1993, 69. 10 Borzsák 1969, 588 (whose own views are, however, more nuanced; see esp. Borzsák 1970). For a succinct overview of the modern opinions about the Tacitean Germanicus, see Goodyear 1972, 239-41 (with an important remark that the common assumption that the historian’s characterization of him should be internally consistent does not need to be correct; but cf. Pelling 1993, 61f.). 11 See, e.g., Krohn 1934, 55ff.; Daitz 1960, 48. But cf. Römer 1999, 299f. (as well as his chapter in this volume, pp. 282f.) who speaks about Germanicus and Tiberius as Kontrastfiguren without at the same time subscribing to the traditional

290

Chapter Nineteen

is usually thought that this view of Germanicus was to a significant extent not originated by Tacitus but inherited from earlier historical tradition, the traces of which may be found in Cassius Dio and in the introductory chapters of Suetonius’ Life of Gaius. The similarities between these authors’ treatments of the prince are numerous and significant and the impact of earlier tradition cannot be denied, even though it is difficult to accept without qualifications Eduard Schwartz’s thesis that virtually everything which we find about the times of Tiberius in Tacitus and other writers goes back to an anonymous “genialste[r] Annalist der Kaiserzeit,” writing recentibus odiis, that is shortly after the death of the second Roman emperor (Schwartz 1899, 1717). The view that Tacitus’ picture of Germanicus is most favourable is now less popular owing (to a considerable extent) to the studies of David Shotter (1968) and Donald Ross (1973).12 Ross in particular believes that the historian’s intention was to radically question the eulogistic tradition about Germanicus, prominent especially in Suetonius’ Life of Gaius. This, however, is open to debate. According to Ross, Tacitus, in portraying the prince, uses his familiar techniques of innuendo, citing for example a highly laudatory popular appraisal of Germanicus and then relating facts which seriously, if implicitly, undermine this appraisal.13 But to radically question the traditional picture of Germanicus would have demanded, not a subtle innuendo, but straightforward authorial comment containing explicit criticism of the man. Yet one looks in vain for such comments both in Tacitus’ account of the Rhine mutiny and in his remaining Germanicus narrative. So it is better to agree with Ronald Syme who thinks that “the historian, had he so chosen, might have questioned the tradition” (1958, 418). Nevertheless, it is difficult to accept the notion that Tiberius’ nephew is depicted in the Annals as an absolutely blameless general and statesman and that there is nothing strange or disquieting in Tacitus’ presentation of him. It is much better to regard the picture the historian draws of Germanicus as complex, not to be reduced to the black-and-white pattern. The complexities of this picture are in my opinion best scrutinized in the 1993 paper by Christopher Pelling, who points out, among other things, view of Tacitus’ picture of the prince as extremely favourable, even in the Rhine mutiny chapters. 12 For a “revisionist” assessment of the Tacitean Germanicus, see, e.g., McCulloch 1984, 67ff.; Rutland 1987. More nuanced is Devillers 1993. With reference to Shotter’s paper Giuia (1976, 103 n. 3) speaks about “[u]n totale capovolgimento nell’interpretazione del Germanico tacitiano.” 13 For a classic discussion of Tacitus’ techniques of innuendo, see Ryberg 1942.

The Passive Voice of the Hero

291

that Germanicus, not unlike his antagonists Arminius and Piso, is an anachronistic figure, clearly at odds with the realities of Tiberian Rome. In his discussion of Tacitus’ treatment of the Rhine mutiny, Pelling draws attention to the fact that the historian refrains from commenting unfavourably on Germanicus’ actions although at least four of them seem “particularly inept.”14 “Tacitus’ own appraisal,” he continues, “seems oddly positive, or at least strangely indirect in its negative elements.” The reason, Pelling believes, is that Tacitus’ main concern in these chapters is not with Germanicus, but with the soldiers: “praise or blame of Germanicus is not very important. It is the legions, rather than Germanicus himself, who here absorb our interest.”15 The importance of the legions is evident, especially if we look at Tacitus’ narrative of the Rhine mutiny in conjunction with his earlier account of the Pannonian unrest. The historian is at pains to show parallels between these two events although within the Rhine chapters there is only one explicit reference to the Pannonian uproar (at 1.31.5).16 The important point is, however, that he clearly regards the military unrest in Lower Germany as much more dangerous, and much more difficult to bring under control.17 This is explicitly stated at the very beginning of the Rhine narrative, 1.31.1, with two factors adduced which contribute to this, the 14

Namely Germanicus’ speech in ch. 35 culminating with his attempted suicide; the forgery of a letter, purportedly from Tiberius (1.36); giving permission to the soldiers to sit in judgement on their centurions (1.44); the massacre in Caecina’s camp provoked by Germanicus’ threatening message (1.48f.). 15 Pelling 1993; the quotations are from pp. 62, 65, and 69 respectively. For a view that Tacitus’ focus in these chapters is on the soldiers, not on Germanicus, see also Giuia 1976. 16 For these parallels see Liebenam 1891, 734f., followed by many scholars. Most recently Woodman 2006, 304-8. 17 “...Tacitus does everything to emphasize the differences between the two uprisings” (Breebaart 1987, 66). Note that the two mutinies are contrasted precisely in the only passage in which the historian explicitly compares them: “nec unus haec, ut Pannonicas inter legiones Percennius...sed multa seditionis ora vocesque” (1.31.5). Of particular importance is his comment at 1.32.3: “id militares animos altius coniectantibus praecipuum indicium magni atque implacabilis motus, quod neque disiecti nec paucorum instinctu, sed pariter ardescerent, pariter silerent, tanta aequalitate et constantia, ut regi crederes.” The appearance in this context of aequalitas and constantia (hardly the terms ordinarily used to describe a military uproar) is most telling. Cf. Breebaart 1987, 68 and (with a different objective) O’Gorman 2000, 34f. (Note that at the beginning of this chapter Tacitus speaks about the lack of reaction on the part of the legate of Lower Germany to his soldiers’ rebellious attitude: “nec legatus obviam ibat: quippe plurium vaecordia constantiam exemerat.”)

292

Chapter Nineteen

greater number of the legions and the soldiers’ hopes about Germanicus as a rival of the new emperor.18 Now scholars who, like Shotter and Ross, view Tacitus’ portrayal of Germanicus as by no means eulogistic make quite a lot of parallels between Drusus’ and Germanicus’ handling of their respective mutinies, trying to show that the former is much more competent and successful than the latter. Given the emphasis laid by the historian on the greater dangers involved in the Rhine unrest, this opinion is hardly tenable. One method used by Tacitus to underline the perils of this mutiny is worth mentioning. In a recent paper Anthony Woodman (2006) discusses the vocabulary of madness as a “recurrent imagery” applied by the historian throughout his account of the both mutinies. Yet his subtle, at times (I suspect) too subtle, analysis obscures the crucial point that if we limit ourselves to words explicitly denoting madness,19 we have just one instance of this imagery in the Pannonian narrative (at 1.18.2, two chapters after its opening) as against seven occurrences referring to the Rhine legions, the first of which appears in the first and the last in the last chapter of this section. Tacitus’ madness word in the Pannonian chapter is furor, strong but quite frequent elsewhere in his work. In the Rhine chapters we have, apart from furor and its cognate furens, also vaecors, rabies (twice) and lymphatus: rabies is not found elsewhere in the Annals and in the Histories it is used four times,20 whereas lymphatus appears only here and in Histories 1.82.1, in the account of the praetorian uproar under Otho. We have therefore every reason to think that Germanicus’ was a much more difficult task: he had to deal, after all, with those seized by madness of a particularly acute form. But is he really represented as actively dealing with the mutiny? On the face of it, of course he is. He plays a prominent role in chapters 31-49 and his role there is emphasized by the fact that some background information 18

Modern scholars are usually sceptical about the political dimension of the Rhine mutiny; see e.g. Walser 1951, 57; Galotta 1987, 84f.; Wiedemann 2000, 208. 19 Thus leaving aside such words which occur in medical contexts but are used frequently in many other spheres as well. Woodman begins his discussion with 1.16.1, where he marks four words (status, incessit, causis, mutatus) as “medical metaphors,” retrospectively activated by the reference to furor at 1.18.4 (2006, 313f.). Yet (to limit myself to one example), incedere in a metaphorical sense appears several times in Tacitus, who applies it to such nouns as ambitio, cunctatio, formido, spes or (transitively) cupido; it seems that his use of the verb at 1.16.1 has more in common with his usage elsewhere than with its occurrence in medical contexts. 20 Note esp. Hist. 1.63.1 where both rabies and furor appear, but rabies is placed second to mark the gradation.

The Passive Voice of the Hero

293

about him appears in ch. 33 and a speech of his is reproduced in chs. 42 and 43. This is the first longer speech in direct discourse in the Annals and one of only two such speeches delivered by Germanicus, the second being that made on his death-bed. Moreover, his speech to the rebellious soldiers echoes an address made in similar circumstances by the great general, Scipio Africanus, in 206 BC, and reproduced in Livy’s Ab urbe condita, Book 28.21 So if we compare, as the historian invites us to do, Germanicus’ and Drusus’ appearances in the narrative of the two mutinies, we get the impression that it is the former’s activity which is much more marked. However, a closer examination of Tacitus’ account renders this impression false. Germanicus is in fact active, but his activity seems to reveal itself more frequently in words than in deeds. Apart from the speech in direct discourse, he delivers three other addresses to his soldiers (1.34.435.1; 39.6; 49.2) and Tacitus explicitly refers to his rhetorical skills (facunde, 1.39.6). By contrast, Drusus is a poor orator (rudis dicendi, 1.29.1) and he makes only one speech, reproduced by Tacitus in indirect discourse. Germanicus’ first address to his soldiers, given immediately after entering the camp, is particularly interesting, not so much for the words uttered, but for its aftermath. The oration ends with a disturbance the 21

Compare esp. 1.42.2: “Quod nomen huic coetui dabo? Militesne appellem, qui filium imperatoris vestri vallo et armis circumsedistis? An cives, quibus tam proiecta senatus auctoritas? Hostium quoque ius et sacra legationis et fas gentium rupistis” with Livy 28.27.3f. : “...apud vos quemadmodum loquar nec consilium nec oratio suppeditat, quos ne quo nomine quidem appellare debeam scio. Cives? qui a patria vestra descistis. An milites? qui imperium auspiciumque abnuistis, sacramenti religionem rupistis. Hostes? Corpora, ora, vestitum, habitum civium adgnosco: facta, dicta, consilia, animos hostium video.” Goodyear 1972, 290 quotes Livy’s passage only as far as “religionem rupistis,” but the third element (enemies) is also taken up by Tacitus. Note that all these elements reappear towards the end of Germanicus’ address with “tua, dive Auguste, caelo recepta mens, tua, pater Druse, imago, tui memoria isdem istis cum militibus, quos iam pudor et gloria intrat, eluant hanc maculam irasque civiles in exitium hostibus vertant” (1.43.3). Note also that in the next sentence another echo of Livy’s Scipio can be perceived: “vos quoque, quorum alia nunc ora, alia pectora contueor... (1.43.4).” So, in contrast to Scipio’s legionaries, not only the Rhine soldiers’ faces but also their hearts are those of the Romans, not the enemies. The implication is that by the end of the speech the soldiers have come back to obedience and clearcut differentiations and definitions are at last possible. It should be added that not only Scipio’s speech but the Livian mutiny narrative as a whole (28.24-9) is an important intertext for Tacitus; see Woodman 2006, 312ff. for details. It is also used by other writers, notably by Curtius Rufus and Lucan, see van Stekelenburg 1976; Rutz 1983; Fantham 1985.

294

Chapter Nineteen

culminating point of which is the famous scene of the prince’s attempted suicide. Germanicus first declares his loyalty towards the emperor and then takes his sword and directs it towards his breast; those standing next to him get hold of his hand and thus prevent him from stabbing himself (1.35.4). The effects of this gesture are, however, disappointing: some of his men encourage him to strike himself and one of them (Tacitus significantly gives his name) offers his own sword, saying that it is sharper. It is not my intention here to fully discuss this scene, which is frequently regarded as conveying harsh, if implicit, criticism of Germanicus.22 Suffice it to say that in the parallel narrative of Cassius Dio (57.5.2f.) Germanicus’ gesture appears more theatrical or ridiculous than in Tacitus; in particular, Dio does not mention the people standing next to Germanicus who, according to the Roman historian, prevent him from committing suicide.23 Also, Dio withholds comment on the behaviour of the soldiers whereas Tacitus notes that even the furentes are shocked at the sight of Germanicus being humiliated by his men; their consternation gives the prince’s friends opportunity to snatch him away and bring him to 22

See, e.g., Shotter 1968, 198 (“an impulsive and desperate act of bravado”); Ross 1973, 215 (“Germanicus...becomes...a figure of almost comic failure”); more balanced is Goodyear 1972, 261. Pelling 1993, 62f. n. 8 notes a parallel with Pompey as described by Plutarch, Pomp. 13. For a sound defence of Germanicus’ action, see Williams 1997, 53f. Scholars are divided as to whether what is described by Tacitus (and Dio) is really Germanicus’ attempted suicide or rather a mere gesture (mis)calculated to bring the soldiers back to obedience; for the latter view, see Walser 1951, 58 (who notes that “Tacitus nimmt das Theaterspiel ernst,” in contrast to Dio). Van Hooff 1990, 211 puts Germanicus in his list of 960 cases of self-killing (both accomplished and attempted), but he does not mention his other attempt (see next note). Also here the reader is invited to make comparisons with the Pannonian narrative; in this case, however, Germanicus should be juxtaposed not with Drusus but with Junius Blaesus (1.18.3 with clamitans occurring in both passages; note that Blaesus is, not unlike Germanicus, a good public speaker: 1.19.2); see Shotter 1968, 198; Williams 1997, 53. Blaesus’ behaviour resembles that of another eloquent general, Antonius Primus (Hist. 3.10.4). 23 “...ni proximi prensam dextram vi attinuissent.” On another occasion, Germanicus’ friends once again prevent his suicide: “...cum se tanti exitii reum clamitaret [note the verb!], vix cohibuere amici quo minus eodem mari oppeteret” (2.24.2). According to Dio, Germanicus gave up his design to kill himself when he realized that even this would not appease his soldiers. See Koestermann 1963, 156 for a discussion of differences between Tacitus’ and Dio’s accounts of this episode. See also Questa 1963, 169 (who goes rather too far in stressing the “soverchia, fastidiosa intenzione apologetica nei confronti di Germanico,” allegedly typical of Tacitus and avoided by Dio).

The Passive Voice of the Hero

295

his tent: “spatium fuit, quo Caesar ab amicis in tabernaculum raperetur” (1.35.5). The Latin sentence just quoted is paraphrased by Woodman as “there was a lull while Germanicus escaped to his tent” (2006, 320) and Mary Frances Williams speaks about “Germanicus, who then departs in the momentary interlude” (1997, 53). But the prince neither “escapes” nor “departs;” it is his friends who have taken initiative, not he himself. There follows the narrative of the council in ch. 36: “consultatum ibi de remedio.” Of course this chapter should be read side by side with the account of a similar council in Pannonia (and both passages ought to be compared with Livy 28.26.1-324). The Pannonian council looks similar, but the situation there is different. The unrest has already been checked, thanks to the timely eclipse of the moon which the superstitious soldiers interpreted as a sign of divine displeasure at what they were doing. Now it has to be decided what course of action is to be taken as regards the soldiers. Some believe that no violent steps are needed but others are in favour of more radical measures: “fortioribus remediis agendum.” The second option prevails and Tacitus explicitly states that the decision is made by Drusus: “promptum ad asperiora ingenium Druso erat.”25 Executions follow, first of the two ringleaders, Percennius and Vibulenus, then of other culprits (1.29.3f.). The situation in Lower Germany is different, since the council takes place at what may seem at that moment to be the culminating point of the mutiny, not at its end. Yet Tacitus’ description of the council is also quite different. In the Pannonian passage, “certatum inde sententiis” is immediately followed by the statement of two conflicting options: “cum alii...censerent, alii...” Here however, Tacitus starts with a relatively long presentation of the threats likely to be encountered soon. There are reports about the soldiers’ preparations to send envoys to the four legions of Upper Germany to incite them to join the rebellion, as well as about their planned attack on Colonia Agrippinensis and plundering expeditions against the Gauls; these fears are aggravated by the likely prospect of a German invasion. So the situation is critical and rapid action is essential to avert the danger. But what kind of action? Curiously, Tacitus refrains from clearly defining the options discussed at the meeting. It seems that the 24

See Woodman 2006, 316f. (and cf. n. 21 above). In Livy, the question is whether to punish some 35 leaders of the mutiny only or whether to act more harshly and inflict punishment on a greater number of soldiers. “Vicit sententia lenior,” but, significantly, we are not told what Scipio’s own standpoint was; moreover, we are not even told whether he was present at the meeting. 25

296

Chapter Nineteen

members of the council do not so much put forward positive proposals but rather emphasize, in a negative way, the wrongness of any solutions which might be considered. This is summed up by the sentence occurring immediately before the statement of the decision: “Periculosa severitas, flagitiosa largitio: seu nihil militi sive omnia concederentur, in ancipiti res publica.”26 This again stands in sharp contrast to the Pannonian account where the positive side of the proposed solutions is stressed. Moreover, the Rhine council is not only anonymous (as its Pannonian counterpart), but impersonal: we have here no opposing parties, no quidam, alii, multi or plerique which are frequently used in the council narratives of Roman authors (as we remember, at the Pannonian council the two options are presented by alii...alii). But, most disquietingly, this impersonal mode is retained when Tacitus comes to the decision taken: “igitur volutatis inter se rationibus placitum, ut epistulae nomine principis scriberentur.” The purpose of this forgery was to make some concessions towards the soldiers and to support these concessions with the authority of Tiberius, thus calming down the unrest. But from the subsequent narrative it is clear that this solution proved successful only to a very limited degree and that the most dangerous stages of the mutiny were still ahead. So the decision was taken but Tacitus leaves his readers in doubt as to who is responsible. Once again this is in contrast to the Pannonian story, where Drusus is named. Here, however, Germanicus is conspicuously absent from the whole council narrative. A distinctly different picture is drawn by Cassius Dio (57.5.3). The Greek historian knows nothing of the council and simply says that it was Germanicus who faked the letter; this episode is placed immediately after his account of the prince’s attempted suicide (which, as we remember, also differs from that of Tacitus). Of course it would be imprudent to press the differences between the two accounts (Dio’s is some five times shorter than Tacitus’ and it tends to simplify the story, concentrating on Germanicus and omitting minor characters27), but the Greek historian’s straightforwardness in naming Tiberius’ nephew as both the initiator and 26

Severitas looks back to the preceding sentence where an option of sending the allies and auxiliary troops against the rebellious soldiers is briefly considered, only to be rejected on the ground that this amounts to starting a civil war. The theme of largitio, on the other hand, is introduced only here. 27 Such as Aulus Caecina, Cassius Chaerea or Manius Ennius. He mentions the soldier offering his sword to Germanicus and the senatorial embassy arriving from Rome but, unlike Tacitus, gives no names. (In his account of the Pannonian uprising, at least Junius Blaesus is named, apart from Drusus.) For some other differences between the two authors, see below.

The Passive Voice of the Hero

297

the executor of the forgery is striking. By contrast, Tacitus’ placitum (referring to the initiative) and scriberentur (referring to its execution) gives the impression that nothing precise can be said about who was actually responsible for the whole thing.28 The use of the passive voice and such impersonal expressions as placitum in the Rhine mutiny account, especially in chs. 36 and 37 dealing with the council and its immediate consequences, is highly significant. In ch. 37 for instance, there is a marked contrast between the first sentence in which the soldiers’ demands are mentioned and the second one in which the response to these demands is described. We have first “sensit miles in tempus conficta statimque flagitavit,” with the two active voice predicates, sensit and flagitavit, framing the sentence and thus emphasized,29 and then “missio per tribunos maturatur, largitio differebatur in hiberna cuiusque,” once again with two predicates, but this time in the passive voice. And another example from this chapter: Germanicus goes to the legions in Upper Germany and makes them swear an oath of allegiance to Tiberius: “secundam et tertiam decimam et sextam decimam legiones nihil cunctatas sacramento adigit.” This is noteworthy, since Germanicus appears as the grammatical subject of a sentence for the first time since the narrative of his attempted suicide. But then Tacitus suddenly shifts to the passive voice to present the concessions made to these legions as well: “pecunia et missio quamvis non flagitantibus oblata est.” Certainly we should bear in mind that Tacitus is particularly fond of passive voice constructions and uses them frequently throughout his 28

An impression, we may add, not shared by some modern scholars who point to Germanicus as the decision maker (and usually cite Tacitus, not Dio, as their source); thus e.g. Shotter 1968, 199; Ross 1973, 216; Woodman 2006, 320. Certainly, Germanicus, as the supreme commander, must be held responsible for the decision taken; the point is, however, that Tacitus does not present him as such. Yet, on the other hand, neither does he say explicitly that it was the prince’s advisors who proposed and accepted the forgery (despite Walser 1951, 58f.: “Daß dies eine recht wenig loyale und mutige Maßnahme war, hat Tacitus wohl empfunden und schreibt deshalb die Erfindung dem Kriegsrat der Freunde zu”). Some kind of collective responsibility is implied in the phrase “volutatis inter se rationibus” but, once again, we are not told whether Germanicus took part in discussing these rationes. 29 Cf. Hist. 3.10.3: “sensit ludibrium miles...,” appearing in a similar context of a military unrest. Ludibrium refers to the hoax arrest of Tampius Flavianus, the unpopular legate of Pannonia. But Tacitus is explicit about who ordered the trick (“inici catenas Flaviano iubet [scil. Antonius Primus]”). Antonius is also the subject of the following sentence, presenting his response to the soldiers’ behaviour.

298

Chapter Nineteen

works. To give just one example, the emperor Galba’s dictum explaining his refusal to pay a donative to the soldiers appears in Tacitus in the form “legi a se militem, non emi” (Hist. 1.5.2), whereas three other writers who quote it—Plutarch, Suetonius and Cassius Dio—all use the active voice.30 But in many instances it may be argued that his use of the passive voice is something more than a stylistic mannerism: it is a narrative device. Its frequent appearance in Books 11 and 12 of the Annals, giving an account of the principate of Claudius, is a case in point. As is well known, Tacitus represents that emperor (in conformity with other ancient authors) as a tool in the hands of his freedmen and wives, so the use of passive constructions in relation to him is most appropriate.31 Take, for example, the historian’s account of the nomination of Burrus to the post of prefect of the praetorian guard in AD 51 (12.42.1). He begins by saying that Agrippina was still unprepared to take the final step in her (and his son’s) way to power; it was necessary first to get rid of the two praetorian prefects whom she believed to be loyal to Messalina’s children (“...ni praetorianorum cohortium cura exsolverentur Lusius Geta et Rufrius Crispinus”). The decision concerning their dismissal and Burrus’ nomination is taken in the next sentence: Igitur distrahi cohortes ambitu duorum et, si ab uno regerentur, intentiorem fore disciplinam adseverante uxore, transfertur regimen cohortium ad Burrum Afranium, egregiae militaris famae, gnarum tamen cuius sponte praeficeretur. So the wife emphatically stated that the two prefects’ rivalry rent apart the unity of the praetorian cohorts and that if the soldiers had only one commander they would become more disciplined. Consequently, the command of the cohorts was transferred to Afranius Burrus, a man whose military record was remarkable but who was, nevertheless, perfectly aware on whose initiative his appointment had been made.

The phrase adseverante uxore is a clear hint that Agrippina spoke about the need to change the command of the guard to her husband Claudius.32 30

Plut. Galba 18.2: Ǟ˕DzǡǖǦǚǢ ǣǚǭǚǤǖǜǞǢǦ ǬǭǪǚǭǢǷǭǚǫ, Ǩ˱ǣ ʩǜǨǪǕǟǞǢǦ; Suet. Galba 16.1: “legere se militem, non emere consuesse”; Cass. Dio 64.3.3: ǣǚǭǚǤǖǜǞǢǦ ǬǭǪǚǭǢǷǭǚǫ, ʩǤǤ’ Ǩ˱ǣ ʩǜǨǪǕǟǞǢǦ Ǟ˙Dzǡǚ. 31 The device has of course been noticed by scholars dealing with Tacitus’ picture of Claudius (see, e.g., Ryberg 1942, 404 n. 83; Griffin 1990, 488), but as far as I know there is no systematic treatment of it. 32 Cf. Michael Grant’s Penguin translation in which this is made explicit: “So Agrippina asserted to Claudius...” But in the Latin original uxore is the only

The Passive Voice of the Hero

299

An obvious implication is that it was Claudius who made the decision (of course, he alone was entitled to appoint prefects of the guard). However, Tacitus prefers to leave out any information about the person of the decision maker and, characteristically, suppresses the presence of the emperor in the whole section dealing with Burrus’ appointment. Moreover, he uses the passive verb praeficeretur in reference to the nomination (which is now focalized by Burrus himself), but supplements it by cuius sponte, clearly pointing not to Claudius, but to his wife. Are we to conclude, then, that also Germanicus (Claudius’ brother, by the way) is portrayed by Tacitus in a similar manner, as a tool in the hands of his, this time anonymous, advisors? In my opinion, the historian’s aim is different. Both Cassius Dio and Velleius Paterculus state explicitly that the measures taken to check the Rhine mutiny originated with the nephew of Tiberius. The account of Velleius is of particular interest because we have here an implied criticism of, or at least a distancing of oneself from, the prince and an explicit comparison between Germanicus’ and Drusus’ handling of their respective mutinies: “ut pleraque ignovit Germanicus, ita Drusus...prisca antiquaque severitate usus...” (2.125.4).33 Velleius’ account represents, it should be remembered, a semi-official, Tiberian view of those events and according to Tacitus the emperor was clearly critical of the steps taken by Germanicus to calm down the rebellion (1.52.1): Nuntiata ea Tiberium laetitia curaque adfecere: gaudebat oppressam seditionem, sed quod largiendis pecuniis et missione festinata favorem militum quaesivisset, bellica quoque Germanici gloria angebatur. When Tiberius was informed about all this, his reaction was both joy and anxiety. On the one hand, he was happy that the mutiny had been stamped out. But, on the other, he was vexed by Germanicus’ attempting (so he thought) to win the favour of his troops by means of money grants and indication in the entire section that Claudius has anything to do with the whole thing (in fact, he is explicitly mentioned only some 10 lines later, towards the end of ch. 42, and even there the influence exerted upon him by his wife is a dominant theme: “praebuissetque aures Caesar nisi Agrippinae minis magis quam precibus mutatus esset...”). 33 Ignovit is an emendation of the Bipontine edition of 1780, whereas the apodosis reads ignave (gnave was proposed by Boeclerus and ignave by Ellis). The Bipontine text is accepted in Woodman’s Cambridge and Watt’s Teubner editions; see Woodman 1977, 231 for a discussion. According to Woodman, Velleius’ attitude to Germanicus in this passage is, not unlike that of Tiberius, ambiguous. He thinks also that there is no need to regard ignovit as expressing criticism of his actions. For another view, see Schmitzer 2000, 275f.

300

Chapter Nineteen early discharges from service; and the man’s military renown was yet another source of his anguish.34

Although some scholars deny the emperor’s critical reaction to Germanicus’ measures, pointing out inter alia that in the same chapter Tacitus informs us that Tiberius granted all the concessions made by his nephew to the Rhine soldiers also to the troops in Pannonia,35 there seems to be some connection between what Tacitus says and what Velleius suggests in the passage quoted above (if we adopt the reading of the Bipontine edition). And, quite irrespective of Tiberius’ real or alleged enmity towards Germanicus, the measures taken by the prince, in particular the forgery of the letter, simply have to be regarded as culpable. Yet Tacitus, in my opinion, uses the passive voice constructions to exculpate him.36 That is not to say that he portrays Germanicus as absolutely blameless; it is impossible to deny that in the mutiny narrative there are passages which cast a rather dubious light on the emperor’s nephew—and the historian does not suppress unfavourable material (see below). But on the whole Tacitus’ message seems to be that the prince

34 Characteristically, Tiberius has no doubt about who is responsible for the measures taken to appease the soldiery (note the contrast with Tacitus’ own narrative in ch. 36). Moreover, he interprets these measures as a means to boost Germanicus’ image among his men, an interpretation not shared by the historian (for the subjunctive quaesivisset, see Pelling 1993, 71). 35 See, e.g., Liebenam 1891, 723 (who referring to Velleius accepts Boeclerus’ gnave and speaks about this passage as “den bericht eines zeitgenossen, der die fabel von der feindschaft des Tiberius und Germanicus nicht kannte oder nicht glaubte”); Galotta 1987, 84 (who also rejects ignovit). 36 Such an “exculpating passive” has its counterpart in what James Buchan once called “a coward’s passive,” a device readily used in autobiography and related forms of writing. Buchan’s example is Yitzchak Shamir’s Summing Up: An Autobiography; he writes: “...it has long been known in Israel that Shamir ordered the murder of his friend in the Lehi, Eliahu Giladi, and many Israelis believe he did it with his own hand. Shamir avoids the question, hiding behind a coward’s passive, ‘the decision was made—and carried out,’ but goes to great lengths to besmirch Giladi and stress his own terrible anguish” (The Spectator, 30 April 1994, p. 35). On the other hand, passive constructions used in reference to laudable actions may serve to implicitly deny that they have been initiated by (far from laudable) people with whom these actions are commonly associated; such seems to be the case with Suet. Nero 16f., a catalogue of mainly legislative measures introduced during the principate of Nero; see Steidle 1951, 89; Griffin 1984, 38.

The Passive Voice of the Hero

301

should not be held responsible for most of what went wrong in Lower Germany.37 However, the picture here is not simple. The historian appears to exculpate Germanicus through his use of the passive voice and impersonal expressions in the council episode and its immediate aftermath, but he makes no attempt to remove him from the narrative of his soldiers’ sitting in judgement on their centurions: indeed, he explicitly says that the initiative came from the prince (1.44.5: “centurionatum inde egit”38). It would be easy for him not to introduce Germanicus here: “centurionatus inde actus” would sound perfectly good. Moreover, in ch. 39 Tacitus emphasizes the prince’s helplessness in the face of his soldiers’ bursting into his house and snatching away a standard: Germanicus is by no means an active person here (although no passive voice predicates are used) but this is obviously a kind of inactivity which does him no credit whatsoever. To be sure, we have in this chapter one of those episodes of the Rhine mutiny narrative in which, as Pelling says, “[i]t is the legions, rather than Germanicus himself, who...absorb our interest” (1993, 69). But the emphasis placed on the soldiers does not exclude some concern for Germanicus’ behaviour. Moreover, the historian seems to invite his readers to make a comparison between the prince and one of his officers, Manius Ennius. In the preceding chapter Ennius’ quite different attitude in the face of danger is described and, interestingly, a military standard plays an important role there. Thus, it would be wrong to speak about Tacitus “exculpating” Germanicus throughout the Rhine mutiny chapters. In some passages he wants in fact to exculpate him by taking him out of the narrative but in other passages he makes no attempt to obscure his presence, even when his record as commander is far from unblemished. Obviously, the historian has no intention of removing Germanicus altogether from his narrative. Two more observations may be made. Firstly, the passive Germanicus of some portions of the Rhine mutiny account stands in marked contrast to the distinctly active Germanicus of the following chapters dealing with the military expedition to Germany. At 1.49.3f. the situation still has much in common with that presented in the preceding narrative: it is the soldiers 37 Certainly, suggesting that the responsibility for actions taken in the face of a military insurgence does not rest with the supreme commander throws an unfavourable light on his authority. Yet Tacitus seems to prefer this to blaming Germanicus for wrong decisions. Besides, the prince regains his authority in the subsequent narrative (see below). 38 For the meaning of this disputed phrase, see Goodyear 1972, 299f. For the presentation of Germanicus in this episode, see Rutland 1987, 156-8.

302

Chapter Nineteen

who are seized with the desire for attacking the enemy (as they were earlier seized with the madness of revolt), whereas Germanicus solely follows their, this time praiseworthy, ardour. But in ch. 51 he appears as a commander in his own right, leading his men to victory, anticipating an enemy ambush, and inciting the legionaries to obliterate the stain of the mutiny through their brave fighting. This metamorphosis is emphasized also on the grammatical level: although some verbs in the passive voice are used, active constructions prevail, and there are four important verbs which have Germanicus as their subject (dispertit, pervastat, incessit, clamitabat). Secondly, we should take into account the fact that in some parts of the mutiny narrative Germanicus is portrayed as actively—and successfully— dealing with the unrest. I have said previously that his activity seems to reveal itself more frequently in words than in deeds: yes, but it becomes clear from Tacitus’ account that words are very important, both for stirring up the revolt and for putting it down. It is Germanicus’ speech in chs. 42 and 43 (as we remember, the first speech in direct discourse in the Annals), together with the situation which occasioned it—the prince’s decision to send his wife and son away from the camp and the soldiers’ reaction to the sight of “muliebre et miserabile agmen” (1.40.4), which may rightly be regarded as the turning point of the mutiny, comparable to the moon eclipse and its aftermath in the Pannonian narrative. There is a notable difference here between Tacitus and Cassius Dio: the Greek historian does not reproduce Germanicus’ address to his soldiers (he simply says that he made entreaties to them) and, much more importantly, he represents the soldiers as having seized the prince’s wife and son (later they release Agrippina but retain Gaius). In Dio’s account it is the soldiers who eventually put an end to the mutiny themselves, having realized that even taking Germanicus’ son hostage is of no avail to their cause. Moreover, they experience such a radical change of mind that they go on to punish the most guilty of their own number (57.5.6f.). Thus, in Dio’s version, Germanicus’ role in calming down the rebellion is minimized—at least in comparison with Tacitus.39 The difference is all the more striking since, as I have argued in this paper, the Roman historian is at pains, in 39 Most scholars think that the difference between Tacitus and Dio is to be explained by their using different sources (more precisely, by Tacitus’ abandoning, from 1.40.1 till 1.44.1, a common source); see Liebenam 1891, 730; Kessler 1905, 23ff.; Questa 1963, 165ff. (who believes that Tacitus abandons a common source as early as the beginning of the Rhine narrative); Hurley 1989 (who concentrates on Gaius and discusses also Suet. Cal. 9). But the differences may be explained by the two authors’ different narrative strategies; thus Malloch 2004.

The Passive Voice of the Hero

303

some sections of the Rhine mutiny narrative, to speak as little of Germanicus as possible. Here, at last, Tiberius’ nephew may be safely introduced as actively facing the mutiny, and persuading his men to obedience.40

40

Although Galotta 1987, 82 goes too far when he says that the speech shows Germanicus as “un comandante di eccezionale sangue freddo e dotato di una profonda conoscenza della psicologia militare.”

CHAPTER TWENTY A GREATER THAN CAESAR? RIVALRY WITH CAESAR IN TACITUS’ AGRICOLA ANDREW T. FEAR

When Tacitus came to write the account of his father-in-law’s life, he was doubly fortunate in the place that his chosen hero had spent most of his time in the service of the Roman state. Britain, like Parthia, lay on the edge of the Romans’ known world, and, as such, it was a subject that automatically possessed a certain mystique that would attract a keen readership.1 Given the island’s location, its conqueror could be portrayed as extending Rome’s sway to the very edge of the world: an almost superhuman achievement.2 But apart from this initial advantage for the biographer, Britain yielded a further benefit in that it was also a place where Rome had suffered humiliation and that humiliation had been inflicted on the man widely regarded the very model of Roman generalship, Julius Caesar.3 While what had happened to Caesar in Britain in 54 BC was not the catastrophe that was to befall Crassus in Parthia the following year, it was nevertheless a signal failure. In the De Bello Gallico Caesar puts on a brave face while giving his version of the abortive campaign, but in the end cannot disguise the fact that he was forced out of Britain after attempting its conquest. The general judgement of antiquity on his efforts was that of Strabo, who had 1

See the comments of Plutarch (Caes. 23.2) and Velleius Paterculus (2.46.1) where Britain is described as an alter orbis, “an another world.” 2 See the pairing of Parthia and Britain by Horace and his sentiments about their conquest, Carm. 3.5: “Caelo tonantem credidimus Iouem/ regnare: praesens diuus habebitur/ Augustus adiectis Britannis/ imperio grauibusque Persis.” 3 Caesar’s only rival in this respect was Scipio Africanus.

A Greater than Caesar? Rivalry with Caesar in Tacitus’ Agricola

305

relied heavily on the Gallic Wars for his account of Gaul and thus was familiar with the text: “The deified Caesar crossed over to the island twice, but came back in haste without accomplishing much or advancing very far inland…” (4.5.3).4 Writing some hundred years later, Suetonius numbers the British debacle, along with the loss of over a legion among the Eburones and the abortive siege of Gergovia, among Caesar’s three defeats (Iul. 25), perhaps echoing a “canonical” list of setbacks that had grown up overtime. This failure on Caesar’s part gave his posterity an ideal opportunity to secure military glory as, after Caesar’s setbacks there, the conquest of Britain would be seen not only as a vindication of Roman arms, always a major concern at Rome, but also, as a consequence of his failure, an achievement that even Caesar, Rome’s paradigmatic soldier, had been unable to secure. In a world where military glory was the most valuable of political currencies, the temptation to be seen to surpass Caesar on his own ground was great. The poets of Augustus’ court urged this course upon the emperor, or at least the emperor wished to be perceived as being on the brink of such an invasion,5 and the emperor Claudius succumbed to the temptation. However, the Claudian invasion of Britain did not exhaust the opportunities for Roman heroism there, for while the emperor had invaded the island, he had not completed its conquest. Therein lay Tacitus’ opportunity: by presenting Agricola as the true and definitive conqueror of Britain, he could exult his father-in-law to the very summit of military achievement as the man who had succeeded where Caesar had failed. The Agricola is a complex text and it would be a mistake to see it dominated by one single narrative purpose. In the account of his father-inlaw’s life, Tacitus adds meditations on the relation between the individual and the state, a patriot’s duties under tyranny, and perhaps an indirect form of self-justification. Nevertheless, one distinct undercurrent within the text that has been greatly neglected is its portrayal of Agricola as not merely a military rival, but a superior soldier to Caesar.6 Given the theatre of most of the work, Tacitus’ audience was bound to have had Caesar’s account of his British campaigns of 55 and 54 BC in mind when reading the

4 See also Plutarch, Caes. 23.3, who notes that the war did not have the outcome that Caesar wished. 5 For a listing of references and discussion, see in particular Brunt 1963, though he perhaps reads this material, which to some degree is state propaganda, in a naïve fashion. 6 For example, there are only two passing references to Caesar in Ogilvie and Richmond’s major edition and commentary on the Agricola (1967, 49 and 185).

306

Chapter Twenty

Agricola,7 and Tacitus deftly employs this background to his advantage. Agricola is represented as finishing that which Caesar hardly managed to begin in Britain. Moreover, Tacitus uses incidents in his account of Agricola’s career to throw out a challenge not merely to Caesar’s campaigning in Britain, but also more generally to his competence when soldiering in Gaul. Finally, in addition to presenting Agricola as a greater soldier than Caesar, Tacitus also uses his work to support a new ideology of imperialism which contrasts with the simple doctrine of conquest found in Caesar’s own day and the early principate. Both direct and indirect comparisons with Caesar are deployed by Tacitus to praise his hero. At times, the Agricola explicitly mirrors the Gallic Wars. This can be seen in the geographic and ethnographic excursus at the beginning of the work, paralleling that found in the De Bello Gallico. In part, this simply brings Caesar’s previous account of Britain up to date, for example in its discussion of the precious metals found in Britain which are not mentioned by Caesar. Even here however there may be an indirect attack on Caesar’s misplaced greed. Tacitus notes that the pearls of Britain are of low quality (Agr. 12.6). His younger contemporary Suetonius (Iul. 47) hints that the search for pearls was one of the reasons for Caesar’s invasion, picking up on a rumour which persisted from the time of the expedition itself as can be seen from a slighting reference by Catullus (29). However, Tacitus also manipulates his geographical account of Britain to show how Agricola surpassed Caesar’s achievements. In ch. 10 of the Agricola we read how under Agricola a Roman fleet circumnavigated Britain for the first time, proving it was an island. Stress is laid on the unique nature of this achievement, the fact the sea traversed was the furthermost known to Rome, that islands even further away than Britain were subdued, and that the mythical island of Thule was sighted.8 The account trumps the reputation Caesar had gained for maritime adventuring which is found, for example, in Plutarch who notes that Caesar was the first to take a fleet into the “western ocean” (Iul. 23.2). Tacitus reminds his reader that Agricola had not merely brought a fleet into that ocean, but had penetrated to its very edge.

7 The De Bello Gallico was readily available in antiquity being known to Florus and quoted extensively by the fifth century historian Orosius. 8 “Hanc oram novissimi maris tunc primum Romana classis circumvecta insulam esse Britanniam adfirmavit, ac simul incognitas ad id tempus insulas, quas Orcadas vocant, invenit domuitque. Dispecta est et Thule” (10.4, emphasis added).

A Greater than Caesar? Rivalry with Caesar in Tacitus’ Agricola

307

This challenge is developed in ch. 13 of the Agricola where we are told that Caesar was the first, primus, to cross to Britain. The phrasing of the comment immediately brings to the reader’s mind the preceding statement in ch. 10 that under Agricola Rome had first, primum, reached the island’s end. The contrast is sharp: Agricola not only conquers Britain, penetrating to its furthest coast, but even goes on to subdue lands which lay beyond it.9 And his achievement was long-lasting: the island in its entirety was left as a permanent bequest, “safe and sound,” for his successor and hence for Rome.10 Caesar, on the other hand, had merely made an excursion to the closest shore of Britain, frightened the natives there, but was unable to leave any lasting legacy to posterity.11 This direct comparison of Agricola with Caesar helped Tacitus to cement an association between the two men which would have already been present in the reader’s mind. This link is then deepened by the use of implicit comparisons with Caesar. An example of this can be seen in Tacitus’ further use of naval themes. Caesar’s mishandling of his fleet was a major cause of his defeat in Britain. This can be seen from the De Bello Gallico itself and is also emphasized by both Strabo (4.5.3) and Suetonius (Iul. 25.2). Therefore, while not mentioning Caesar by name, it is not surprising that Tacitus lays stress on Agricola’s successful use of his naval arm.12 Despite the dangerous coastline of northern Britain (Agr. 10), we learn that Agricola’s fleet manages to rendezvous with his army without loss. Indeed, Tacitus creates a small vignette of the two services’ friendly rivalry, and the navy becomes an important part of Agricola’s campaigning strategy to force the Caledonians to battle (Agr. 25, 29). Calgacus, their leader, despondently declares that the Roman fleet left them no room for escape.13 The reader therefore draws the conclusion that 9

It is unclear whether Agricola did land on the Orkneys. Eutropius (7.13) writing in the late 4th century AD, has these islands surrendering to Claudius in AD 43. This is even more implausible and may represent a misreading/misunderstanding of the Agricola. 10 “Quietam tutamque” (Agr. 40.3). The permanence of Agricola’s legacy to Tacitus’ mind, and the way it was then wantonly squandered, comes across in his bitter comment “perdomita Britannia et statim missa,” found in the Histories (1.2.1). 11 “Igitur primus omnium Romanorum divus Iulius cum exercitu ingressus quamquam prospera pugna terruerit incolas ac litore potitus sit, potest videri ostendisse posteris, non tradidisse,” Agr. 13.1. 12 Agr. 25. This is something also later found in Tacitus’ portrayal of Germanicus, a figure whose characterisation is very close to that of Agricola, in the Annals. 13 “Et nullae ultra terrae ac ne mare quidem securum inminente nobis classe Romana,” Agr. 30.1.

308

Chapter Twenty

far from being the factor which led to defeat in Britain as it had for Caesar, Agricola’s skilfully handled fleet is a key component in creating victory. Ethnography too plays into Tacitus’ hands. Caesar tells us that the Britons closest to the coast, i.e. those he attacked, were the most civilized of the tribes on the island, being very similar to the Gauls (Gall. 5.14), a race that he later notes as becoming enervated by civilisation (Gall. 6.24). Such remarks would have diminished Caesar’s achievements in Britain in the eyes of his Roman readers as higher levels of civilisation in antiquity were normally associated with a corresponding decline in martial strength. Hence to the ancient mind, the Britons of the south coast should have been the easiest to defeat and subdue, yet even among them Caesar had failed to make a permanent mark. Tacitus is careful to hint at this line of thought to his readers in ch. 11 of the Agricola, while at the same time pointing out that the Caledonians in the north against whom Agricola later in the work wins his final victory are likely to be of German descent. The ancient Germans had a reputation for both martial prowess and a fierce love of liberty.14 Once again, Caesar is subtly denigrated by Tacitus, while the achievements of his hero are in turn quietly underlined. The geographical and ethnographic sections of the Agricola begin a continual series of implicit references and challenges to Caesar’s military achievements which run through the rest of the work. In the second book of the De Bello Gallico Caesar deals with a rebellion of the Belgae centred on the tribe of the Nervii. According to Caesar, his actions in suppressing this uprising led to the tribe’s virtual extermination—“prope ad internecionem gente ac nomine Nerviorum redacto” (Gall. 2.28.1). The claim is exaggerated—the Nervii appear again later in Caesar’s narrative as a large, dangerous fighting force (Gall. 5.38, 42). In the Agricola a similar incident is presented to the reader: an account of Agricola’s initial campaign against the Ordovices of central Wales. Here we are told that though previous governor of Britain had scattered Agricola’s available forces into winter quarters, Agricola, unlike Caesar who had waited for the normal campaigning season, immediately concentrated his troops and launched a punitive attack on the enemy bringing about their destruction which is described in a phrase intended to echo Caesar’s account of his treatment of the Nervii—“caesaque prope universa gente” (Agr. 18.3). Unlike the Nervii, the reader hears no more of the Ordovices and thus is meant to assume that Agricola’s actions, unlike those of Caesar, were completely successful. Yet, like Caesar, Tacitus overstates his case: archaeological excavations have shown that the Ordovices soon recovered 14

Aided in part by their portrayal in Tacitus’ other early work, the Germania.

A Greater than Caesar? Rivalry with Caesar in Tacitus’ Agricola

309

from Agricola’s onslaught and thrived.15 Unlike the Gallic Wars, Tacitus’ account of his father-in-law’s actions is of necessity highly compressed and this initial campaign and its incidental detail could easily have been omitted entirely. The only reason for the inclusion of these comments, which are intended to reflect well on Agricola, and as such speak volumes about the Roman attitude to “rebels,” is in order to demonstrate how Agricola parallels, indeed surpasses, Caesar’s ability as a soldier. Not only is Caesar’s overall success challenged, but even his celeritas, a feature for which he was particularly known,16 is shown to be deficient when compared to the energy shown by Agricola in similar circumstances. Caesar’s account of crossing the Rhine is also used by Tacitus, again perhaps with exaggeration, to underline Agricola’s glory. Caesar was the first Roman to cross the Rhine, itself a notable achievement as it took Roman arms beyond their previous limits. However, it was short-lived accomplishment, for after his account of the crossing and lengthy description of the bridge he built, Caesar tells us that he thought that what he had done was praiseworthy enough and thus retreated back to Gaul— “satis et ad laudem et ad utilitatem profectum arbitratus se in Galliam recepit pontemque rescidit” (Gall. 4.19.4). For an audience drawn from a militaristic nation like Rome, this is an awkward moment in the narrative and we should again see Caesar attempting to extract some glory for his actions while at the same time covering up that he had dangerously overextended his position. Regardless of the truth of the matter, the Agricola produces a sharp contrast to this behaviour when describing Agricola’s attitude on reaching the Tay. We are told that this river cut off the land which lay beyond it into virtually another island (“velut in alienam insulam”) and so, like the Rhine, formed a potential frontier for the empire—“inventus in ipsa Britannia terminus” (Agr. 23).17 The sentiment here is precisely that expressed by Caesar: expansion to this point is sufficiently praiseworthy and there is no call for any further advance. But we learn that Agricola’s attitude when he reaches his river is very different from Caesar’s. Far from thinking that his arrival on the Tay has produced sufficient glory, Agricola sees that Rome’s reputation will not allow a pause: the frontier would only be right if it would befit Rome and Tacitus’ rhetoric here—“si virtus exercituum et Romani nominis 15

See Hanson 1987, 83 See Vell. 2.41, 51. 17 The Tay has also been seen as marking a racial boundary between the lowland Scots and the “broch-builders” of the Highlands. While Caesar endeavours to show that the Rhine does mark a racial boundary of sorts, this idea is absent from Tacitus’ discussion of the Tay. 16

310

Chapter Twenty

gloria pateretur”—leaves the reader in no doubt that it would not. The context of this comment also produces an important contrast with Caesar. While Caesar is only interested in his own glory, Tacitus here uses careful phrasing to show that Agricola’s concern is, as ever, for Rome. Hence Agricola ignores the faint-hearts who urge a halt under the pretext of policy (“ignavi specie prudentium”), a description which comes close to describing Caesar’s attitude to the Rhine, and presses on with his campaign. The contrast with Caesar is stark and once again it may, like Tacitus’ account of the Ordovices, be exaggerated in order to make the comparison with Caesar all the more pointed. Some recent archaeological work has led to an assertion that the Tay was crossed by Roman arms prior to Agricola’s governorship, despite Tacitus’ assertion that Agricola was the first Roman to penetrate so far north.18 While the archaeology is unclear, we can perhaps see once again that Tacitus is prepared to strain the facts to breaking point in order to present his father-in-law as a greater soldier than Caesar. As well as presenting Agricola as succeeding where Caesar failed in Britain, Tacitus’ work also carries implicit contrasts with Agricola’s actions as compared to Caesar’s two other “canonical” disasters namely the loss of over a legion among the Eburones in 54 BC (Gall. 5.26-38) and the abortive siege of Gergovia in 52 BC (Gall. 7.45-52). The loss of Sabinus’ and Cotta’s force among the Eburones occurred when Caesar’s army was divided into winter quarters. The two abandoned their camp, on the grounds that it could not be held without support, and were then cut to pieces. Caesar finally came to the rescue of the rest of his beleaguered troops commanded by Quintus Cicero. A parallel incident is found in the Agricola (25f.). Here the ninth legion finds itself cut off from the rest of 18

“Tertius expeditionum annus novas gentis aperuit,” Agr. 22.1. However, Wooliscroft and Hoffmann 2006 argue that the Gask Ridge Frontier beyond the Tay dates to the early 70s AD and thus predates Agricola’s governorship. As well as archaeological data, they cite two ancient texts, both of which predate Agricola’s campaigns in Scotland, to support this case. These are Pliny HN 4.102 (terminus ante quem August AD 79): “XXX prope iam annis notitiam eius Romanis armis non ultra vicinitatem silvae Calidoniae propagantibus,” and Statius Silv. 5.2.142f. which refers to the achievements of Vettius Bolanus, governor of Britain in AD 69-71: “quanta Caledonios attollet gloria campos/ cum tibi longaevus referet trucis incola terrae.” These references, however, are far less damning than Wooliscroft and Hoffmann suppose. “Caledonia” could be used in a general sense to simply mean “Britain,” Florus (1.45), for example, refers to woodland in the South East of Britain as “Caledonias silvas.” Hence the case against Tacitus remains at best “not proven.”

A Greater than Caesar? Rivalry with Caesar in Tacitus’ Agricola

311

Agricola’s forces, but rapid action by Agricola brings a swift relieving force allowing a Roman pincer movement which then inflicts a major defeat on the enemy. In the cold light of day, neither Caesar’s nor Agricola’s generalship is beyond reproach in these incidents, as in both cases it is the dispersal of Roman forces which has allowed the enemy to attack them at an advantage. Caesar’s attempt to displace blame onto his subordinates (see particularly Gall. 5.52) certainly grates on the eye of the modern reader. Nevertheless, Tacitus again manages to challenge Caesar’s reputation for celeritas here by portraying Agricola as acting more rapidly than Caesar and much more successfully—his swift actions nip a perilous situation in the bud rather than allowing danger develop and his victory rather than restoring the status quo as was the case with Caesar, produces a positive advance for Roman arms—we are told that only the unfavourable terrain allowed the Caledonians to escape annihilation (Agr.26). Moreover, the state of the army after the two incidents is also different. Caesar hints that he encountered the troops in a restive mood,19 whereas Tacitus tells us that Agricola’s actions inspired his men, and made them even more eager, despite having fought a fierce battle, to advance.20 Tacitus issues a similar challenge to Caesar’s generalship over the siege of Gergovia. Here, because of their own bloodlust and poor signalling (Gall. 7.47), Caesar’s troops ran out of control turning victory into defeat and incurring the loss of 46 centurions and around 700 men (Gall. 7.51). The result of this setback was the failure of the whole operation and Caesar was forced to raise the siege of the town. In his account of the action Caesar blames his men (Gall. 7.52) and represents himself as always urging restraint. This rather churlish attempt to deflect blame perhaps succeeds on one level, but leaves the reader with the sense that Caesar was unable to control his own men. At Mons Graupius, the triumphant climax of Agricola’s campaigns, we are told in contrast that Agricola saw this potential problem emerging with his cavalry and that he acted swiftly to ensure that the excessive confidence of his men did not allow his opponents to construct an ambush for them and thus bring about a disaster (Agr. 37). Apart from using specific incidents to parallel ones found in the De Bello Gallico, Tacitus also presents Agricola as a superior general to Caesar in a more general sense. Caesar’s battles were bloody affairs that, while ending in triumph, involved the loss of much Roman blood. In 19

“Milites consolatur et confirmat,” Gall. 5.52.5. “Cuius conscientia ac fama ferox exercitus nihil virtuti suae invium et penetrandam Caledoniam inveniendumque tandem Britanniae terminum continuo proeliorum cursu fremebant,” Agr. 27.1. 20

312

Chapter Twenty

contrast to this, Tacitus is careful to emphasize that Agricola is sparing of the blood of his fellow citizens. At Mons Graupius no Roman troops, only auxilia, were engaged in combat. Tacitus notes that this was a deliberate policy on the part of Agricola and underlines its merits—“ingens victoriae decus citra Romanum sanguinem bellandi” (Agr. 35.2).21 Agricola’s victory was moreover total, while Caesar’s campaigns were marred by constant uprisings that broke out after his initial conquests. These too are absent from Tacitus’ account of Agricola’s governorship: there is no equivalent of Vercingetorix’s revolt or the messy siege at Alesia. Rather we are told that unlike his predecessor (and implicitly Caesar) Agricola left his province quietam tutamque for his successor (Agr. 40.3). This is a claim later repeated in the Histories where we are told that Britain was “thoroughly subdued”, perdomita, only to be let go by the selfishness of the emperor Domitian.22 This insistence on total conquest and the nature of that conquest shows another distinction that Tacitus wishes to make between Agricola and Caesar. Throughout the Agricola, Tacitus takes great pains to present his subject as a far superior soldier to Caesar, both by his careful selection of detail and his setting of the scene for Agricola’s campaigns and description of their outcome. However, this contrast runs beyond the practice of arms and carries on into the nature and intentions of the style of imperialism the two men pursued. While Caesar gained a reputation for clementia,23 this virtue was rarely shown to non-Romans who normally are the objects of Caesar’s righteous, as he sees it, vengeance. Caesar’s harsh attitude was very much that of his own day nor had this much changed in the Augustan period. However, by Tacitus’ day attitudes to empire were changing. A more benevolent attitude towards imperialism can be seen to be already present in the writings of Tacitus’ slightly earlier contemporary Pliny the Elder who insists that the Rome’s empire is a civilising project for the whole orbis terrarum, not merely an instrument of exploitation. In Pliny’s eyes, the gods have chosen Rome to become the motherland of all nations and that role requires her to civilize as well as dominate them.24 Here we see 21

Cf. Ann. 12.17 and Germ. 33 for similar sentiments. Velleius Paterculus, a professional soldier, shows an understandable appreciation of this approach to soldiering (2.97). His comments may suggest that it was commonly regarded as a virtue at Rome. 22 Hist. 1.2.1: “perdomita Britannia et statim missa.” 23 See Velleius Paterculus, who describes Caesar as “tam clementer omnibus victoriis suis uso” (2.56.3). 24 “Terra omnium terrarum alumna eadem et parens, numine deum electa quae

A Greater than Caesar? Rivalry with Caesar in Tacitus’ Agricola

313

an ideology, which is familiar from the Imperialism of the nineteenth century, where domination and benevolence are blended together, both being obligatory on the ruling power.25 In the Agricola at the end of his ethnographic excursus, Tacitus notes that the Britons are obedient subjects, but intolerant of injustice—“ipsi Britanni dilectum ac tributa et iniuncta imperii munia impigre obeunt, si iniuriae absint: has aegre tolerant” (Agr. 13.1). The hint is clear, if treated well the Britons will be happy with Roman rule; a sense that looking to the well-being, or at least the fair treatment, of subject peoples is an important part of imperialism has emerged and this theme, which is almost entirely absent from Caesar, is treated in extenso in the work. This is not to say that Tacitus has any doubts about Rome’s right to rule or impose her rule on others. He has nothing but scorn for a former governor of Britain, Trebellius Maximus, who, he implies, appeased rebellious elements rather than dealing firmly with them (Agr. 16.3), and his account of Agricola’s suppression and destruction of the Ordovices makes it clear that for him rebellion was not to be tolerated. Moreover, we are told that part of the reason for Agricola’s actions here was pour encourager les autres, as the salutary use of terror would avoid the need for it in the future.26 Nevertheless, the Agricola has a quite different tenor to that found in Caesar. After his virtual extermination of the Nervii, Caesar briefly speaks of his misericordia towards them—this is in fact minimal and consists merely in not confiscating their lands and ordering their neighbours not to attack them (Gall. 2.29). In contrast to this short aside in Caesar’s narrative, Tacitus is keen to underline at length that Agricola was fair as well as hard towards the subjects of Rome. The whole of the chapter of the Agricola that follows the account of the suppression of the Ordovices deals with Agricola’s concerted efforts to ameliorate the conditions of the natives by suppressing the abuses from which they had suffered. Agricola portrayed as both heedful of the feelings of the provincials and aware from experience elsewhere (per aliena experimenta—possibly we are meant to understand things such as had once happened in Gaul) that little can be achieved by arms, if injustice follows in the wake of conquest. The end caelum ipsum clarius faceret, sparsa congregaret imperia ritusque molliret et tot populorum discordes ferasque linguas sermonis commercio contraheret ad conloquia et humanitatem homini daret breviterque una cunctarum gentium in toto orbe patria fieret” (Plin. HN 3.39). 25 This attitude was in turn partially formed by Pliny and ch. 21 of the Agricola discussed below. 26 “Non ignarus instandum famae ac, prout prima cessissent, terrorem ceteris fore,” Agr. 18.3.

314

Chapter Twenty

result, we are told, was that Agricola managed to give peace (i.e. Roman rule) which had previously been dreaded as much as war by the natives, the bodyguard of a good reputation, “egregiam famam paci circumdedit” (Agr. 20.1). Soon after these comments comes another entire chapter (21), possibly the most quoted in the entire work, which takes this theme further. Here we learn that not only did Agricola suppress abuse, but that he also took the further step of positively encouraging the natives’ development by promoting urbanisation and cultural development through private encouragement and public aid, “hortari privatim, adiuvare publice.” In recent years there have been concerted attempts to explain away this chapter, inspired more by modern ideological dislikes of “empire” than attention to the text, however its import is clear—Agricola urged Romanisation on the local population in both a private capacity and with the use of state monies. Given the entirely laudatory nature of the Agricola, we must assume that the reader is to approve of this process and to believe that Agricola was exceptionally earnest in carrying out a policy expected of all good governors.27 This policy is not one of altruism. Tacitus makes it clear that it helps secure Roman rule as much as aiding the local population, however his sardonic comment that acceptance of such things was merely part of the Britons’ enslavement reflects more on his generally dark view of the debilitating effects of civilisation to be found throughout his works than a reference to a specific and cynical policy in Britain.28 Moreover, Agricola is Tacitus’ proof that a “hard but fair” policy, outlined in the abstract by Pliny, works. Calgacus ruefully notes that there were “hordes of Britons” in the Roman army’s ranks at Mons Graupius,29 and we are told that the British King Cogidubnus remained “loyal down to our days.”30 This loyalty of the Britons to the Roman cause contrasts with Caesar’s allies in Gaul, who notoriously betrayed him: charges of such 27

A negative portrayal of the same process may be Tacitus’ comment on the Britons under the governorship of Trebellius Maximus who “comitate quadam curandi provinciam tenuit. Didicere iam barbari quoque ignoscere vitiis blandientibus,” Agr. 16.3. 28 The dangers, both moral and physical, of civilisation is a theme which runs through Tacitus’ other early work, the Germania. 29 “...(pudet dictu) Britannorum plerosque,” Agr. 32.1. 30 “Is ad nostram usque memoriam fidissimus mansit, Agr. 14.1. The Romanising tendencies of this king (presumably aided inter alios by Agricola) can be seen by an inscription commemorating the erection of a temple to Neptune and Minerva in Chichester, RIB 91.

A Greater than Caesar? Rivalry with Caesar in Tacitus’ Agricola

315

treachery are commonplace in the De Bello Gallico. Caesar’s campaigns in Gaul were characterized by initial conquests which were inevitably followed by bloody rebellion. No such uprisings are to be found in the Agricola and hence the stress that Agricola handed his province over Britain “undisturbed and safe” to his successor31 – a direct contrast with his predecessor Frontinus who bequeathed a province in turmoil to Agricola (Agr. 17.2), but also with Caesar’s Gallic Wars. Tacitus’ text with its heavy emphasis on Agricola’s work away from the battlefield leads the reader to believe that his achievements were the product not merely of military success, but also the application of the new imperialism. As well as using Caesar to introduce a new set of topics to praise Agricola by implicit comparison, Tacitus also allows Caesar’s ghost to buttress other themes long recognized as present in the Agricola, such as the relationship between the individual and the state and the right response to injustice and tyranny. While the grandfather of the principate, Caesar’s political reputation was not untarnished and this had led Augustus to put a certain distance between the founding myths of the new regime and his adoptive father, in the words of Sir Ronald Syme, “Caesar’s heir foreswore the memory of Caesar.”32 Augustus’ problems were caused by Caesar’s single-minded pursuit of personal advantage and his dignitas to the detriment, many averred, of the state. The climax of this was the crossing of the Rubicon which plunged Rome into civil war. In contrast to Caesar’s response to his political slights, Agricola’s acceptance of his maltreatment by Domitian re-enforces Tacitus’ insistence that the good of the state ought to be pursued under tyranny (Agr. 42). The text makes it clear that while Agricola had enough popular support to cause trouble for Domitian, especially after the failure of the emperor’s military campaigns,33 he chose not to do so, putting the good of the state above what was due to him personally. Praise of such quietism works at several levels. Above all, it appeals to Roman collectivism where the state is placed before the individual. Indeed, the individual can have no interest which is not that of the state.34 Agricola’s actions uphold this principle and thus mark him as a true patriot while showing the emperor Domitian 31

“Quietam tutamque,” Agr. 40.3. Syme 1939, 317. Even those steadfastly loyal to the principate such as Velleius Paterculus had doubts about Caesar, conceding that any vir antiquus et gravis would have supported Pompey (2.49.3). 33 “Poscebatur ore vulgi dux Agricola,” Agr. 41.3. 34 For a classic exposition of this view, see Cicero, Off. 3.26: “ergo unum debet esse omnibus propositum ut eadem utilitas unius cuiusque et universorum.” 32

316

Chapter Twenty

through his selfish actions as Rome’s enemy. In addition to this, however, Tacitus’ approval of quietism also saves Agricola’s reputation from the charge of being an accessory to tyranny and in so doing indirectly secures Tacitus’ own reputation, given that he too, as he admits, had advanced his own career under Domitian (Hist. 1.1.3). The same no doubt was true for many of his audience who would also therefore find comfort in reading these sentiments. The Agricola thus shows Tacitus already the master of allusion and asides for which he is justly famous in his later works. Given his background as a lawyer, this skill should come as no surprise. The work exploits its readership’s prior knowledge of Caesar’s De Bello Gallico allowing Tacitus to construct a careful, clever, and insistent strategy of comparison between the two generals which makes Caesar sometimes an explicit, but more often an implicit, foil for the actions of his subject. This stratagem allows Agricola to emerge as a better soldier than Caesar, a considerable authorial feat in itself. However, it also gives Tacitus the opportunity to present Agricola as Caesar’s superior on a much wider platform, as a more effective imperialist who left a more complete, but also superior legacy to Rome and a greater patriot who more perfectly embodied the ideal Roman citizen. The Agricola has often been relegated to studies of Romano-British history for which it is a rich, if problematic, source. However, it also deserves to take its place with Tacitus’ later works as another example of the literary richness of Rome’s most skilful historical writer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE BREVITAS AS A STYLISTIC FEATURE IN ROMAN HISTORIOGRAPHY AGNIESZKA DZIUBA

In Roman historiography, native traditions were linked to those of Greece. Herodotus, Thucydides and above all Hellenistic historians had an appreciable influence upon Roman authors. However, some typically Roman features also put a stamp on historical writing. Here we can enumerate the following features: its educative function, its moralizing attitude, and its concentration on Rome. For a long time, Roman historians had not been able to fix a proper style to their writing. This was the main cause of Cicero’s bitter statement: “Abest enim historia litteris nostris” (Leg. 2.5). Cicero, who expressed this point of view on writing history in his philosophical and rhetorical treatises, laid emphasis especially on stylistic matters. He was scornful of an austere style and had a rather low opinion of the first historians when he remarked that Fabius Pictor, Cato the Elder, Lucius Calpurnius Piso Frugi “…unam dicendi laudem putant esse brevitatem” (De or. 2.12). According to the Ciceronian theory of historiography, the abovementioned writers, who limited themselves to presenting military and political events written in a plain, unadorned style, rightly deserved criticism. In this approach, brevitas was a stylistic fault not worthy of imitation. Cicero preferred a vivid historical narration, full of adornments of style, written in the Isocratean way (Orat. 207). As we know from his dialogue De oratore, he was looking in historical works for a variety and an abundance of well-composed figures of speech: “exaedificatio in rebus et in verbis” (De or. 2.63). He insisted that historical events be set out in front of his readers’ eyes in a lively and graphic manner and that the material be presented in such a way as to conform with the principles of rhetorical historiography.

318

Chapter Twenty-One

However, Cicero was aware that literary taste had fundamentally changed in his times. As an insightful critic, he was able to evaluate objectively and to appreciate the style of Caesar’s commentarii of the Gallic war in his Brutus, where he remarked that “nihil est enim in historia pura et inlustri brevitate dulcius” (Brut. 262). We know that Cicero was not an adherent of brevitas in historical writing. This is confirmed by his remarks on the style of historiography found in such works as the De oratore, Orator, Brutus, De legibus and in his letter to Lucceius (Fam. 5.12). However, the practice of Roman historiography quite often developed in a different direction. In this chapter, my aim is, firstly, to demonstrate in a brief outline what exactly brevitas is. Secondly, I would like to reveal how often it was applied to historical writing. Thirdly, my objective will be to show how historians fulfilled their promise to write in accordance to the rules of brevitas.1 Brevitas was an important literary category, a well-attested characteristic of many types of writing, including history. In many theoretical remarks on brevity in the works of Roman writers, the influence of literary practice is clearly visible. The oldest preserved rhetorical treatise in Latin, the Rhetorica ad Herennium, placed brevity among the most important features of narrative: “Tres res convenit habere narrationem: ut brevis, ut dilucida, ut veri similis sit” (Rhet. Her. 1.14).2 I agree with A.J. Woodman who, in his article on Velleius Paterculus, remarked that “[b]revity is an extremely complicated subject” (Woodman 1975, 279); I shall try to explain it by using the examples discussed below. Velleius Paterculus in his Historiae Romanae libri duo depicts his method of writing in a sophisticated way. In a picturesque metaphor, the author compares his style to a rushing wagon and a fast flowing river: Cum haec particula operis velut formam propositi excesserit, quamquam intellego mihi in hac tam praecipiti festinatione, quae me rotae pronive gurgitis ac verticis modo nusquam patitur consistere... (1.16.1).

Even the authors of an authoritative handbook of Roman literature, M. Schanz and C. Hosius, misunderstood this declaration and reproached Velleius for his haste and carelessness in presenting the events recounted (Schanz and Hosius 1935, vol. 2, 581f.).

1

Woodman 1975 gives a survey of the various ways of using brevitas in Roman historical works. See also Starr 1981. 2 See also Cic. Inv. 1.28; Quint. Inst. 4.2.31.

Brevitas as a Stylistic Feature in Roman Historiography

319

However, when Velleius was writing about festinatio he did not wish to complain about not having any time for the composition of his history but, as ancient literary critics enable us to perceive, he rather complained about the necessity of subordinating himself to a narrower framework of his work. For the ancients, ǭǕǰǨǫ ‘hurry’ was a synonym of VXQWRPfD‘something brief.’ Lucian in the treatise On writing history remarked that an author who wanted to describe a lot of various themes should, in shaping his narrative, pay attention to rapidity: ǭǕǰǨǫʹǩ̓ ǩ͐ǬǢ ǰǪǗǬǢǥǨǦ...(Hist. conscr. 56). Lucian understood rapidity as omitting small, trivial things, and concentrating one’s attention on really important issues. Once again we should underline that ǭǕǰǨǫor festinatio is not rapidity in writing, but the brevity of narrative. Furthermore, a historian should not be in a hurry, for, as Cicero wrote, “historia...nec institui potest nisi praeparato otio nec exiguo tempore absolvi” (Leg. 2.9). The task of writing history as briefly as possible was sometimes a major problem for authors. Therefore experienced writers warned their followers against employing such a form of brevity which could have as its consequence lack of clarity—something which was rightly regarded as one of the greatest literary faults. Cicero characterized this problem in the following way: “grandes erant verbis, crebri sententiis, compressione rerum breves et ob eam ipsam causam interdum subobscuri” (Brut. 29).3 Pliny the Younger also expressed his opinion about brevity, but in another way. He tried to distinguish between brevitas or brevity of style and festinatio or brevity of content (Ep. 1.20.11-7 and 19-21).4 However, this distinction is not particularly helpful and we may observe that some authors (such as Velleius) used both brevitas and festinatio and treated them as synonymous. In conclusion, therefore, we should underline that, according to ancient literary criticism, brevitas has two aspects: the first is strictly connected with narrative and the second with style. It demands from an author not only his ability to say everything he needs to, but he is also expected to do so in as few words as possible. The main goal of this kind of brevitas is utility (utilitas). The second type of brevity is much more difficult to achieve than the first, because it demands not only the use of fewer words than usual but also the employing of adequate figures of speech.

3

Note the same warning in Horace’s Ars poetica 25f.: “brevis esse laboro, obscurus fio.” 4 More about this in Woodman 1975, 275-80.

320

Chapter Twenty-One

There are two types of brevity in Roman historiography. The oldest historians, as previously mentioned, preferred the first type of brevitas with a lack of stylistic adornments, because they simply were not able to write ornamentally. However, better educated writers quickly started to adorn their narrative with ornaments of style. As Stefan Rebenich remarks, “[d]espite the proverbial brevitas Catonis one should not overlook the rhetorical elements of Cato’s prose style” (Rebenich 1997, 310). Cato the Elder was the Roman model of Sallust. It should be noted, however, that Sallust’s style was influenced not only by Cato, but, first of all, by Thucydides. According to eminent Roman literary critics, the style of Thucydides deserved high praise. Cicero regarded Thucydides as a remarkable model of historical writing: “Thucydides enim rerum gestarum pronuntiator sincerus et grandis etiam fuit” (Brut. 286). Moreover, Quintilian in his Institutio oratoria appreciated the style of the Greek author: “densus et brevis et semper instans sibi Thucydides” (Inst. 10.1.73). Quintilian underlined such features of historical prose as denseness, brevity and precision. We can conclude that brevity was seen by Roman critics as a predominant feature of Thucydidean style.5 The ancient critics noticed parallels between the Greek historian and Sallust. Seneca the Elder wrote: Cum sit in Thucydide virtus brevitas, hac eum Sallustius vicit et in suis illum castris cecidit; nam in sententia Graeca tam brevi habes quae salvo sensu detrahas…at ex Sallusti sententia nihil demi sine detrimento sensus potest (Contr. 9.1.13).

Furthermore, according to Quintilian, who praised “immortalem Sallusti velocitatem” (Inst. 10.1.102) and “Sallustiana brevitas” (4.2.25), Sallust was a master of brevity. Once again in his Institutio oratoria Quintilian appreciated Sallustian style when he remarked that “est vero pulcherrima [scil. brevitas] cum plura paucis complectitur, quale Sallusti est” (8.3.82). We can presume that Sallust consciously chose brevitas as the main feature of his historical narrative (Rebenich 1997, 315-20) because in his works he even makes short statements about the chosen method of writing. One of such statements may be found in the propositio of his first monograph: “igitur de Catilinae coniuratione quam verissume potero paucis absolvam” (Cat. 4.3). This propositio is constructed according to the rhetorical theory. It is short and includes only one sentence. Sallust

5

On the other hand, Dionysius of Halicarnassus blamed Thucydides for his brevity which, according to him, leads to obscurity (De Thuc. 51, p. 410).

Brevitas as a Stylistic Feature in Roman Historiography

321

promises here that he is going to give only true information6 and that he is going to be terse. The remark on brevity in the propositio shows how important this category was for Sallust. As we noted above, Sallust chose brevity as his principal method of writing. When he is announcing his intention of describing Africa (Iug. 17.1), giving a portrait of Sulla (Iug. 95.2) or writing about the customs and morals of the people of Rome (Cat. 5.9; Iug. 42.5), such announcements mark the beginning of a digression, one of the most highly valued elements of historical narrative. What is remarkable is that Sallust did not hesitate to make digressions in his brief monographs. Velleius, on the other hand, who also emphasized in his Historiae Romanae libri duo the importance of brevity in presenting historical material, regarded digressions as a problem. Writing about Maroboduus, the eminent headman of Marcomanni, the author explained his inconsistency as follows: “nulla festinatio huius viri mentionem transgredi debet” (2.108.2). There is also a remarkable interpositio in the digression at the death of Cicero, “cogit enim excedere propositi formam operis erumpens animo ac pectore indignatio” (2.66.3). Velleius was aware of the rules of brevity and he spoke about them explicitly. When he was occasionally convinced about the necessity of breaking these rules, he did it, but he always supplied an explanation. Velleius called his work transcursus (2.55.1; 86.1; 99.4) and in this way he also underlined that brevity was the main category in the Historia Romana. Lucius Annaeus Florus in the preface to his Epitome de Tito Livio also declared his observance of the rules of brevity: “…in brevi quasi tabella totam eius imaginem amplectar” (praef. 3). Florus, who ambitiously undertook to present the deeds of the Roman people from the beginning of the Urbs to AD 9 in only two books, compared his work to a small picture. We should notice at this point that Roman historians, having chosen brevity as a method of writing, referred to it in various ways using such terms as festinatio, transcursus and brevis pictura. There are also some statements about brevitas in the prefaces of late imperial breviaria. Eutropius wrote in the 4th century AD the Breviarium ab urbe condita in ten books, following an order of the emperor Valens. There is a remark on brevity in the praefatio to this work (where Eutropius addresses the emperor): Res Romanas ex voluntate mansuetudinis tuae ab urbe condita ad nostram memoriam, quae in negotiis vel bellicis vel civilibus eminebant, per ordinem temporum brevi narratione collegi… (praef. 1). 6

For truth as the basic principle of historical writing, see Cicero, De or. 2.62-4.

322

Chapter Twenty-One

The sentence quoted above contains the most important information on the subject (“res Romanas”), on the arrangement of material (“in negotiis vel bellicis vel civilibus”), on the chronological order (“per ordinem temporum”) and on the method of writing (“brevi narratione”). Similar declarations of brevity may be found in other historical works from the same century written by Rufius Festus (Breviarium rerum gestarum populi Romani) and by Sulpicius Severus (Chronicorum libri). Festus, whose work is shorter than the Breviarium by Eutropius, refers to brevity four times in his preface: brevem fieri clementia tua praecepit. Parebo libens praecepto…ac morem secutus calculonum, qui ingentes summas aeris brevioribus exprimunt, res gestas signabo, non eloquar. Accipe ergo quod breviter dictis brevius computetur... (1).

There is no doubt that brevitas was the principle rule in composing this work. Also Sulpicius Severus in his Christian Chronica declared that res a mundi exordio…breviter constringere et cum distinctione temporum usque ad nostram memoriam carptim dicere aggressus sum… (1.1).7

All these statements clearly show that for many historians brevity was the principle method of writing. We should note that most of the works cited above are universal history (from Velleius to Orosius), consisting only of a few books with strong emphasis laid on the history of Rome from the beginning of the city until (generally) the times of the authors. We may presume that for such a responsible task an adequate method of arranging historical material was needed. The writers regarded brevity as the best solution. They understood brevity as Cicero had done, namely “paucas res dicere et non plures quam necesse sit” (Cic. Inv. 1.28). Though all the above-mentioned authors asserted brevity and wrote really brief works, we can truly appreciate the literary value of their œuvres only in three cases. Only Sallust, Velleius and Florus tried to compose their works according to the basic rules of historiography (cf. Cic. De or. 2.63), using the required stylistic ornamentation. These three 7

Paulus Orosius, a 5th century Christian historian, explains the principle of composing his work in the preface to his Historiarum adversum paganos libri septem: “ut…ordinato breviter voluminis textu explicarem” (praef. 10) and he repeats this declaration throughout his work: “paucis dumtaxat isdemque breviter deligatis” (1.1.4), “quapropter res ipsa exigit ex his libris quam brevissime vel pauca contingere” (1.1.7) and “quam brevissime” (2.43.19).

Brevitas as a Stylistic Feature in Roman Historiography

323

historians rightly chose those figures of speech which could be properly employed in a brief narratio and which could give their literary works an artistic shape and rhetorical structure in a simple way. There is no necessity to enumerate all the rhetorical devices used by Sallust, whom Michael von Albrecht calls “the real creator at Rome of historical style” (von Albrecht 1997, vol. 1, 444). Therefore, I have chosen three devices, as the most distinct marks of brevity, namely antithesis, sententia and percursio, all of which are characteristic of not only Sallust, but also Velleius and Florus. Antithesis can be treated as both lumen verborum and lumen sententiarum. Sallust is the master of antithesis. His monographs provide many examples of this figure of speech. A contrast, an antagonism between ideas, opinions and the behaviour of people—all this was interesting to Sallust. Examples of antithesis may be found on almost every page of his works. The historian started his first monograph, the De coniuratione Catilinae, with a discussion about the opposition between two spheres of human activity. The first sphere is that of spiritual or intellectual activity which differentiates humans from animals. The second is that of bodily wants and desires which are common to both humans and beasts. In the first part of his antithesis the writer enumerates such words or phrases as [A] “nostra omnis vis in animo...sita est,” [B] “animi imperio,” [C] “alterum nobis cum dis…commune est,” [D] “mihi rectius videtur ingenii...opibus gloriam quaerere,” [E] “virtus clara aeternaque habetur” (1.2-4). Then comes the second part of antithesis: Sallust is convinced that human nature always consists of spiritual and corporal elements, two inseparable spheres of human activity, and shows this by means of antithesis, when he opposes the above-mentioned phrases as follows: [a] “nostra omnis vis...in corpore sita est,” [b] “corporis servitio,” [c] “alterum cum beluis commune est,” [d] “virium opibus,” [e] “divitiarum et formae gloria fluxa atque fragilis est.” As these pairs of oppositions show, Sallust prefers the spiritual part of man and tries to convince his readers that it is a worthwhile effort to make the corporal sphere subordinate to the spiritual one: “verum enim vero is demum mihi vivere atque frui anima videtur, qui aliquo negotio intentus praeclari facinoris aut artis bonae famam quaerit” (2.9). The same antithesis pointing to the duality of human nature is used by Sallust in reference to historical figures about whom he writes. Thus, the protagonist of his first monograph, Sergius Catiline, was endowed with both good and bad features: Corpus patiens inediae, algoris, vigiliae supra quam quoiquam credibile est; animus audax, subdolus, varius, quoius rei lubet simulator ac

324

Chapter Twenty-One dissimulator, alieni adpetens, sui profusus, ardens in cupiditatibus; satis eloquentiae, sapientiae parum (5.3f.).

Velleius Paterculus, who in his historical work used Sallust as his stylistic model, adorned his narrative with antitheses based on lumina verborum. This figure of speech generally appears in descriptions of individuals and in synkrisis, which requires short, terse but adorned composition. We may find antithesis in Velleius’ description of Caius Marius where he speaks about this politician as follows: “quanto bello optimus, tanto pace pessimus” (2.11.1), “vir in bello hostibus, in otio civibus infestissimus” (2.23.1). The same figure of speech is used by Velleius in reference to Marius’ great antagonist Cornelius Sulla: “vir qui neque ad finem victoriae satis laudari neque post victoriam abunde vituperari potest” (2.17.1), “adeo enim Sulla dissimilis fuit bellator ac victor, ut dum vincit, ‹mitis› ac iustissimo lenior, post victoriam audito fuerit crudelior” (2.25.3). It is clear from the above quotations that the historian describes both his heroes in a similar way. Marius and Sulla, the great enemies, were the best military commanders and the worst politicians at home. Velleius uses the figure of antithesis in order to point out this strange situation and obviously antithesis is very well suited to this purpose. Elsewhere in his work, Velleius employs antithesis in synkrisis and also in this respect he follows in Sallust’s footsteps (note the famous synkrisis between Cato and Caesar in Sall. Cat. 54). We have for instance a comparison between two opponents on the battlefield, the Roman commander Publius Quintilius Varus and the chieftain of the Cherusci, Arminius. Here, a very interesting example of Velleius’ method in building antithesis may be found: [Publius Quintilius Varus:] ...inlustri magis quam nobili ortus familia, vir ingenio mitis, moribus quietus, et corpore et animo immobilior, otio magis castrorum quam bellicae adsuetus militiae, pecuniae vero quam non contemptor Syria, cui praefuerat, declaravit… (2.117.2). [Arminius:] genere nobilis, manu fortis, sensu celer, ultra barbarum promptus ingenio…Sigimeri principis gentis eius filius, ardorem animi vultu oculisque praeferens… (2.118.2).

This comparison shows Velleius’ method of describing the opponents. The author compares and opposes two men in similar fields: their origin, their activity before they met on the battlefield and their attitudes during the fight. Velleius’ antithesis emphasizes the contrast between the two men and, therefore, may easily be noticed and understood.

Brevitas as a Stylistic Feature in Roman Historiography

325

What is more, also Florus, similarly to his predecessors, frequently employs antithesis in historical narrative. Examples abound everywhere in his work; for instance, in two paragraphs at the beginning of the first book we read: “eo denique ferocem populum redegit, ut, quod vi et iniuria occuparat imperium, religione atque iustitia gubernaret” (1.1 [2.4]); “citavere leges nefas, sed abstulit virtus parricidium, et facinus infra gloriam fuit” (1.1 [3.6]), “spes inde nostris, metus hostibus” (1.1 [3.7]). Florus, who consequently observes the rules of brevity and shapes his narrative style in accordance with them, prefers antithesis of words, understood as a lumen verborum rather than sententiarum. Such antithesis makes narrative fast, varied and rhetorical. In the first sentence quoted above, there is a double antithesis of vi and iniuria as against religione and iustitia. In the second sentence the opposition is more complicated because Florus combines antithesis with chiastic arrangement: [A] virtus [B] parricidium and [b] facinus [a] gloriam, which of course is a good testimony to the artistic value of his work. Unlike Sallust and Velleius, Florus does not use synkrisis, because he is not interested in individual actors of history. The main hero of his work is populus Romanus and it is the virtues of the Roman people that the historian is inclined to extol. Another figure of speech which suits the demands of brevitas very well is maxim or epigram (sententia). It is always short and very often limited to one brief sentence or a statement the character of which is not only rhetorical but also didactical. Sallust, whose monographs are full of pessimistic thoughts on Roman moral decline in the last period of the Republic, very often illustrates his conclusions drawn from historical narrative by means of such epigrams. His sententiae mainly refer to humans, their virtues, but more often their vices: “namque avaritia fidem probitatem ceterasque artis bonas subvortit” (Cat. 10.4); “post gloriam invidiam sequi” (Iug. 55.3). They are also used when referring to fortune, the supernatural power which rules the world and makes humans no more than its tools: “sed profecto fortuna in omni re dominatur” (Cat. 8.1). Very similar reflections may be found in Velleius. On fortune and fate he says that “rumpit interdum, interdum moratur proposita hominum fortuna” (2.110.1) and “sed profecto ineluctabilis fatorum vis, cuius cum fortunam mutare constituit, consilia corrumpit (2.57.3). Discussing virtues and vices, he observes that “adeo natura a rectis in vitia, a vitiis in prava, a pravis in praecipitia pervenitur” (2.10.1) and “numquam...eminentia invidia carent” (2.40.5). Florus, whose maxims are, unlike those of his predecessors, very short, is interested in reflection on universal truths of human nature, for example “sed quod ius apud barbaros?” (2.7.6) and “tanta in virtute fiducia est” (1.18.4). Thus, in spite of some differences in

326

Chapter Twenty-One

composing their maxims (in particular, Florus’ predilection for very short sententiae), all historians used them to present their reflections on fate and its role in human history. All these sententiae served to provide important knowledge for their readers. Docere is the main purpose of this figure of speech, which sometimes seems rather naïve. The last figure which I have selected for the discussion is percursio. It is a typical rhetorical adornment applied in a brief narrative because it is short, usually limited to one sentence, but rich in content. Aquila Romanus defines this figure of speech as follows: Haec rursum figura differt a coacervatione, quod illa res universas pluresve in eundem locum confert. Haec distantia plura inter se percurrens velocitate ipsa circumponit… (De figuris 6, p. 24 Halm).

From this quotation it appears that the most important feature of percursio is festinatio, which is, as we remember, closely connected with brevitas. It is no surprise then that Sallust, Velleius and Florus used this figure very often when they wanted to present many events within the compass of a short narrative. Sallust builds his percursio by means of historical infinitives and enumeratio, thus making his narrative rapid and varied. When the historian is describing the virtus of the ancient Roman people, their patriotism and industriousness, he applies percursio: “…at Romani domi militiaeque intenti festinare, parare, alius alium hortari, hostibus obviam ire, libertatem patriam parentisque armis tegere” (Cat. 6.5). A very similar structure of percursio may be observed in a passage on Sulla’s dictatorship in which Sallust describes atrocities committed by the victor of the civil war and the misery of the losers: Sed...L. Sulla armis recepta re publica bonis initiis malos eventus habuit, rapere omnes, trahere, domum alius, alius agros cupere, neque modum neque modestiam victores habere, foeda crudeliaque in civis facinora facere (Cat. 11.4).

If we compare the two sentences quoted above we notice that Sallust uses percursio for different purposes: both when he is describing the virtues of the Roman people and when he wants to show their vitia. Also Velleius employs this figure of speech very often in his own narrative, especially when he wants to make his description of a war or a battle more dramatic. Similarly to Sallust, Velleius replaces a long story with a short percursio, which is probably less artistic than evidentia, but decidedly more vivid. The author of the Historia Romana constructs his percursio differently

Brevitas as a Stylistic Feature in Roman Historiography

327

from Sallust, because he uses the enumeratio of nouns and past participles. When he is describing the deeds of Tiberius he makes use of this figure of speech: Revocata in forum fides, summota e foro seditio, ambitio campo, discordia curia, sepultaeque ac situ obsitae iustitia, aequitas, industria civitati redditae ( 2.126.2).8

The second example of this figure of speech is its application in describing the Pannonian uprising: Oppressi cives Romani, trucidati negotiatores, magnus vexillariorum numerus ad internecionem ea in regione, quae plurimum ab imperatore aberat, caesus, occupata armis Macedonia, omnia et in omnibus locis igni ferroque vastata (2.110. 6).

Certainly, the above quoted example of percursio has various uses, for instance, to summarize many events which took place within a long period of time into one short sentence as well as to adorn historical narrative. Its main aim, however, is to dramatize the description of the uprising in Pannonia and to show the grimness of war. Florus is particularly fond of using percursio in his brief narrative. He adorns his work with this figure of speech very often. Similarly to Velleius, he prefers using nouns and past participles to historical infinitives. For example, Florus applies percursio in his account of the reign of Servius Tullius, the sixth king of Rome: Ab hoc populus Romanus relatus in censum, digestus in classes, decuriis atque collegiis distributus, summaque regis sollertia ita est ordinata res publica, ut omnia patrimonii, dignitatis, aetatis, artium officiorumque discrimina in tabulas referrentur… (1.1 [6.3]).

Percursio appears also in Florus’ description of the next king’s (Tarquinius Superbus’) expulsion, when the historian uses the enumeratio of verbs: Igitur Bruto Collatinoque ducibus et auctoribus…populus Romanus ad vindicandum libertatis ac pudicitiae decus quodam quasi instinctu deorum 8

Such an accumulation of nouns and past participles not only serves to give a certain sublimity and solemnity to the narrative, but is also instrumental in securing the author’s main objective, namely to comprise within a small compass an account of many important facts.

328

Chapter Twenty-One concitatus regem repente destituit, bona diripit, agrum Marti suo consecrat, imperium in eosdem libertatis suae vindices transfert, mutato tamen et iure et nomine (1.3.9).

The accumulation of short sentences consisting solely of verbs and their direct objects, in conjunction with the adverb repente, gives the impression of a quick and determined action undertaken at the beginning of the Roman Republic. The three figures of speech discussed above—antithesis, sententia and percursio—serve here only as examples, taken rather subjectively, from among a great number of adornments of style used by Sallust, Velleius and Florus in their narrationes breves. Attentive readers may find many more figures of speech in their works, from the simplest to more complicated, such as epitheton ornans, anaphora, derivatio, polyptoton, alliteratio, interrogatio, exclamatio, sermocinatio, interpositio and similitudo (cf. Dziuba 2004, 171-214). In conclusion, we underline that although brevitas was an important literary category for many Roman writers, there is as yet no full treatment of this interesting subject. The above remarks are only an attempt at shedding some light on the question, especially because even well-known scholars have (and have had) difficulties in understanding the concept of brevitas. It is essential to note that this category was not understood in the same way by all the historians who declared in their works to follow the demands of brevitas. Each of them stamped his own individuality on his narrative. However, we can find some common features which characterize brevity as the main literary category in historical narrative, and to discuss some of those features has been the purpose of this chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO THE STEPCHILDREN OF HERODOTUS: THE TRANSFORMATION OF HISTORY INTO FICTION IN LATE ANTIQUITY BRUCE DUNCAN MACQUEEN

Introduction The history of ancient Greek literature, from its beginning down to the mid-5th century BCE, is exclusively the history of poetry. Indeed, the ancient Greek language lacks a word for “literature” other than ǩǨ̔ǠǬǢǫ, i.e. poetry. Prose was not at first to be thought of as a literary medium, but as a mode of speech used to tell the plain, unvarnished truth, or to lie if need be, in the tawdry matters of daily life. As a written medium, prose served for record-keeping, or as the working language of the courts and the assembly, of the home and the marketplace. Lacking the musical ornamentation of metrical verse, an utterance (or a text) in prose could have no aesthetic value per se, unless by sheer accident, or worse, at the cost of its truthfulness. In the context of the literary culture of Greece before Herodotus, then, it would seem not so much an innovation as a contradiction in terms and a waste of time to use prose as a vehicle of literary expression: the effect would be rather as though Leonardo had painted the Mona Lisa on the back of an envelope. Herodotus, then, could properly claim to be not only the “Father of History,” but also the “Father of Prose,” and these two roles are inextricably intertwined. He may well not have been the first author to write in prose, but his Histories are certainly the first work of Greek prose literature as such—assuming (with Welleck and Warren1) that in the 1

Welleck and Warren 1970, 22f.

330

Chapter Twenty-Two

context of literary history the term “literary” ought to mean something more than just “written.” Herodotus meant to say something worth remembering, so he wrote it down, but what he meant to say was the truth about things that actually happened in the living memory of survivors, so he wrote it in prose, and not in verse. This was indeed a revolution, though we have lived so long with its outcome that we are no longer shocked by it. Analogously, “Love thine enemy” was also shocking when it was first said, but we have all heard it since we were children and no longer think about it very much. In a famous passage from the Poetics (1497b), Aristotle argues that poetry by its very nature is more “philosophical” than history, since the latter—precisely because it is in the form of a prose narrative about real, past events—cannot go beyond the concrete and literal plane of reference without crossing the epistemological and ethical boundary into mendacity. Poets do indeed write about things that actually happened (no one in antiquity ever really questioned the historicity of the Trojan War, there were only quibbles, doubts, and reservations about some of the details Homer gives), but unlike historians they also write about things that might have happened, or should have happened, but did not. This in Aristotle’s view gives them the power and the privilege to abstract the essence from the mythos (the ‘plot,’ the ‘narrative frame,’ not necessarily the ‘myth’ in its rather narrower English sense), its deeper meaning, while the historian is enslaved by fidelity to mere facts. To put the problem succinctly in more contemporary terms, history was empirical in an age dominated by rationalism. This peculiar privilege accorded by Aristotle to poets, but not to historians, cannot be dissociated from the form of poetry, i.e. to that which makes poetic speech “marked” in the linguistic sense, different from ordinary speech. Aristotle is at pains, however, to make clear (1497a) that metre alone is not enough to mark poetic language, and thus to make a given string of words into a poem. For modern readers this seems so selfevident that rehearsing it, again, may well produce a yawn, but for most ancient readers prose was by definition unmarked speech, i.e. not metrical, and thus it was ordinary, quotidian, colloquial speech, the default position, artless talk. Poetry becomes poetry, then, precisely when it acquires the formal characteristics of a poem, a thing that has been made (the literal sense of ǩǨ̔Ǡǥǚ) and not just uttered. In ancient Greek poetry, until Byzantine times, this meant the use of quantitative metre; the essential point here, however, regardless of the specific conventions of poetic markedness that apply in a given place at a given time, is that the formal marking of poetry qua poetry is what makes it capable of entering into

The Stepchildren of Herodotus

331

territory that is forbidden to ordinary speech. In modern times we have largely released poets from a strict adherence to such formal requirements as metre and rhyme, which makes it sometimes hard to determine what makes a poem poetic (other than merely calling it so), but we continue to feel that a poem is not at all the same thing as a tax return or a grocery list. It is also—probably—not the same thing as a novel, though, as we shall see, the novelist seems to have inherited (or stolen) the poet’s license to speak of things imagined, but never seen. Aristotle’s claim about the philosophical potential of poetry must be understood, of course, in the context of an implicit or explicit discourse with Plato’s teaching on that point. Here it is almost a commonplace to cite Socrates’ statement in Book 10 (507b) of the Republic, that there exists a ǩǚǤǚǢ̍ ǝǢǚǯǨǪ̎, an “ancient difference” (usually translated “quarrel” though the Greek ǝǢǚǯǨǪ̎ need not necessarily be read in this way) between philosophy and poetry. To be sure, Aristotle does not enter directly into polemics with Plato on this point, but it is hard to resist the conclusion that Aristotle’s very decision to write a philosophical essay about poetry requires him to distance himself from his Master. The claim that poetry can be “philosophical” at all justifies the whole undertaking of the Poetics, and at the same time implicitly refutes one of the most notorious claims made by Socrates in the Republic. For the present purposes, however, it should not be forgotten that what Socrates says at Republic 507b is a statement made by a historical character engaged in a fictional conversation that is being represented for the reader in a prose document. We should always be careful about taking at face value everything that Socrates says in a given dialogue and automatically ascribing the contents to Plato, especially when the argument is so blatantly deconstructive (the value of literature is being undermined in a work of literature, etc. etc.). Since Plato never takes up the problem of historiography as such, it is not so simple as it may seem to make a compelling argument that Poetics 1497b constitutes a direct, intentional response to Republic 507b. A full discussion of the problem would be digressive here, but it is certainly worth noting that the Platonic dialogues, as prose narratives of conversations purported to have taken place in the past, can be understood as both “historical” and “philosophical,” while their philosophical nature is inherent in their fiction (otherwise they would be “mere” history). Xenophon’s Apology is far more likely to be a relatively accurate account of what Socrates actually said at his trial than Plato’s dialogue of the same name. What makes Plato’s Apology more philosophical than Xenophon’s is precisely that Plato, through the character of Socrates, delivers a speech

332

Chapter Twenty-Two

that was spoken only in Plato’s own imagination, in preference to the words actually used by a particular defendant in a particular trial. Indeed, Plato’s coy refusal to write himself into one of his own dialogues as an interlocutor or listener (though he surely must often have been present when Socrates practiced his particular brand of philosophy) is surely a result of the fact that he would have been held to a different test of truth, had he represented in prose a conversation in which he actually took part. As an author who recounts events he did not witness himself, he can make the characters say—anticipating Aristotle’s defence of poetry—what they “might have said” or “should have said,” and not necessarily what they actually did say. The fictional nature of Plato’s dialogues, which makes them sometimes less than fully satisfactory reading for contemporary, “professional” philosophers, is at the same time an inherent part of their philosophical project. A casual reading of what Aristotle says about the poet’s “licence” to speak (sing, really) of things that might have been would seem to suggest that the poet has the same freedom of invention that we now freely concede to the author of any literary text as such, in particular the novelist. It is essential to note, however, that what we ordinarily understand by “fiction,” i.e. the use in a literary text of invented characters involved in events that did not actually transpire and are not presented as strictly “historical,” is restricted in the practice of ancient authors, until quite late in pagan antiquity, to comedy. Aristophanes, to be sure, peoples his comedies with real figures, many of whom were surely present in the theatre to watch themselves on the stage, but even so no one expects the comic poet to represent real events (which after all are seldom so funny). The contemporary allusions and historical figures all but disappear from the comic stage in the New Comedy, so that with Menander and his colleagues there appears pure, unmixed fiction: that is, characters and events which come into existence within the world of the text and do not exist at all outside of that world. Aristophanes, writing about real persons, could be accused of lying about them, precisely because they are real. Menander has no such worries, because he can make his characters speak and do whatever he wishes, and no one can object that these things were not actually done or said—unless, of course, one rejects the entire idea of writing fiction, a position that now seems to us extreme but has been advocated more than once in the history of European culture. The tragic poet, by contrast, must work with a mythological datum, which may allow for some flexibility in the arrangement of details, but not in the “plot,” as it were, or the major characters. Sophocles cannot do otherwise than to have

The Stepchildren of Herodotus

333

Oedipus kill his father Laius and marry his mother Jocasta, because to do otherwise would be to employ another myth, and not that of Oedipus. Contrary to what one might expect, however, this “licence” to invent plots and characters does not mean that the comic playwright, liberated from topicality, historicity, or fidelity to a canonical version, can give free rein to his imagination. What strikes most readers about the New Comedy (which of course we know best from the extant plays of the Roman comic poets, Plautus and Terence) is rather the opposite: for the most part what we see on the stage involves perfectly ordinary people doing perfectly ordinary things, with such a degree of predictability that the characters seem virtually interchangeable from one play to the next. In sum: the New Comedy is far less “real,” and yet far more “realistic” than the comedy of Aristophanes. The ironic result of the freedom from historicity is a marked restriction in the scope of the imagination. The more comedy becomes “unhistorical,” then, the more it becomes repetitive, restricted, predictable—in a rather nuanced sense of this overused word, “normal.” In this context we may also note the importance of one other thing the poets of New Comedy did not do: they did not abandon verse for prose. There may be many possible reasons advanced for this, but one of them may well be that invented characters and plots in prose, presented on the stage, would be formally impossible to distinguish from lies, and thus subject both author and work to moral opprobrium. In maintaining the markedness of the speech used by the characters on the stage (passing over the difficult problem of whether or not the actors still wore masks), the comic playwrights were not directly representing reality on the stage, but rather creating a fictional world, whose artificiality is constantly made apparent by the conventions of poetic form and theatrical usage. The use of perfectly ordinary speech by stage characters who are perfectly ordinary people doing perfectly ordinary things raises both epistemological and moral questions that ancient literary culture was not prepared to answer, though over the last 200 years or so we have largely come to terms with them and they are no longer as troublesome as they should be. In retrospect, however, it would be safe to say that the fully realistic theatre of Ibsen, Shaw, Miller, Williams and others proved to be a certain moment in the evolution of dramaturgy, and not the endpoint of its evolution. All this discussion of comedy may seem out of place or digressive in an essay whose title points to the relations between history and fiction in ancient Greek literature, but the main point is an essential one, made the more difficult to grasp because our own literary conventions have made some things speciously easy to accept that for the ancients were nearly or completely unacceptable. What we have done over the last few centuries,

334

Chapter Twenty-Two

in fact, is to divide literature into two domains, overlapping in practice but theoretically distinct: x

x

“scientific,” in which the truth value of the text is taken to be entirely dependent on the accuracy with which the words used by the author represent some clearly identified segment of reality; thus we speak of “the literature” on a given subject, referring to scientific or scholarly writings on that topic; “literary,” in which aesthetic canons dominate over epistemological ones; as the French so clearly put it: les belles lettres.

One can certainly criticize a scientific text for being poorly written, or a literary one for containing factual inaccuracies, but such criticisms are marginal within the respective domains of writing. A beautiful prose style does not of course preclude the truth value of a scientific text (though it often raises suspicions), and conversely, a literary text is ordinarily intended to convey some truth, even if it is not primarily or at all scientific truth. This does not change the fact that there exist two separate modes of writing books, or that modern readers are inclined to demand some clear indication (usually from the cover of the book and its title) whether they are reading “science” or “literature.”2 We no longer expect physicists to expound their theories in verse, or in the form of a novel, nor would we expect a poem or novel to explain quantum mechanics. The problem becomes more complicated, to be sure, when we consider the social sciences, and even more so the humanities (les sciences humaines, as Foucault termed them), but even so the line is clear and can be crossed by a writer only at great risk of being thought a liar, a traitor, or both. For the present purposes, it seems safe to assume that this bifurcation between “literature” and “science” did not take place in antiquity. Socrates’ “ancient quarrel” between poets and philosophers should not be interpreted anachronistically or globally, though it may suggest that a certain tension was already present. Philosophy itself, however, from Xenophanes down to the end of pagan classical culture, could be and often was expounded in verse without raising serious objections. History, on the 2

Both the operative terms, “science” and “literature,” are being used here in a very broad sense. Booksellers and librarians sometimes use the convenient labels “fiction” and “non-fiction,” which are almost—but not quite—the same as what I have here termed “literature” and “science.” In Polish, the distinction between that which is “literary” (literackie) and that which is “scientific” (naukowe) is rather easier to make than in English, where the word “science” and all its derivatives have taken on a rather narrow meaning.

The Stepchildren of Herodotus

335

other hand, was a literary genre in antiquity, and not a scientific discipline (understood here as a particular way of gathering, analyzing, and disseminating information, with defined objects of interest and a particular methodology). The problem of whether history today, in the context of a modern university, belongs to the “social sciences” or the “humanities” is still a live issue, not infrequently divisive, but even the most “humane” among academic historians will still assume that their task is to describe reality, and not to produce a work of literary art, whether in verse or prose. It seems highly unlikely, however, that Herodotus would have fully understood the problem. To be sure, he took an important step away from poetry, but this is as much or more a matter of method as it is of substance. Rather than accept a mythological datum and elaborate it into a story, Herodotus went and asked living witnesses what they had seen; hence the etymological relationship between the noun ˖ǬǭǨǪǘǚ and the verb ˖ǬǭǨǪ̐Dz ‘to inquire.’ But his self-assigned task was not that of a scribe, simply recording the utterances of eye-witnesses, nor even that of a modern-day detective, who gathers various accounts of the same events and tries to reconstruct what actually happened from the patterns and probabilities of truthfulness, deliberate deception, and innocent error in the conflicting statements of witnesses. Rather, Herodotus’ literary goal, explicitly stated in the first paragraph of the Histories, is to explain the meaning of what happened in the Persian Wars, both the causes and the consequences, for the sake of posterity. The disinterestedness of contemporary science, the quest to know more and more without stopping to ask whether the information we seek is worth knowing, would be a difficult and foreign concept for Herodotus to grasp. He is out to change our minds, not just to fill them, and in this respect and for this purpose he is as much a ǩǨǢǠǭ̒ǫ, a “maker,” as any other poet, even though he writes in prose. This being the case, the perennial struggle in historiography between the often conflicting categorical imperatives of empiricism (to represent the past “wie es eigentlich gewesen ist”) and rationalism (to make sense of the past by imposing some reasonable order on the directly experienced chaos of events) had a fundamentally different shape in classical antiquity than it does today. Aristotle’s doubts about the philosophical capacity of historical writing can only be understood against this background. The historian in antiquity was a writer, the author of a literary text, to be judged by literary canons first, though in the absence of the “literaryscientific” bifurcation mentioned above those “literary” canons may well have included a judgement of truthfulness in a more empirical sense. The ancient Greek historian could not lie, could not change the outcome of

336

Chapter Twenty-Two

battles or the names of kings, but to the extent that he allowed the muddle of transpiring events to obscure the meaning of what is happening, he was a bad historian.3 To this extent, then, the prohibition against altering facts to better suit the literary vision that motivates the writer to write may indeed seem unduly restrictive, so that without particular difficulty we can imagine how a given writer might come to feel that he can imagine a better story than history actually provides. The trick would be to sell this story somehow to a reading public that has never heard of novels and will naturally assume that a prose narrative is by definition a history. These are, indeed, the birth pangs of the novel.

The Ancient Greek Novel In the history of ancient Greek literature, prose fiction appears late and almost unnoticed, like a thief in the night, unannounced, unwelcome, preferably unseen. Though the Latin novels of Petronius and Apuleius are generally well known and have been extensively studied, their Greek counterparts remain largely obscure, outside of a small circle of students and even smaller circle of admirers. To be sure, Alonso Lopez di Pinciano, in his Philosophia antigua poetica (1596), named Heliodorus of Emesa (along with Homer and Vergil) as one of the three great epic poets of antiquity, and Goethe was very taken with Longus,4 but as a general rule the ancient Greek novels remain among the most obscure texts still surviving from classical antiquity. There may have been many more of them, but we possess today five texts, more or less complete: x x x

3

Chaereas and Callirhoe, by Chariton of Aphrodisias (probably mid1st century CE, though Papanikolau dated it some 100 years earlier5); the Ephesian Tale, purportedly by “Xenophon,” almost certainly a nom de plume (late 1st century-early second century CE); Leucippe and Clitophon, by Achilles Tatius (mid-to-late 2nd century CE);

As the present writer has elsewhere argued, this is precisely the reason why Sallust was the most admired of the Roman historians in ancient times, and among the least in modern times; see MacQueen 1981 and 2006. 4 Johann Peter Eckermann, Gespräche mit Goethe, 21 March 1839: “Man müßte ein ganzes Buch schreiben, um alle großen Verdienste dieses Gedichts nach Würden zu schätzen. Man tut wohl, es alle Jahr einmal zu lesen, um immer wieder daran zu lernen und den Eindruck seiner großen Schönheit aufs neue zu empfinden.” 5 Papanikolau 1973.

The Stepchildren of Herodotus

x x

337

Daphnis and Chloe, by Longus (ca. 200 CE); the Ethiopian Tale, by Heliodorus of Emesa (?mid-3rd century CE, dated by some 100 years later).

The ancient grammarians took no notice of any of these texts, as witness the lack of any Greek name for this genre in antiquity.6 For that matter, many modern scholars remain perplexed (and not infrequently embarrassed) by them. Do the ancient Greek novels (romances?) really have a place in the history of ancient Greek and Roman literature? Do they play any meaningful role in the history of the modern novel? It would perhaps make for easier and conceptually tidier work in literary history if we could answer both these questions in the negative. Four of these five texts (Daphnis and Chloe being the perpetual exception) are sufficiently similar to each other that students not infrequently confuse characters and events from one to another, perhaps understandably if not forgivably. The general schema, with largely predictable variations, is as follows: x x

x

x

x x

6

A boy and a girl in the very flower of youth, from wealthy (but seldom aristocratic) families, meet and fall madly in love at first sight. They are either married or engaged to be married in short order. A catastrophe ensues to separate them (a storm at sea, a pirate raid), and the young man sets out to find and recover his lost lover (wife or fiancée, as the case may be). Most of the novel is consumed by this search, with “cliffhangers” a favourite narrative device. This situation enables the author to take his readers to many and varied exotic locales, which are elaborately described, complete with “scientific” digressions motivated by local flora and fauna, customs, history and the like. Egypt is a particular favourite. At some point in the story the author will cause one or both of the lovers to conclude that the other is dead. As much pathos as possible is wrung from these Scheintod scenes, balanced by the unbounded joy that ensues when it turns out that the lover is not dead after all. Various rivals appear for the affection of one or both the young lovers, who manage to remain (mostly) faithful. The story ends with the young lovers reunited, in a scene of general rejoicing very obviously redolent of the obligatory celebration at the end of every ancient comedy.

Holzberg 1995; Archibald 2004.

Chapter Twenty-Two

338

In the scholarly literature devoted to this modest corpus the problem of origin, not surprisingly, dominated the discussion from the late 19th century for the next hundred years or so, and continues to be a significant topic of interest. From the standpoint of literary history qua history, which by its nature is continually asking about the genesis of texts and genres, such a preoccupation is understandable and even commendable. Needless to say, however, there exists no small danger of falling into what we have come to call “the biological fallacy”: that is, the assumption that literary genres are related to each other as though they were biological species in the course of evolution. In nature, as we know, a new species does not appear ex nihilo, but rather emerges as a variant of an already existing species. Not surprisingly, then, in the latter half of the 19th century, in an intellectual atmosphere increasingly occupied with Darwin and evolutionary thinking, Erwin Rohde attempted to account for the appearance of prose fiction by postulating that the novel evolved (devolved, rather) from Hellenistic historiography.7 Variants of his main thesis occupied most scholars in this field for more than half a century,8 until Ben Edwin Perry’s monumental study,9 heavily influenced by the aesthetics of Benedetto Croce, advanced a radically nominalist thesis: the first novel was conceived “on a Tuesday afternoon in July,” perhaps by Chariton, perhaps by some other anonymous author, but in any event by an individual who simply decided at some moment to try something new and see if people would like it. Perry was in particular very sceptical about the possibility that the novel could “arise” from history: as he put it, “history cannot become fiction without passing through zero, that is, through the negation of its own raison d’être.” Perry’s approach has in turn become passé, to be sure, but his critique of the biological fallacy, and in particular his “passing through zero” argument, has had a permanent effect, outliving his more controversial views on the role of individual insight and tuition in the formation of literary genres. Few scholars continue to be interested in any sort of “link” between historiography and the novel in antiquity. Far greater interest is shown in the obvious debt owed by the ancient Greek novelists to the comedy, though no one will now go so far as to argue, analogously to Rohde’s approach, that comedy “became” novel when the dramatic form was abandoned in favour of prose narrative. 7

Rohde 1914. Braun 1938. 9 Perry 1967. 8

The Stepchildren of Herodotus

339

The traditional preoccupation with the author as the key determinant of the text has become unfashionable in the modern literatures (though remarkably persistent in the classics), where it has been replaced by a preoccupation with the readers, i.e. the “market,” in response to whose demands the author presumably wrote.10 In some ways this shift of emphasis from the genesis of the genre to the market for which authors wrote particular kinds of texts avoids some of the tangled theoretical problems involved in the “genetic” approach to the history of the novel. Borrowings from comedy, for example, can be elegantly explained as an appeal to the same target audience by authors working in different genres, while the shift from drama to prose narrative is also explained sociologically: the audience once served by the comic playwrights was large but scattered over the entire Roman empire, and for various reasons disinclined to gather in theatres. The novelists, then, provided their readers with the same kind of material as the playwrights of the New Comedy had done in the Hellenistic world, but in a form that enabled private consumption at leisure.11 This move from traditional Quellenforschung to a reader-oriented approach was anticipated by Perry, who divided the extant ancient novels into two loosely related but essentially independent genres: x

x

the “ideal novel,” written in mass production for a naïve audience Perry liked to call “the poor-in-spirit,” i.e. readers who were literate but not highly educated, eager to read sentimental love stories and not much besides; the “comic novel,” written by talented authors with a highly individual artistic vision, to be read by a sophisticated public.

Perry without much hesitation or even explanation assigned all five extant Greek novels to the first category, and the Roman novels of Petronius and Apuleius to the second. In an important study published in 1982, however, Graham Anderson attempted to demonstrate that all five of the ancient Greek novels are in fact intentionally humorous, a conclusion which seriously undercuts Perry’s arguments.12 In this way, however, the focus of the argument has subtly shifted from the original problem of genesis (where did the novel come from? what are its sources?) to the arguably related but conceptually distinct problem of audience (for whom 10

Bowie 1994 and 1996; Hägg 1994; Stephens 1994. Bartsch 1989. 12 Anderson 1982. 11

340

Chapter Twenty-Two

were they written? why did readers in that place and time want to read such texts?). It is clear, of course, that different theoretical paradigms are operative when different questions are being asked. At the risk of some oversimplification, the shift is from a diachronic perspective, where the individual literary text is the product of a historical process over time and is interpreted against the context of a literary tradition, to a more synchronic one, where the text is seen primarily as a product of its own times, the Zeitgeist, the cultural, social and intellectual context. The latter approach, for perhaps obvious reasons, is not conducive to further reflection on any putative ties between history and fiction. On the phenomenological level of analysis, however, the relation between historiography and fiction is clear enough that the issue deserves further consideration. A history and a novel are both extended prose narratives, containing descriptions of persons, events, and situations that are represented as having occurred in the past. Moreover, both history and novel are held to similar standards of believability: the reader must be able to conceive that these events could have happened as they are described. When these bounds are clearly exceeded, as in the case of Lucian’s ironically titled True History, the effect is not merely comical, its irony is inherently deconstructive. Indeed, this peculiar text from the Second Sophistic very clearly reveals the point that is being made here, since it seems clear that Lucian’s irony is aimed simultaneously at both historians (as witness the title) and novelists (as witness the relentless parody of the breathless narrative style of Chariton and pseudo-Xenophon). These points of contact between history and fiction are essential to bear in mind when even the most obvious differences are considered. The historian is of course concerned about matters of public life above all, the affairs of states, cities, empires, populations, while the novelist’s proper sphere is the private lives of individuals. More importantly, of course, the historian describes events that are purported to have actually taken place, and can thus be verified, initially by living memory, later by documentation or other kinds of objective evidence. The novelist produces a narrative from her own imagination: both the events and the persons, for the most part and in the most essential way, come to life within the text. They do not exist and have never existed outside of it. This is, of course, the “zero” of which Perry spoke. The historian’s narrative is a more or less accurate representation of an event that took place in time, regardless of whether and how it is represented in the words of the author, while the novelist’s is a representation of the author’s own state of mind. In both cases, however, the narrative is still a narrative, a story, consisting of a

The Stepchildren of Herodotus

341

series of events that are put into a certain logical relationship to each other by the very fact that they occur within the same story. From such a narratological perspective, then, we can perhaps better understand how history (and prose) emerged in the mid-5th century BCE. Herodotus’ stance towards ǭ̕ ǥǮǡΉǝǞǫ has been the subject of much controversy from antiquity down to the present time, which of course need not be rehearsed here once again. For the present purposes, suffice it to observe that, again, a myth and a history have certain narratological features in common: they are narratives about the past, representing persons and events that are at least purported to have actually taken place (regardless of their believability). While Homer and the tragedians, however, describe events and persons from a very remote past, relying on divine inspiration and the continuity of a long oral tradition for the truth of the tale, Herodotus goes out and asks questions of persons who actually witnessed what transpired. Even when he must rely on other sources to relate events from a more distant period, beyond the reach of living memory, he characteristically edits the stories to remove as much of the supernatural as he can, as for example in his account of the life and death of Croesus in Book 1. In this way, too, the reader’s credulity can be measured against that of the author and of the sources from which she drew her material. Even in antiquity, then, despite the absence of any sort of scientific theory of history, a history and a myth are obviously to be judged by different canons of truth and credibility. In this respect, the position of Thucydides, provocatively called “mythistoricus” by Cornford in a famous but highly controversial book,13 does not differ from that of Herodotus as much as it may seem. Thucydides likewise draws his material almost exclusively from living memory, a methodology which of course constrains him to write of events that have occurred with the lifetime of many, if not most of his readers. Like Herodotus, also, he is essentially not a compiler of facts, but the teller of a tale. As such, he must make his narrative not only faithful to the events as they actually occurred, but also sensible, credible. A narrative as such is never merely a string of facts, but rather a construct, a fabric comprised of a series of events that are held to have a logical relationship to each other.14 Indeed, this emphasis on the logical bond between related events (rationalism at the expense of empiricism, to put the matter in contemporary terms) is stated by Thucydides even more explicitly than by 13

Cornford 1907. Note that the very word “text” is derived from the Latin texo ‘weave’; thus the similarity between the words “text” and “textile” is not accidental. The present author has elaborated this idea in a chapter written in Polish: MacQueen 2007.

14

342

Chapter Twenty-Two

Herodotus before him. Human beings are such as they are, he claims, and so what happened before will likely happen again. Thus it is essential to extract the sense of these events, the “deep structure” of the narrative, so as not to be misled by the chaotic appearance of the superficial structure of current events into assuming that events are not related to one another in cause-effect strings. Perhaps in this way it would be possible in the future to avoid endlessly repeating the same tragic blunders. No more for Thucydides than for Herodotus, then, is history a purely scientific endeavour, in our sense of that word.

“Passing through Zero” Perry’s “passing through zero” argument makes sense if, and only if, the raison d’être of history is to record events from the past as they actually occurred. This makes history into an archive of documents, from which evidence can be obtained to prove whether a particular event did or did not take place. A fictional narrative by its very nature lacks such documents, which is obviously the zero point to which Perry refers. It can reasonably be questioned, however, whether history is indeed a kind of archive. Efforts have been made, to be sure, at various times and for various reasons, to write history “wie es eigentlich gewesen ist,” but the results have been generally unimpressive. It may be possible, even desirable, for the historian to make some attempt to set aside preconceived notions of what is and is not important in the historical record of a given place and time, but in the final analysis we want to know what it all means. Without some sort of framework the assembled facts are of little intellectual value. For that matter, the same is true of human memory: the brain pays attention to only a fraction of what is actually happening in the immediate environment at a given moment, and of that information only a fraction is remembered for longer than a moment, and of that information almost all is forgotten within a fairly short time.15 What is remembered is information that is of some emotional significance and fits within—or radically changes—a certain relatively stable framework of references. Not infrequently the mind, often quite unconsciously, alters the recollection of a past event in order to make sense of it, fit it within a larger framework of events, as one lives out one’s own “life story.” What this means is that there is an element of fiction in almost every recollection, since even the individual human brain, faced with the flood

15

Brown and Pąchalska 2003.

The Stepchildren of Herodotus

343

of stimuli that constantly threaten to inundate it from all sides, can almost never really remember an event “wie es eigentlich gewesen ist.” Indeed, both philosophers (beginning at least with Kant) and psychologists (including especially advocates of microgenetic theory) have been telling us for some time that we really have no direct access to the world of things as they really are, Kant’s die Dinge an sich. Plato’s old argument (probably not original with him) that the world perceived by the senses is a hodge-podge of imperfect images of things, where the things themselves are hidden from view except to the mind, may prove to be right after all. It is, of course, entirely beyond the scope of the present study to pursue this line of thinking much farther, but for the present purposes it is essential to bear in mind that a healthy scepticism about whether or not the world actually is as it appears to be, though foreign to the empirical spirit of our times, is still an intellectually respectable position, and certainly was in antiquity. This may well be what Aristotle means, then, when he says that the poet can write of things as they might have happened, and that precisely this is what makes poetry more philosophical than history. Against this background, then, the novel can be understood as an attempt to free prose narrative from the fetters that bind it to a task that on its face is impossible, i.e. to represent reality qua reality, to wrestle hard facts into the shape of words (“facta dictis exaequanda,” as Sallust put it, Cat. 3.2). The novelist, freed from the obligation to represent an objective reality that is lost to the senses anyway, can create an alternative reality, a world that might have been, though it has never existed outside of the text that creates it within the reader’s mind in the act of reading. Thus the transition from poetry (rooted in myth) to history (rooted in memory) is later echoed in the transition from history to fiction (rooted in imagination). In mythopoesis, it is society that provides us, beginning in childhood, with the stories that make us a part of that society. When these stories are so deeply rooted in our minds that they have indeed become a part of our inner world, then they become the model of sense to which newly encountered persons and events are compared, in order to make them sensible. By the same token, society becomes a part of our minds, perhaps the central part, a dominant superego emerging when the ego is not yet formed. History emerges together with critical thinking: society becomes the object of a process of questioning, something outside the mind, towards which the mind can turn its gaze and ask, critically, “What is that?” The novel, then, is the result of yet another turn, when the mind turns away from society as it actually is, and imagines a society that could be. This explains the remarkable lack of originality we see in many of the

344

Chapter Twenty-Two

ancient novels, so redolent of the New Comedy: the imaginary, fictional world created by the text is not real, but must be realistic in order to be believable. These first, faltering steps in the world of fiction cannot stray far from the way things actually are in the world in which its readers live. It is a commonplace to say that “the truth is stranger than fiction,” but like many commonplaces this one has a point to make, especially for the present purposes. Fiction must be more believable than truth, it would seem, or it runs the risk of becoming something either very dangerous (when it masquerades as truth), or completely irrelevant (when it is not credible). This can change only when the concept of fiction has legitimated itself, assuming the role given by Aristotle to poetry, that of making new worlds that may be better and more interesting than the one we actually live in. As Bernard Shaw put it in an essay on the drama of Brieux, literature is life with the dull parts left out. In the most essential way, of course, the “passing through zero” of which Perry spoke would occur at the moment when a particular author undertook (whether on a “Tuesday afternoon in July” or some other day) to write a fictional narrative. That Chariton could have written a fictional narrative without knowing what he was doing stretches credulity to the breaking point. It has long been remarked, however, that precisely these first ancient Greek novelists, Chariton and pseudo-Xenophon, make extensive use of the topoi of history, indeed present their work as history. Chariton begins his narrative in the classic style of the great fifth-century historians, introducing himself and his topic in the first sentence; moreover, he weaves into his romantic plotline characters and situations from both Thucydides (Callirhoe is the daughter of the Syracusan general Hermocrates) and Herodotus (with an airy disregard for chronology Chaereas becomes entangled in the Egyptian revolt against the Persians). The result is something along the line of what we would now call a historical novel, or at least a kind of early experiment. As for pseudoXenophon, the choice of this nom de plume probably tells us as much as we need to know; due to reasonable doubts about the status of this text (which may have undergone some kind of “condensation” in antiquity), we can say little more about the “historicity” of the Ephesian Tale. The earliest extant ancient novel to dispense with the façade of history is Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon, a distinctly more ribald tale than its predecessors, which strikes some readers as extremely clever, others as tasteless and overdone. Without delving further into the difficult but extremely interesting issue of whether Achilles Tatius is a parodist or a hack (or both), it may suffice for the present purposes to observe that Leucippe and Clitophon retains and indeed expands the New Comedy

The Stepchildren of Herodotus

345

material present in the earlier novels, while dispensing with the pose of being a serious history. After a prologue in which the author recounts his chance encounter with Clitophon in Tyre, the whole of the narrative is related by Clitophon in the first person singular, so that the narrative form is closer to that of philosophical dialogue (which is imitated or parodied at several points in the text) than that of history. Longus, then (as I have elsewhere argued16), is quite aware of the issue of historicity and deliberately plays with the reader on this point. No one can reasonably suppose, however, that any but the silliest of readers in antiquity would have supposed that Daphnis and Chloe is a “true history.” Indeed, Longus rather suggests that what he is writing is a kind of myth,17 which in itself (in light of the arguments adduced above) is a contradiction of any such historical claims as are implicitly or explicitly made by Chariton or pseudo-Xenophon. With Heliodorus, then, the novel goes full circle and becomes an epic in prose: the Homeric touch is evident in the Ethopian Tale from the in medias res beginning, through the complicated scheme of exposition by means of included narratives, to the transformation of the obligatory wanderings of the lovers into an epic nostos. The ancient reader would not think of questioning Heliodorus’ sources any more than she would question Homer’s, and for essentially the same reason. The question of who sat for Leonardo’s Mona Lisa and why she may have been smiling in that odd way is only of marginal interest, for exactly the same reason. It is the work that counts. In this context it is worth recalling that Cervantes’ Don Quixote, arguably the first modern novel, is replete with all the apparatus of a history, simultaneously mocking a certain kind of uncritical historiography found in late Medieval chronicles and the pseudo-historical trappings commonly seen in the chivalric romances Cervantes meant above all to parody. The early English novels, again, almost always included the word “history” in the full title, and not infrequently displayed the same kind of pseudo-scholarly apparatus.18 In the hands of a Cervantes or a Fielding, of course, none of this is to be taken seriously, and that is what prevents it from being taken literally, and allows the fiction to do what it does. Perhaps Perry was right to say that history cannot become fiction without passing through zero, but from the foregoing one begins to suspect that fiction cannot come into being without passing through history. And if that

16

MacQueen 1991. MacQueen 1985. 18 In popular literature this same device was used to good effect by Tolkien and Conan Doyle. 17

346

Chapter Twenty-Two

is the case, then perhaps it is worth re-examining what “passing through zero” might possibly mean. The essential issue here, of course, is the nature of change: in this case, changes in the set of conventions and topoi that define a literary genre. The foregoing suggests that the change from history to fiction, Perry’s “passing through zero,” is an evolutionary change, not a metamorphosis. In metamorphosis, the initial stage is replaced or subsumed in its entirety by the next stage: the caterpillar is no more, there is only the butterfly, and the cocoon is the zero point, the end of the caterpillar and the beginning of the butterfly. Evolutionary change is a branching off, which leaves the other branches and the trunk of the tree intact, as they were, to continue growing or developing, or not, regardless of what the new branch may now experience. It now appears likely that human beings and chimpanzees had a common ancestor about 6 million years ago. Yet the appearance of the first humans, culminating (for now) in homo sapiens, does not involve or entail the disappearance of the chimpanzee, which has followed its own evolutionary path. In the same way, history in late antiquity did not metamorphose into fiction, because history continued to exist, in fact throve, while the novel disappeared and reappeared much later, in a different context. This is not to say, however, that history has nothing to do with the becoming of fiction, just as no one can now reasonably assert that the distant common ancestor of the human and the chimpanzee, who surely had more in common with the latter than the former, had nothing to do with us. In evolutionary change, then, there is in effect no zero. The product of evolution, no matter how far it progresses, always contains the traces of the entire path that has been travelled. We never return to the beginning, as a human being cannot become a chimpanzee, but the beginning, the genesis, travels with us and is continually re-actualized in every moment.19 That is why the choice between Perry’s nominalism, with its emphasis on individual intuition, and Rohde’s genealogical approach, based on Quellenforschung methodology, is a false dilemma. Both approaches are incomplete. The becoming of a genre, like the becoming of a text, is a process, a series of changes taking place in a rational sequence over a period of time. The text, then, is the trace of a particular moment in such a process, which unfolded at a certain point of time in the mind of an author. The process did not begin or end there, however: the text is, rather, the concrescence and confluence of many different processes, private and public, diachronic and synchronic, literary-intellectual and socio-political, 19

Brown 1996 and 2005.

The Stepchildren of Herodotus

347

contextual and intertextual. In concretizing, however, the text does not become a static being, a monumentum aere perennius, but rather a point of focus and genesis for further processes, the Nachleben in a rather broader sense than the term is generally used in German. In this way the sequence in narratology that leads from myth to history to fiction is neither reducible to nor fully derivable from changes taking place in Greek society, politics, and literary culture over the seven centuries or more that elapsed from Herodotus to Heliodorus. Evolutionary processes often move in parallel, and may even overlap, but they are never identical and never simple. History evolved out of a mythical world view, subsumed it, in a sense tamed it, and moved on; thus myth passes through zero and “becomes” history, without actually ceasing to be myth, a process which repeats itself when history passes through its own zero point and “becomes” novel. Of course, this is, as previously mentioned, the confluence of many processes, so that the role of other literary genres in the becoming of the novel can hardly be ignored, nor can the contribution of the individual artistic visions of particular authors. The novel does not replace history, just as the human being does not replace the chimpanzee; indeed, the entire notion of being “higher” or “lower” in evolution, understood as some sort of value judgement, results from the misplaced egocentrism of the human race. In evolutionary change there is really only earlier and later, where the persistence of earlier forms (both independently and as subsumed in later forms) is a testament to their evolutionary success, while many later forms prove to be dead ends.

Conclusion The present study is only a sketch of a possible theory, and can hardly be more than that, given the limitations of space and the complexity of the problems involved. Literary theory is still in a state of crisis, which has lasted for some time now and shows little sign of abating. Post-modern theory seems to have run its course, but it remains entirely unclear what post-post-modernism will look like, when and if it appears. Will we try one more time to develop a theory that is “purely” literary, expunging what is extraneous to literature qua literature, or will we again “borrow” a theoretical framework from another field? It seems too soon to answer that question now. The present author is an advocate of microgenetic theory, which indeed has been applied, if lightly, to this essay on the genesis of fiction from history. This is a theory of the brain/mind, however, a neurological, psychological, neuropsychological theory, which has to date not been

348

Chapter Twenty-Two

applied to literary theory, and even in its own field is regarded as interesting but difficult, perhaps even heretical.20 It would, of course, take far more time and space than the present study could possibly bear to present this theory here and now. It does seem, however, that the problem of how the novel could arise in a way that it “passes through zero” and yet retains the traces of its evolution from history is an excellent proving ground for a new theory. A good part of the reason why the ancient novel has been so neglected for so many years (apart from the inscrutable issues of tastes, de quibus non est disputandum) is that by its very nature, and by its appearance in that place and at that time, it disrupts a number of implicit and explicit theoretical frameworks. As Thomas Kuhn explained almost a half century ago, however, these are exactly the kinds of problems that bring down old theories—and initiate revolutions.21

20 21

Pąchalska 2003; Pąchalska and MacQueen 2005. Kuhn 1962.

CONTRIBUTORS

Avi Avidov is a lecturer in ancient history at Beit-Berl College, Israel. He has published articles on aspects of social integration and marginalization in Graeco-Roman society and is currently completing a book on the origins of the so-called “Jewish Question” in Roman antiquity. Bogdan Burliga is Assistant Professor at the Department of Classical Philology, University of GdaĔsk, Poland, where he teaches Greek literature. His main research focus is on the history of Greek prose (historiography, rhetoric, and the technical treatises, especially the military writings). Currently he is preparing a book on the rhetoric of ancient military handbooks and Polish translations of Arrian’s Cynegeticus and The Art of Tactics and Onesander’s The Art of the Commander. Martine Chassignet is Professor of Latin Language and Literature at the Marc Bloch University of Strasburg. She is Head of the Institute of Latin in Strasburg and Vice-President for International Relations of this university. Her main area of research is Roman historiography of the republican and early imperial period. Apart from numerous journal contributions she has published the fragments of Cato’s Origines (Belles Lettres, 1986) and a three volume edition of the fragments of Roman annalists (Belles Lettres, 1996-2004). Agnieszka Dziuba is Associate Professor of Classics at the John Paul II Catholic University in Lublin, Poland. Her publications, including two books in Polish, cover various topics related to Latin historiography, both ancient (Curiositas in the Historia Romana by Velleius Paterculus, 2004) and Renaissance (Latin-Polish Historiography in the Early Renaissance, 2000). She is also interested in the rhetoric portraits of women in the Roman literature of the late republic. Johannes Engels is Professor of Ancient History at the Institut für Altertumskunde, University of Cologne, Germany. His research interests include Greek history of the 5th-4th cent. BC, ancient Greek and Roman geography and universal histories, fragments of Greek biographers and historians (FGrHist / BNJ), funerary customs and regulations in the Greek

350

Contributors

and Roman world, Greek and Roman orators and the influence of the classical system of rhetoric on later periods. He contributed to FGrHist IV A 1 (1998) and published, among others, Augusteische Oikumenegeographie und Universalhistorie im Werk Strabons von Amaseia (1999) and Philipp II. und Alexander der Große (2006). For other publications see www.uni-koeln.de/phil-fak/ifa/altg/engels.html. Stephen Evans is a Finnish-British hymnologist and classicist, pursuing in Finland a dual career of academic research combined with musical performance. He holds degrees in classics from the universities of Oxford and Turku, and in church music from the Sibelius Academy. He has been an organist and choirmaster in Finland since 1980 and a researcher in Greek at the University of Turku since 1996, gaining his doctorate in 2001 with a dissertation on “Hymn and Epic: A Study of their Interplay in Homer and the Homeric Hymns”. His website can be found at www.ippnet.fi/stephen.evans. Andrew Fear is a lecturer in ancient history at the University of Manchester. He works on the provinces of the Western Roman Empire, especially Britain and the Hispanic provinces. His research interests include also ancient epistolography and post-Roman Spain. Among his recent publications are: “Advice from on High—Trajan and Pliny” (in Spencer and Theodrakopoulos, eds., Advice and its Rhetoric in Greece and Rome), “Alexander and the Virtuous Indians” (in Ray and Potts, eds., Memory as History: the Legacy of Alexander in Asia), and a chapter on the Late Roman army in the Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Warfare (ed. by Sabin, van Wees, Whitby). Rosie Harman completed her BA and MPhil in Classics at the University of Cambridge. She is currently a PhD student at the University of Nottingham, where she is studying visuality in the works of Xenophon. Klaus Karttunen is Professor of South Asian and Indoeuropean Studies at the University of Helsinki, Finland. Apart from his various interests in Sanskrit studies, one of his important research foci is the question of relations between ancient Greece and Rome and India, especially the picture of India in Greek literature (see his books India in Early Greek Literature, 1989, and India and the Hellenistic World, 1997). Lynn Kozak received her BA from Barnard College, Columbia University, and her MA from King’s College, University of London. She

The Children of Herodotus

351

is now a PhD student at the University of Nottingham (thesis title: “Trust among warriors”) and works with “The Oath in Archaic and Classical Greece Project.” Lydia Langerwerf finished an MA in Social and Economic History and a BA in Philosophy at the University of Groningen in 2004, before going to the University of Cambridge, where she completed an MPhil in Classics in 2005. Both in Groningen and in Cambridge she was working on Roman history with a particular focus on social history. She is currently working as a PhD student at the University of Nottingham. Bruce Duncan MacQueen, the author of monographs on Sallust (1981) and Longus (1991), has been associated with the University of Silesia in Katowice, Poland, since 1997, and with the Department of Comparative Literature there since its creation in 2001. At the same time, he has been active in the (apparently unrelated) field of neurolinguistics since the early 1990s, and in 2001 founded the Department of Neurolinguistics at the Rydygier School of Medicine in Bydgoszcz, Poland, which he chaired until 2006; currently, he is Visiting Professor of psychology at the University of GdaĔsk. He is the author or co-author of numerous publications in neurolinguistics, and serves on the editorial board of several international medical journals. He also lectures on neurologopedics, neuropsychology, and psychology, with particular emphasis on microgenetic theory. Before coming to Poland in 1992 he was Associate Professor of Classics at the University of Dallas. Marek Jan Olbrycht is Professor of Ancient History and Head of the Department of Ancient History and Oriental Civilizations at the University of Rzeszów, Poland. His research areas include the history and culture of ancient Iran and Central Asia; the nomads of Inner Asia; ancient warfare; Alexander the Great and the Hellenistic world; Mithradates Eupator and the Black Sea area; Seleucid and Parthian numismatics. He received his PhD from the University of Münster and a revised version of his dissertation was published as Parthia et ulteriores gentes. Die politischen Beziehungen zwischen dem arsakidischen Iran und den Nomaden der eurasischen Steppen (München 1998). Recently he published a book on Alexander the Great and the Iranian world (Rzeszów 2004; in Polish, an English translation forthcoming in 2009). For his other publications, see www.parthia.com and www.humboldt-foundation.de.

352

Contributors

Jakub PigoĔ is Associate Professor of Latin at the Institute of Classics, University of Wrocáaw, Poland. He has published on Tacitus (his main subject), Vergil, Horace, Seneca and Pliny the Younger, contributing to such journals as Classical Quarterly, Latomus and Mnemosyne. He also co-edited Wratislaviensium Studia Classica, a collection of papers (in English and German) on the tradition of classical studies in Breslau/Wrocáaw (2005). Since 2004 he has been the editor of Eos, Poland’s oldest classical journal (est. 1894). Kurt Raaflaub received his PhD from the University of Basel and is currently the David Herlihy University Professor, Professor of Classics and History, and Director of the Program in Ancient Studies at Brown University in Providence, RI, USA. His main interests are the social, political and intellectual history of archaic and classical Greece and the Roman republic as well as the comparative history of the ancient world. His recent publications include The Discovery of Freedom in Ancient Greece (2004), Social Struggles in Archaic Rome (ed., expanded and updated edn. 2005), Origins of Democracy in Ancient Greece (co-author, 2007), War and Peace in the Ancient World (ed., 2007). Franz Römer is Professor of Classical Philology at the University of Vienna, Austria. He is also Dean of the Faculty of Humanities at this university. His research interests include post-Augustan literature, ancient historiography, cultural aspects of ancient life and the manuscript tradition of Latin texts and Neo-Latin studies. He edited Tacitus’ Annals 15-16 (1976, Wiener Studien, Beiheft 6) and published numerous papers on, among others, Roman historiography and Neo-Latin panegyrical literature, especially relating to the Habsburg dynasty (recently “Lateinische Panegyrik für Philipp den Schönen” in Wiener Forum für Ältere Musikgeschichte, vol. 2). Jacek Rzepka teaches Ancient History at the Institute of History, University of Warsaw, Poland. His own research focuses on cultural, political, military and constitutional developments in North-Western Greece and Macedon from the Classical period onwards. His publication include a book in Polish on the Macedonian monarchy (Warszawa 2006), and The Rights of Cities within the Aitolian Confederacy (Valencia 2006). He also contributes to Ian Worthinton’s Brill’s New Jacoby, for which he is to edit fourteen historians, mainly authors of Aitolika, Delphika and Epeirotika (of those editions for he is responsible, BNJ 157, 170 and 483 have been already published).

The Children of Herodotus

353

Nicholas Victor Sekunda is Associate Professor at the Department of Archaeology, University of GdaĔsk, Poland. He obtained his PhD from the University of Manchester and, before moving to Poland, he worked among others as Assistant Editor for the Lexicon of Greek Personal Names. His main interests are in Ancient Warfare, the Hellenistic period, Crete and Persia. His most important written work is (arguably) The Army of Alexander the Great (1984) followed by Hellenistic Infantry Reform in the 160’s BC (2001) and his most important work yet to be written will be Greek Warfare, planned in 14 volumes. Sáawomir Sprawski is Assistant Professor of Ancient History at the Jagellonian University in Kraków, Poland. His research interests include late classical and Hellenistic Greece, especially Thessaly, and Greek local historians. He has published, among others, a monograph in English Jason of Pherae. Study on History of Thessaly 431-370 (Electrum 3, 1999). Przemysáaw Szczurek is Assistant Professor at the Department of Indian Philology, University of Wrocáaw, Poland. He teaches Sanskrit and lectures on Indian philosophy and culture, as well as on Greek and Latin accounts of India. His present research interests concern above all the Sanskrit epic and PurƗnic literature (main topics: stages of growth and textual layers of the epics; BhagavadgƯtƗ; dialogues, discussions, polemics with Buddhism in the Sanskrit epics) and Greek and Latin sources on India. Marek WĊcowski is Assistant Professor at the Department of Ancient History, University of Warsaw, Poland. He received his PhD at the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, Paris and was a junior fellow at the Center for Hellenic Studies (Washington, DC). His research interests include archaic and classical Greek history and cultural history as well as Greek historiography. His most important publications are: “The Hedgehog and the Fox. Form and Meaning in the Prologue of Herodotus” (JHS 2004); “Towards a Definition of the symposion” (EUERGESIAS CHARIN. Studies Presented to Benedetto Bravo and Ewa Wipszycka by Their Disciples, 2002); “Homer and the Origins of the symposion” (Omero tremila anni dopo. Atti del congresso di Genova 6-8 luglio 2000, 2002). He is currently preparing a monograph on the origins of the Greek aristocratic banquet (in English) and a synthesis of the Athenian democracy (in Polish) as well as several contributions to the Brill’s New Jacoby project.

354

Contributors

Agnieszka Wojciechowska received her PhD from the University of Wrocáaw, Poland in 2008. The subject of her dissertation was “Between Persia and Macedonia. Egypt in the Fourth Century BC.” She has published so far on Cambyses in the Egyptian context and on Khababash. She teaches ancient history, the history of Egypt, and has a class on Egyptian hieroglyphic writing.

ABBREVIATIONS

AAntHung AC AHR AJAH AJP AncSoc ANRW ASNP AU AUSB AV BCH BNJ C&M CAH2 CID CP CPJ CQ CW EMC FD

Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae Acta Classica American Historical Review American Journal of Ancient History American Journal of Philology Ancient Society Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt (Berlin; New York: W. de Gruyter, 1972-) Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa. Classe di Lettere e Filosofia Der altsprachliche Unterricht Annales Universitatis Scientiarum Budapestinensis de Rolando Eötvös nominatae Annales Valaisannes Bulletin de correspondence hellénique Brill’s New Jacoby (Leiden: Brill Online, 2006-) Classica et Mediaevalia Cambridge Ancient History (2nd edn. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971-2005) Corpus des Inscriptions de Delphes (1978-) ClassicalPhilology V. Tscherikover and A. Fuks. Corpus Papyrorum Iudaicarum. 3 vols. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1957-1964. Classical Quarterly Classical World Échos du monde classique/Classical Views Fouilles de Delphes

The following list comprises abbreviations for the titles of journals, serials and reference publications. Abbreviations for the names of Greek and Roman authors and the titles of their works are not included. They may be conveniently found in standard Greek and Latin dictionaries as well as such reference works as The Oxford Classical Dictionary or Der Neue Pauly.

356

FGE FGrHist FHG FVS6 G&R GIF GRBS HSCP ICS IEJ IG IGR I. Perg. JAOS JHS JJS JRS LCM MD MIL OLD PCPS PLLS QS RE REA REJ RGDE RhM

Abbreviations

D.L. Page. Further Greek Epigrams. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981. F. Jacoby. Fragmente der griechischen Historiker. Berlin: Weidmann; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1923C. Müller. Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum. Parisiis: Didot, 1841-1870. H. Diels and W. Kranz. Fragmente der Vorsokratiker. 6th edn. Berlin: Weidmann, 1952. Greece and Rome Giornale italiano di filologia Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies Harvard Studies in Classical Philology Illinois Classical Studies Israel Exploration Journal Inscriptiones Graecae (1873-) Inscriptiones Graecae ad res Romanas pertinentes (1906-) Max Fränkel. Die Inschriften von Pergamon. Vol. 1: Bis zum Ende der Königszeit. Berlin: Spemann, 1890. Journal of the American Oriental Society Journal of Hellenic Studies Journal of Jewish Studies Journal of Roman Studies Liverpool Classical Monthly Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici Memorie dell’Istituto Lombardo, Accademia di Scienze e Lettere, Classe di Lettere, Scienze morali e storiche Oxford Latin Dictionary, edited by P.G.W. Glare. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982. Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society Papers of the Leeds International Latin Seminar Quaderni di storia Paulys Real-Encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, Neue Bearbeitung (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1894-1980) Revue des études anciennes Revue des études juives R.E. Sherk. Roman Documents from the Greek East. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1969. Rheinisches Museum für Philologie

The Children of Herodotus

RIL RSA SBHAW SCI SEG SLLRH SStor StudUrb Syll.3 TAPA VDI YCS ZÄS ZPE

357

Rendiconti dell’Istituto Lombardo, Classe di Lettere, Scienze morali e storiche Rivista storica dell’Anitichità Sitzungsberichte der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-Historische Klasse Scripta Classica Israelica Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum (1923-) Studies in Latin Literature and Roman History (edited by Carl Deroux. Bruxelles: Latomus, 1979-) Storia della storiografia Studi urbinati di storia, filosofia e letteratura W. Dittenberger. Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum. 3rd edn. Lipsiae: S. Hirzel, 1915-1924. Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association Vestnik drevnei istorii Yale Classical Studies Zeitschrift für ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Adams, W.L. 1986. “Macedonian Kingships and the Right of Petition.” Ancient Macedonia 4: 43-52. Adkins, A.W.H. 1975. “The ʩǪǞǭ̒ of Nicias in Thucydides 7.86.” GRBS 16: 379-92. Aiyangar, K.V. Rangaswami. 1941. RƗjadharma (Dewan Bahadur K. Krishnaswami Row Lectures, University of Madras). Madras: The Adyar Library. Albrecht, Michael von. 1997. A History of Roman Literature. From Livius Andronicus to Boethius. Vols. 2. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Alcock, Susan E. 1996. “Landscapes of Memory and the Authority of Pausanias.” In Bingen 1996, 241-67. —. 1999. “The Pseudo-History of Messenia Unplugged.” TAPA 129: 33341. —. 2001. “The Peculiar Book IV and the Problem of the Messenian Past.” In Alcock, Cherry and Elsner 2001, 142-53. —. 2002. Archaeologies of the Greek Past. Landscape, Monuments and Memories. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Alcock, Susan E., John F. Cherry and JaĞ Elsner, eds. 2001. Pausanias: Travel and Memory in Roman Greece. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press. Allison, J. 1997. “Homeric Allusions in the Sicilian Expedition.” AJP 118: 499-516. Almagor, Eran. 2005. “Who is a Barbarian? The Barbarians in the Ethnological and Cultural Taxonomy of Strabo.” In Dueck, Lindsay and Pothecary 2005, 42-55. Alonso-Núñez, José Miguel. 1987. “An Augustan World History: The Historiae Philippicae of Pompeius Trogus”. G&R 34: 56-72. —. 1998. “Le letture greche della storia di Roma e lo sviluppo della storia universale.” In I Greci. Storia, cultura, arte, società, edited by S. Settis, vol. II 3, 1059-77. Torino: Einaudi. —. 1999. “Die Entwicklung der Universalgeschichtsschreibung nach Polybios bis in die Epoche des Augustus.” SStor 35: 5-14. —. 2002. The Idea of Universal History in Greece: from Herodotus to the Age of Augustus. Amsterdam: Gieben.

The Children of Herodotus

359

Altekar, Anand S. 1991. The Position of Women in Hindu Civilization. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Althaus, Willy. 1941. Die Herodot-Zitate in Strabons Geographie. Diss. Freiburg i.Br. [typewritten]. Aly, Wolfgang. 1921/1969. Volksmärchen, Sage und Novelle bei Herodot und seinen Zeitgenossen. Eine Untersuchung über die volkstümlichen Elemente der altgriechischen Prosaerzählung. Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. [2nd edn. 1969.] —. 1929. Formproblem der frühen griechischen Prosa (Philologus, Supplementband 21, 3). Leipzig: Dietrich. Ambaglio, Delfino. 1990. “Gli Historika Hypomnemata di Strabone. Introduzione, traduzione italiana e commento dei frammenti.” MIL 39, 5: 377-425. Ambler, Wayne. 2001. Xenophon: The Education of Cyrus. Ithaca; London: Cornell University Press. Ameling, Walter. 1996. “Pausanias und die hellenistiche Geschichte”. In Bingen 1996, 117-60. Anderson, Graham. 1982. Eros Sophistes: Ancient Novelists at Play. Chico, Ca.: Scholars Press. —. 1993. The Second Sophistic: A Cultural Phenomenon in the Roman Empire. London; New York: Routledge. Anderson, J.K. 1970. Military Theory and Practice in the Age of Xenophon. Berkeley; Los Angeles: University of California Press. Antonetti, Claudia. 1990. Les Étoliens. Image et religion. Besançon; Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Appleby, Joyce, Lynn Hunt and Margaret Jacob. 1994. Telling the Truth about History. New York; London: Norton . Arafat, Karim W. 1996. Pausanias’ Greece: Ancient Artists and Roman Rulers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Archibald, Elizabeth. 2004. “Ancient Romances.” In A Companion to Romance: From Classical to Contemporary, edited by Corinne Saunders, 10-25. Oxford: Blackwell. Arora, U.P. 1982. “Greek Image of the Indian Society.” Ȃakedonika 12: 470-82. Ash, Rhiannon. 1999. Ordering Anarchy. Armies and Leaders in Tacitus’ Histories. London: Duckworth. Asheri, David, Alan Lloyd and Aldo Corcella. 2007. A Commentary on Herodotus, Books I-IV, edited by Oswyn Murray and Alfonso Moreno. Oxford: Oxford University Press Asheri, David, Silvio M. Medaglio and Augusto Fraschetti. 2000. Erodoto: Le Storie. Libro III: La Persia. 3rd edn. Milano: Mondadori.

360

Bibliography

Atkinson, J.E. 1980. A Commentary on Q. Curtius Rufus’ Historiae Alexandri Magni. Books 3 and 4. Amsterdam: J.C. Gieben. —. 1994., A Commentary on Q. Curtius Rufus’ Historiae Alexandri Magni. Books 5 to 7.2. Amsterdam: J.C. Gieben. Auberger, Janick. 1992. “Pausanias et les Messéniens: une histoire d’amour!” REA 94: 187-97. —. 2000. “Pausanias et le livre 4: une leçon pour l’empire?” Phoenix 54: 253-81. Aubrion, Étienne. 1991. “L’eloquentia de Tacite et sa fides d’historien.” ANRW II.33.4: 2597-688. Austin, Michel M. 2006. The Hellenistic World from Alexander to the Roman Conquest, A Selection of Ancient Sources in Translation. 2nd edn. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Avidov, Avi. 1998. “Peer Solidarity and Communal Loyalty in Roman Judea.” JJS 49, 2: 265-79. —. 2008. “The Demise (and Subsequent Resurrection) of Jewish Historiography in the Second Temple Period.” Eos 95, in press. Azoulay, V. 2004. “The Medo-Persian Ceremonial: Xenophon, Cyrus and the King’s Body.” In Tuplin 2004, 147-73. Baar, Manfred. 1990. Das Bild des Kaisers Tiberius bei Tacitus, Sueton und Cassius Dio. Stuttgart: Teubner. Badian, Ernst. 1958. “Alexander the Great and the Unity of Mankind.” Historia 7: 425-44. —. 1961. “Harpalus.” JHS 81: 16-43. —. 1985. “Alexander in Iran.” In The Cambridge History of Iran, edited by I.L. Gershevitch, vol. 2, 420-501, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 1996. “Alexander the Great between Two Thrones and Heaven: Variations on an Old Theme.” In Subject and Ruler: The Cult of the Ruling Power in Classical Antiquity, edited by A. Small, 11-26. Ann Arbor: Journal of Roman Archaeology. —. 2000. “Conspiracies.” In Bosworth and Baynham 2000, 50-95. Bakhuizen Simon. 1976. Chalcidians Studies III: Chalcis-in-Euboea, Iron and Chalcidians Abroad. Leiden: E.J. Brill. —. 1985. Chalcidian Studies I: Studies in the Topography of Chalcis on Euboea. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Bakker, Egbert J. 2002. “The Making of History: Herodotus’ Histories Apodexis.” In Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002, 3-32. —. 2006. “The Syntax of Historie.” In Dewald and Marincola 2006, 92102.

The Children of Herodotus

361

Bakker, Egbert J., Irene J.F. de Jong, and Hans van Wees, eds. 2002. Brill’s Companion to Herodotus. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Barber, Stephen. 2001. “Commodus: Imperial Delirium.” In Caligula: Divine Carnage. Atrocities of the Roman Emperors, edited by S. Barber and J. Reed, 93-106. London: Solar Books. Barclay, J.M.G. 2005. “The Empire Writes Back: Josephan Rhetoric in Flavian Rome.” In Flavius Josephus and Flavian Rome, edited by J. Edmondson, S. Mason and J. Rives, 315-400, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Barends, Daniel. 1955. Lexicon Aeneium. A Lexicon and Index to Aeneas Tacticus’ Military Manual “On the Defence of Fortified Positions”. Assen: Van Gorcum. Barker, Elton T.E. 2006. “Paging the Oracle: Interpretation, Identity and Performance in Herodotus’ History.” G&R 53: 1-28. Barrett, Anthony A. 1989. Caligula: The Corruption of Power. London: Batsford. Bartsch, Shadi. 1989. Decoding the Ancient Novel: The Reader and the Role of Description in Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius. Princeton: Princeton University Press. —. 1994. Actors in the Audience: Theatricality and Doublespeak from Nero to Hadrian. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Bassi, K. 2003. “The Semantics of Manliness in Ancient Greece.” In Andreia. Studies in Manliness and Courage in Classical Antiquity, edited by R.M. Rosen and I. Sluiter, 25-58. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Batty, R. 2000. “Mela’s Phoenician Geography.” JRS 90: 70-94. Bauman, Richard A. 1967. The Crimen maiestatis in the Roman Republic and Augustan Principate. Johannesburg: Witwatersrand University Press. —. 1974. Impietas in principem: A Study of Treason against the Roman Emperor with a Special Reference to the First Century A.D. München: C.H. Beck. Baynham, Elizabeth. 1998. Alexander the Great: The Unique History of Quintus Curtius. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. —. 2003. “The Ancient Evidence for Alexander the Great.” In Roisman 2003a, 3-29. Beard, Mary. 2007. The Roman Triumph. Cambridge, Mass.; London: Harvard University Press. Behrendt, C. 1910. De Aeneae Tactici commentario poliorcetico quaestiones selectae. Regimonti: Officina Hartungiana. Bell, Andrew. 2004. Spectacular Power in the Greek and Roman politics. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

362

Bibliography

Benario, Herbert W. 1995. “Recent Work on Tacitus 1984-1993.” CW 89: 91-162. —. 2005. “Recent Work on Tacitus 1994-2003.” CW 98: 251-336. Bengtson, Hermann. 1979. Die Flavier: Vespasian, Titus, Domitian. Geschichte eines römischen Kaiserhauses. München: C.H. Beck. Berve, Helmut. 1926. Das Alexanderreich auf prosopographischer Grundlage. 2 vols. München: C.H. Beck. —. 1938. “Die Verschmelzungspolitik Alexanders des Grossen.” Klio 31: 135-68. Bhabha, Homi K. 1994. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge. Bichler, Reinhold. 2000. Herodots Welt: Der Aufbau der Historie am Bild der fremden Länder und Völker, ihrer Zivilisation und ihrer Geschichte. Berlin: Akademie. Bichler, Reinhold, and Robert Rollinger. 2001. Herodot. 2nd edn. Hildesheim: Georg Olms. Biffi, Nicola. 1999. L’Africa di Strabone. Libro XVII della Geografia. Introduzione, traduzione e commento. Modugno: Edipuglia. —. 2002. Il medio oriente di Strabone. Libro XVI della Geografia. Introduzione, traduzione e commento. Bari: Edipuglia. —. 2005. L’Estremo Oriente di Strabone. Libro XV della Geografia. Introduzione, traduzione e commento. Bari: Edipuglia. Bingen, Jean, ed. 1996. Pausanias Historien (Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique 41) . Vandœuvres; Genève: Fondation Hardt. Birley, Anthony R. 2000. “The Life and Death of Cornelius Tacitus.” Historia 49: 230-47. Birnbaum, E. 2001. “Philo on the Greeks: A Jewish Perspective on Culture and Society in First-Century Alexandria.” Studia Philonica Annual 13: 37-58 Bizière, Françoise. 1975. Diodore de Sicile, Bibliothèque historique, Livre XIX, texte établi et traduit. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Blaiklock, E.M. 1944. “Tragedy at Syracuse.” G&R 38-39: 83-5. Bleicken, Jochen. 1999. Augustus. Eine Biographie. 3rd edn. Berlin: A. Fest. Boedeker, Deborah. 1995. “Simonides on Plataea: Narrative Elegy, Mythodic History.” ZPE 107: 217-29. —. 1996. “Heroic Historiography: Simonides and Herodotus on Plataea.” Arethusa 29, 2 (The New Simonides, edited by D. Boedeker and D. Sider): 223-42. —. 2000. “Herodotus’s Genre(s).” In Matrices of Genre, Authors, Canons and Society, edited by Mary Depew and Dirk Obbink, 97-114. Cambridge, Mass.; London: Harvard University Press.

The Children of Herodotus

363

—. 2002. “Epic Heritage and Mythical Patterns in Herodotus.” In Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002, 97-116. Boedeker, Deborah, and Kurt Raaflaub. 2005. “Tragedy and City.” In A Companion to Tragedy, edited by Rebecca Bushnell, 109-27. Malden, Mass.; Oxford: Blackwell. Bohrmann, Monette. 1989. Flavius Josèphe, les zélotes et Yavne: pour une relecture de la Guerre des Juifs. Bern: Peter Lang. Bolton, James D.P. 1962. Aristeas of Proconnesus. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Bonamente, G. 1975. “Il ‘metus Punicus’ e la decadenza di Roma in Sallustio, Agostino ed Orosio.” GIF 27: 137-63. Bornitz, Hans-Friedrich. 1968. Herodot-Studien. Beiträge zum Verständnis der Einheit des Geschichtswerks. Berlin. Borzsák, István. 1969. “Das Germanicusbild des Tacitus.” Latomus 28: 588-600. —. 1970. “Zum Verständnis der Darstellungskunst des Tacitus. Die Veränderungen des Germanicus-Bildes.” AAntHung 18: 279-92. Bose, M. 2000. “SatƯ. The Event and the Ideology.” In Faces of the Feminine in Ancient, Medieval, and Modern India, edited by M. Bose, 21-32. New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bosworth, Albert Brian. 1975. “Arrian and the Alexander Vulgate.” In Alexandre le Grand. Image et réalité (Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique 22), edited by E. Badian and D. van Berchem, 1-46. Vandœuvres; Genève: Fondation Hardt. —. 1976. “Early Relations between Aetolia and Macedon.” AJAH 1: 16481. —. 1977. “Alexander and Ammon.” In Greece and the Eastern Mediterranean in Ancient History and Prehistory. Studies presented to Fritz Schachermeyr, edited by K. Kinzl, 51-75. Berlin: W. de Gruyter. —. 1980. “Alexander and the Iranians.” JHS 100: 1-21. —.1988a. Conquest and Empire. The Reign of Alexander the Great. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 1988b. From Arrian to Alexander: Studies in Historical Interpretation. Oxford: Clarendon Press. —. 1995. A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander, Books IV-V. Oxford: Clarendon Press. —. 1996. “The Historical Setting of Megasthenes’ Indica”, CP 91: 113-27. Bosworth, Albert Brian, and Elizabeth Baynham, eds. 2000. Alexander the Great in Fact and Fiction. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

364

Bibliography

Bowersock, Glen W. 1982. “The Imperial Cult: Perceptions and Persistence.” In Jewish and Christian Self-definition, edited by B.F. Meyer and E.P. Sanders, vol. 3, 171-82, 238-41. London: SCM Press. Bowie, Ewen L. 1974. “Greeks and their Past in the Second Sophistic.” In Studies in Ancient Society, edited by M.I. Finley, 166-209. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. —. 1994. “The Readership of Greek Novels.” In Tatum 1994, 435-59. —. 1996. “The Ancient Readers of the Greek Novels.” In The Novel in the Ancient World, edited by G. Schmeling, 87-106. Leiden: E.J. Brill. —. 2001. “Ancestors of Historiography in Early Greek Elegiac and Iambic Poetry?” In The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, edited by N. Luraghi, 45-66. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Braccesi, Lorenzo. 2001. Hellenikòs Kolpos. Supplemento a Grecità adriatica (Hesperia 13). Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Bradley, K.R. 1991. “The Imperial Ideal in Suetonius’ ‘Caesares.’” ANRW II 33.5: 3701-32. Braun, Martin. 1938. History and Romance in Graeco-Oriental Literature. Oxford: Blackwell. Braund, David. 1998. “Cohors: The Governor and his Entourage in the Self-image of the Roman Republic.” In Cultural Identity in the Roman Empire, edited by R. Laurence and J. Berry, 10-24. London; New York: Routledge. Breebaart, A.B. 1987. Clio and Antiquity. History and Historiography in the Greek and Roman World. Hilversum: Verloren. Breglia, Laura. 2005. “Efore e il modello erodoteo.” In Erodoto e il “modello erodoteo.” Formazione e trasmissione delle tradizioni storiche in Grecia, edited by Maurizio Giangiulio, 277-314. Trento: Università degli Studi. Bresciani, Edna. 1985. “The Persian Occupation of Egypt.” In The Cambridge History of Iran. Vol. 2: The Median and Achaemenian Periods, edited by Ilya Gershevitch, 502-28. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Briquel, Dominique. 1997. “Le regard des autres. Les origines de Rome vues par ses ennemis (début du IVème siècle-début du Ier siècle av. J.C.” Paris : Les Belles Lettres. Brizzi, Giovanni. 1983. “Ancora su Annibale e l’ellenismo. La fondazione di Artaxata e l’iscrizione di Era Licinia.” In Atti del I Congresso internazionale di studi fenici e punici, vol. 2, 243-51. Roma: CNR. —. 1984. Studi di storia annibalica. Faenza: Lega. Brown, Jason W. 1996. Time, Will, and Mental Process. New York: Plenum.

The Children of Herodotus

365

—. 2005. Process and the Authentic Life: Toward a Psychology of Value. Frankfurt; Lancaster: Ontos Verlag. Brown, Jason W., and Maria Pachalska 2003. “The Symptom and its Significance for Neuropsychology.” Acta Neuropsychologica 1: 1-11. Brown, Truesdell S. 1946-47. “Hieronymus of Cardia.” AHR 52: 684-96. —. “Alexander’s Book Order (Plut. Alex. VIII).” Historia 16: 359-68. Bruneau, Philippe. Le sanctuaire et le culte des divinités égyptiennes à Érétrie. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Brunt, Peter A. 1963. [Review of:] “Hans D. Meyer. Die Aussenpolitik des Augustus und die augusteische Dichtung. Cologne: Böhlau Verlag, 1961.” JRS 53: 170-6. —. 1976, 1983. Arrian: History of Alexander and Indica (Loeb Classical Library, 236, 269). Vols. 1-2. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. —. 1990. Roman Imperial Themes. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Burck, Erich. 1943. “Das Bild der Karthager in der römischen Literatur.” In Rom und Karthago, edited by J. Vogt, 297-345. Leipzig: Koehler & Amelang. Burde, Peter. 1974. Untersuchungen zur antiken Universalgeschichtsschreibung. Diss. Nürnberg 1972. München. Bury, John B. “Euboia before the Lelantine War.” The English Historical Review 1: 625-38. Cagnazzi, S. 1975. “Tavola dei 28 Logoi di Erodoto.” Hermes 103: 385423. Cairns, Francis. 1986. “IG XII, 9, 244 and the Demes and Districts of Eretria.” ZPE 54: 156-64. Campbell, Brian. 2004. Greek and Roman Military Writers. London; New York: Routledge. Cancik-Lindemaier, Hildegard, and Hubert Cancik. 1986. “Zensur und Gedächtnis. Zu Tacitus, Annales IV 32-38.” AU 29.4: 16-35. Canfora, Luciano. 1982. “Tucidide erodoteo.” QS 16: 77-84. Carlier, P. 1978. “L’idée de monarchie impériale dans la Cyropédie de Xénophon.” Ktèma 3: 133-63. Carney, E. 1996. “Macedonians and Mutiny: Discipline and Indiscipline in the Army of Philip and Alexander.” CP 91: 19-44. Champion, Craige. 1995. “The Soteria at Delphi: Aetolian Propaganda in the Epigraphical Record”. AJP 116: 213-20. —. 1997. “The Nature of Authoritative Evidence in Polybius and Agelaus’ Speech at Naupactus”. TAPA 127: 111-28. —. 2004. Cultural Politics in Polybius’s Histories. Berkeley; Los Angeles: California University Press.

366

Bibliography

Champlin, Edward. 2003. Nero. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Chaniotis, Angelos. 1988. Historie und Historiker in den griechischen Inschriften. Epigraphische Beiträge zur griechischen Historiographie. Stuttgart: Steiner. Chantraine, Pierre. 1984. Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque: histoire des mots . Paris: Klincksieck. Chaplin, Jane. 2000. Livy’s Exemplary History. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Charles-Picard, G. 1970. Vie et mort de Carthage. Paris: Hachette. Chassignet, Martine. 1986. Caton: Les Origines (Fragments). Texte établi, traduit et commenté. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. —. 1996, 1999, 2004. L’annalistique romaine. Texte établi et traduit. Vols. 1-3. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Christ, Karl. 1968. “Zur Beurteilung Hannibals.” Historia 17: 461-95. [Reprinted in Hannibal, edited by K. Christ, 361-407. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1974.] —. 1984. Krise und Untergang der römischen Republik. 2nd edn. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. —. 1989. Von Gibbon zu Rostovtzeff. Leben und Werk führender Althistoriker der Neuzeit. 3rd edn. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. —. 2006. Klios Wandlungen: die deutsche Althistorie vom Neuhumanismus bis zur Gegenwart. München: C.H. Beck. Christ, Wilhelm von, Wilhelm Schmid and Otto Stähin. 1912. Geschichte der griechischen Litteratur. Vol. 1: Klassische Periode der griechischen Litteratur. 6th edn., revised by W. Schmid and O. Stähin. München: C.H. Beck. Christensen, P. 2006. “Xenophon’s Cyropaedia and military reform in Sparta.” JHS 126: 47-65. Cipriani, G. 1984. L’epifania di Annibale. Saggio introduttivo a Livio, Annales, XXI. Bari: Adriatica editrice. Clark, E.L. 2004. History, Theory, Text: Historians and the Linguistic Turn. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Clarke, Katharine. 1999. Between Geography and History. Reconstrucing the Hellenistic World. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Classen, Carl Joachim. 1986. “Zum Anfang der Annalen des Tacitus.” AU 29.4: 4-15. Classen, Johannes, and Julius Steup, eds. 1919. Thukydides. Vol. 1: Einleitung. Erstes Buch. 5th edn. revised by J. Steup. Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung. [Reprinted 1963.]

The Children of Herodotus

367

Clifford, James, and George E. Marcus, eds. 1986. Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography. Berkeley; London: University of California Press. Cohen, Anthony P. 1985. The Symbolic Construction of Community. London: Routledge. Collins, Derek. 2004. Master of the Game: Competition and Performance in Greek Poetry, Cambridge, Mass.; London: Harvard University Press. Cook, Arthur Bernard. 1914. Zeus: A Study in Ancient Religion. Vol. 1: Zeus God of the Bright Sky. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Coppola, Alessandra. “I nomi dell’ Adriatico.” Hesperia 15: 101-6 Corcella, Aldo. 2006. “The New Genre and its Boundaries: Poets and Logographers.” In Rengakos and Tsakmakis 2006, 33-56. Cornford, Francis M. 1907. Thucydides Mythistoricus. London: Edward Arnold. [Reprinted New York: Greenwood Press, 1969.] Corsten, Thomas. 1992. “Der Hilferuf des akarnanischen Bundes an Rom. Zum Beginn des römischen Eingreifens in Griechenland.” ZPE 94: 195-210. Cowell, E.B., and F.W. Thomas, eds. 1897. The Harƅa-Carita of BƗŷa. London: The Royal Asiatic Society. Cowley, A. 1967. Aramaic Papyri of the Fifth Century B.C. Osnabrück: Otto Zeller. Cuyler Young, T. Jr. 1988. “The Early History of the Medes and the Persians and the Achaemenid Empire to the Death of Cambyses.” In CAH2, vol. 4, 1-53. Daitz, Stephen G. 1960. “Tacitus’ Technique of Character Portrayal.” AJP 81: 30-52. Dakyns, G.H. 1897. The Works of Xenophon. Vol. III 2. London: Macmillan. Damon, Cynthia. 2003. Tacitus, Histories, Book I. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Damon, Cynthia, and Sarolta Takács, eds. 1999. The Senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone patre. AJP 120.1. Davidson, James. 1991. “The Gaze in Polybius’ Histories.” JRS 81: 10-24. De Lauretis, Teresa. 1987. Technologies of Gender: Essays on Theory, Film, and Fiction. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Debiasi, Andrea. 2001. “Variazioni sul nome di Omero.” In Studi sulla Grecità di occidente (Hesperìa 14), edited by Lorenzo Braccesi, 29-35. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Decourt, Jean Claude. 1990. “Décret de Pharsale pour une politographie.” ZPE 81: 163-84.

368

Bibliography

Deininger, Jürgen. 1973. “Bemerkungen zur Historizität der Rede des Agelaos 217 v. Chr. (Polyb. 5.104).” Chiron 3: 103-8 —. 1985. “Livius und der Prinzipat.” Klio 67: 265-72. —. 1996. “Der Wandel von der Republik zum Prinzipat in Rom: ein Ausnahmefall der antiken Verfassungsentwicklung?” In Griechenland und Rom. Vergleichende Untersuchungen zu Enwicklungstendenzen und -höhepunkten der antiken Geschichte, Kunst und Literatur, edited by E.-G. Schmidt, 81-94. Erlangen: Palm & Enke. Delebecque, Edouard. 1957. Essai sur la vie de Xénophon. Paris: Klincksieck. Dempsie, W.A.R. 1991, A Commentary on Q. Curtius Rufus Historiae Alexandri Book X, Ph.D. thesis, University of St. Andrews. Deshpande, N.A. 1988-92. The Padma PurƗŷa (Ancient Indian Tradition and Mythology, vols. 39-48). Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Devauchelle, Dider. 1995. “Le sentiment anti-perse chez les anciens Égyptiens.” Transeuphraténe 9: 67-80. Devillers, Olivier. 1993. “Le rôle des passages relatifs à Germanicus dans les Annales de Tacite.” AncSoc 24: 225-41. Dewald, Carolyn. 1999. “The Figured Stage: Focalizing the Initial Narratives of Herodotus and Thucydides.” In Contextualizing Classics. Essays in Honor of John J. Peradotto, edited by Th.M. Falkner, N. Felson and D. Konstan, 221-52. Lanham, MD; Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield. —. 2006. “Humour and Danger in Herodotus.” In Dewald and Marincola 2006, 145-65. Dewald, Carolyn, and John Marincola, eds. 2006. The Cambridge Companion to Herodotus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Diller, A. 1955. “The Authors Named Pausanias.” TAPA 86: 268-79. Dillery, J. 2004. “Xenophon, the Military Review and Hellenistic pompai.” In Tuplin 2004, 259-76. Dircksen, Marianne. 1996. “A Narratological Reading of Tacitus’ Historical Works.” Acta Academica 28: 89-104. —. 2007. “Tacitean ‘Truth’: Quot Homines, Tot Sententiae.” In Alma Parens Originalis? The Receptions of Classical Literature and Thought in Africa, Europe, the United States, and Cuba, edited by John Hilton and Anne Gosling, 237-55. Frankfurt a.M.: Peter Lang. Donlan, Walter. 1970. “Archilochus, Strabo and the Lelantine War.” TAPA 101: 131-42. Dorandi, T. 1991. “Den Autoren über die Schulter geschaut: Arbeitsweise und Autographie bei den antiken Schriftstellern.” ZPE 87: 11-33. Drews, Robert. 1962. “Diodorus and His Sources.” AJP 83: 383-92.

The Children of Herodotus

369

Dubuisson, Michel. 1983. “L’image du Carthaginois dans la littérature latine.” Studia Phoenicia 1-2: 159-67. Ducat, Jean. 1990. Les Hilotes. Paris: De Boccard. —. 1994. Les Pénestes de Thessalie. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Due, Bodil. 1989. The Cyropaedia: Xenophon’s Aims and Methods. Copenhagen: Aarhus University Press. —. 2002. “Narrator and Narratee in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia.” In Noctes Atticae: 34 Articles on Greco-Roman Antiquity and its Nachleben. Studies Presented to Jøergen Meyer, edited by B. Amden et al., 82-92. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press. Dueck, Daniela. 2000. Strabo of Amasia. A Greek Man of Letters in Augustan Rome. London; New York: Routledge. Dueck, Daniela, Hugh Lindsay and Sarah Pothecary, eds. 2005. Strabo’s Cultural Geography. The Making of a kolossourgia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dunand, F. 1973. Le culte de Isis dans le bassin oriental de la Méditerranée. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Duncan, G.S. 1904. “The Code of Moses and the Code of Hammurabi.” The Biblical World 23: 188-93. Dziuba, Agnieszka. 2004. Curiositas “Historii rzymskiej” Wellejusza Paterkulusa. Lublin: Wydawnictwo KUL. Earl, Donald C. 1961. The Political Thought of Sallust. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Eck, Werner. 2000. “Die Täuschung der Öffentlichkeit—oder: Die ‘Unparteilichkeit’ des Historikers Tacitus.” A&A 46: 190-206. —. 2007. The Age of Augustus, translated by Deborah L. Schneider. 2nd edn. Malden, MA; Oxford: Blackwell. Eck, Werner, Antonio Caballos and Fernando Fernández. 1996. Das senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone patre. München: C.H. Beck. Eckstein, A.M. 1995. Moral Vision in the Histories of Polybius. Berkeley: University of California Press. Edelstein, Ludwig, and Ian Gray Kidd. 1988, 1989, 1999. Posidonius (Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries 13, 14A, 14B, 36). Vol. I: The Fragments. 2nd edn. 1989. 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: Cambridge University Press. Edmunds, Lowell. 1975. Chance and Intelligence in Thucydides. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Edson, Charles. 1961. [Review of:] “Pompei Trogi fragmenta. Collegit Otto Seel. Leipzig: B.G. Teubner, 1956.” CP 56: 198-203.

370

Bibliography

Else, Gerald F. 1967. Aristotle’s Poetics: The Argument. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Elsner, JaĞ. 1992. “Pausanias: A Greek Pilgrim in the Roman World.” Past & Present 135: 3-29. —. 2001. “Structuring ‘Greece’: Pausanias’ Periegesis as a Literary Construct.” In Alcock, Cherry and Elsner 2001, 3-20. Elvyn, Sue. 1990. “The Recognition Decrees for the Delphian Soteria and the Date of Smyrna’s Inviolability”. JHS 110: 177-80. Engels, Johannes. 1999. Augusteische Oikumenegeographie und Universalhistorie im Werk Strabons von Amaseia. Stuttgart: Steiner. —. 2004. “Agatharchides von Knidos Schrift Über das Rote Meer.” In Ad Fontes! Festschrift für Gerhard Dobesch zum fünfundsechzigsten Geburtstag am 15. September 2004, edited by Herbert Heftner and Kurt Tomaschitz, 179-92. Wien: Verlag der Autoren. —. 2005. “Andres Endoxoi in Strabo’s Geography.” In Dueck, Lindsay and Pothecary 2005, 129-43. —. 2007a. “Geography and History.” In A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, edited by John Marincola, 541-52. Oxford: Blackwell. —. 2007b. “Die Raumauffassung des augusteischen Oikumenereiches in den Geographika Strabons.” In Wahrnehmung und Erfassung geographischer Räume in der Antike, edited by Michael Rathmann, 123-34. Mainz: P. von Zabern. Erbse, Hartmut. 1970. “Über das Prooimion (1, 1-23) des Thukydideischen Geschichtswerkes.” RhM 113: 43-69. Evans, J.A.S. 1991. Herodotus, Explorer of the Past. Three Essays, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Fachard, Sylvian. 2006. “Les fortresses du Kotylaion.” In Archailogiko ergo Thessalias kai Stereas Elladas, edited by A. Mazarakis-Ainian, 1039-56. Volos. Fantham, Elaine. 1985. “Caesar and the Mutiny: Lucan’s Reshaping of the Historical Tradition in De Bello Civili 5.237-373.” CP 80: 119-31. Farber, J.J. 1979. “The Cyropaedia and Hellenistic Kingship.” AJP 100: 497-514. Fehling, Detlev. 1975. “Zur Funktion und Formengeschichte des Proömiums in der älteren griechischen Prosa” In ƾǒNjǁdžƻ. Hans Diller zum 70. Geburtstag. Dauer und Überleben des antiken Geistes, 61-75. Athen: Griechische Humanistische Gesellschaft. Feix, Josef. 1977. Herodot: Historien. 2 vols. 2nd edn. München: Artemis. Feldherr, Andrew. 1998. Spectacle and Society in Livy’s History. Berkeley; London: University of California Press.

The Children of Herodotus

371

Ferrandini Troisi, Franca. 2000. La donna nella società ellenistica. Testimonianze epigrafiche. Bari: Edipuglia. Ferrill, Arther. 1991. Caligula: Emperor of Rome. London: Thames and Hudson. Figueira, T.J. 1999. “The Evolution of the Messenian Identity.” In Sparta. New Perspectives, edited by S. Hodkinson and A. Powell, 211-44. London: Duckworth. Finley, Moses I. 1968. Ancient Sicily to the Arab Conquest (A History of Sicily, vol. 1). London: Chatto & Windus. —. 1977. Aspects of Antiquity: Discoveries and Controversies. London: Chatto & Windus. —. 1986. Ancient History: Evidence and Models. New York; London: Penguin. Finnegan, Ruth H. 1992. Oral Poetry: Its Nature, Significance and Social Context. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Fisch, Joerg. 2006. Burning Women. A Global History of Widow Sacrifice from Ancient Times to the Present, translated by R.K. Rajan. London: Seagul Books. Flory, S. 1978. “Arion’s Leap: Brave Gestures in Herodotus.” AJP 99: 411-21. —. 1980. “Who Read Herodotus’ Histories?” AJP 101: 12-28. Flower, Michael A., and John Marincola, eds. 2002. Herodotus: Histories Book 9, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fornara, Charles W. 1971a. “Evidence for the Date of Herodotus’ Publication.” JHS 91: 25-34. —. 1971b. Herodotus: An Interpretative Essay. Oxford: Clarendon Press. —. 1983. The Nature of History in Ancient Greece and Rome. Berkeley: University of California Press. Foucault, Michel. 1977. Discipline and Punish: the Birth of the Prison, translated by A. Sheridan. London: Allen Lane. Foulon, E. 2003. “Mercure Alétès apparaît en songe à Hannibal.” In Mélanges C. Deroux, edited by P. Defosse, vol. 4, 366-77. Bruxelles: Collection Latomus. Fowler, Robert L. 1988. “AIƽ- in Early Greek Language and Myth.” Phoenix 42: 95-113. —. 1996. “Herodotos and His Contemporaries.” JHS 116: 62-87. —. 2001. Early Greek Mythography. Vol. 1: Text and Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. —. 2003. “Herodotos and Athens.” In Herodotus and his World. Essays from a Conference in Memory of George Forrest, edited by P. Derow and R. Parker, 305-18. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

372

Bibliography

Franko, George Frederic. 1995. “Fides, Aetolia, and Plautus’ Captivi.” TAPA 125: 155-76. Freeman, Edward A. 1892. History of Sicily from the Earliest Times. Vol. 3: The Athenian and Carthaginian Invasions. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Friedman, R. 2006. “Location and Dislocation in Herodotus.” In Dewald and Marincola 2006, 165-77. Frisk, Hjalmar. 1960-72. Griechisches etymologisches Wörterbuch. 3 vols. Heidelberg: Carl Winter Universitätsverlag. Fritz, Kurt von. 1967. Die griechische Geschichtsschreibung. Vol. 1: Von den Anfängen bis Thucydides, parts 1 (text) and 2 (notes). Berlin: W. de Gruyter. Gallotta, Bruno. 1987. Germanico. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Gandhi, Leela. 1998. Postcolonial Theory: A Critical Introduction. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Gardiner, Alan. 1961. Egypt of the Pharaos. An Introduction. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Garnsey, Peter D.A. 1984. “Religious Toleration in Classical Antiquity.” In Persecution and Toleration, edited by W.J. Sheils, 1-27. Oxford: Blackwell. Garnsey, Peter D.A., and Richard Saller. 1987. The Roman Empire: Economy, Society and Culture. Berkeley: University of California Press. Garzilli, Enrica. 1997. “First Greek and Latin Documents on Sahagamana and Some Connected Problems.” Indo-Iranian Journal 40: 205-43, 339-65. Gehrke, Hans Joachim. 1988. “Eretria und sein Territorium.” Boreas 11: 15-42. Geiser, Melanie. 2007. Personendarstellung bei Tacitus am Beispiel von Cn. Domitius Corbulo und Ser. Sulpicius Galba. Remscheid: Gardez! Verlag. Gera, Deborah L. 1993. Xenophon’s Cyropaedia: Style, Genre and Literary Technique. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Germani, Gino. 1980. Marginality. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Books. Geus, Klaus. 2002. Eratosthenes von Kyrene. Studien zur hellenistischen Kultur- und Wissenschaftsgeschichte. München: C.H. Beck. Geyer, Fritz. 1924. “Histiaia.” RE Suppl. IV: 749-57 Giangiulio, Maurizio. 1992. “Per la tradizione di Ippi di Reggio FGrHist 554.” ASNP III 22: 303-64. Gill, Christopher. 1983. “The Question of Character Development: Plutarch and Tacitus.” CQ 33: 469-87.

The Children of Herodotus

373

Gill, Christopher, and Timothy P. Wiseman, eds. 1993. Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World. Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Ginsburg, Judith. 1981. Tradition and Theme in the Annals of Tacitus. New York: Arno Press. Gisinger, Friedrich. 1937. “Oikumene.” RE XVII 2: 2123-74. Giuia, Maria Antonietta. 1976. “Germanico nel racconto tacitiano della rivolta delle legioni renane.” RIL 110: 102-13. Gleason, Maud W. 1995. Making Men: Sophists and Self-representation in Ancient Rome. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Gáombiowski, Krzysztof. 1993. Ksenofont. ĩoánierz i pisarz. Wrocáaw: Ossolineum. Goldhill, Simon. 1998. “The Seductions of the Gaze: Socrates and his Girlfriends.” In Kosmos: Essays in Order, Conflict and Community in Classical Athens, edited by P. Cartledge, P. Millett and S. von Reden, 105-24. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 2001. “The Erotic Eye: Visual Stimulation and Cultural Conflict.” In Being Greek Under Rome: Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic and the Development of Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 2002. The Invention of Prose. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gomme, A.W. 1954. The Greek Attitude to Poetry and History. Berkeley; Los Angeles: University of California Press. Goodman, Martin. 1987. The Ruling Class of Judaea: The Origins of the Jewish Revolt Against Rome, AD 66-70. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 1994. “Josephus as Roman Citizen.” In Josephus and the History of the Graeco-Roman Period: Essays in Memory of Morton Smith, edited by F. Parente and J. Sievers, 329-38. Leiden: E.J. Brill. —. 2007. Rome and Jerusalem: The Clash of Ancient Civilizations. London: Allen Lane. Goody, J. 1987. The Interface between the Written and the Oral. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Goodyear, F.R.D. 1972, 1981. The Annals of Tacitus, Books 1-6. Edited with a Commentary. Vol. 1: Annals 1.1-54. Vol. 2: Ann. 1.55-81 & Ann. 2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Goukowsky, Paul. 1991. “Die Alexanderhistoriker.” In Geschichtsbild und Geschichtsdenken im Altertum. (Wege der Forschung 631), edited by J.M. Alonso-Núñez, 136-65, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Gould, John. 1989. Herodotus. London; New York: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Grainger, John D. 1999. The League of the Aitolians. Leiden: E.J. Brill.

374

Bibliography

Grant, Michael. 1995. Greek and Roman Historians: Information and Misinformation. London: Routledge. Gray, V. 2002. “Short Stories in Herodotus.” In Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002, 291-317. Greenwood, Emily. 2006. Thucydides and the Shaping of History. London: Duckworth. Gregor, Helmut. 1964. Das Indienbild des Abendlandes (bis zum Ende des 13. Jahrhunderts). Wien: H. Geyer. Griffin, Miriam T. 1984. Nero. The End of a Dynasty. London: Batsford. —. 1990. “Claudius in Tacitus.” CQ 40: 482-501. Griffith, M. 1998. “The King and Eye: The Rule of the Father in Greek Tragedy.” PCPS 44: 20-84. Griffiths, A. 2006. “Stories and Story-telling in Herodotus.” In Dewald and Marincola 2006, 130-44. Grimal, Nicolas. 2004. Dzieje staroĪytnego Egiptu, translated by Adam àukaszewicz. Warszawa: PaĔstwowy Instytut Wydawniczy. Gundlach, Rolf. 1986. “Wadi Hammamat.” In Lexikon der Ägyptologie, edited by Wolfgang Helck and Eberhard Otto, vol. 6, 1099-113. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz. Güngerich, Rudolf. 1980. Kommentar zum Dialogus des Tacitus, edited by Heinz Heubner. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Gyles, Mary Francis. 1959. Pharaonic Policies and Administration, 663 to 323 B.C. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press. Habicht, Christian. 1985a. “An Ancient Baedeker and his Critics: Pausanias’ Guide to Greece.” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 129: 220-4. —. 1985b/1998. Pausanias’ Guide to Ancient Greece. Berkeley: University of California Press. [2nd edn. 1998.] Hadas-Lebel, Mireille. 1990. Jérusalem contre Rome. Paris: Éditions du Cerf. Hägg, Thomas. 1996. “Orality, Literacy, and the ‘Readership’ of the Early Greek Novel.” In Contexts of Pre-Novel Narrative. The European Tradition, edited by Roy Eriksen, 47-81. Berlin: Mouton; W. de Gruyter. Hall, Edith. 1989. Inventing the Barbarian: Greek Self-definition through Tragedy. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Halliwell, Stephen. 1986. Aristole’s Poetics. London: Duckworth. Hamilton, Charles D. 1979. Sparta’s Bitter Victories: Politics and Diplomacy in the Corinthian War. Ithaca; London: Cornell University Press.

The Children of Herodotus

375

Hamilton, James R. 1969. Plutarch, Alexander: A Commentary. Oxford: Clarendon Press. —. 1987. “Alexander’s Iranian Policy.” In Zu Alexander d. Gr. Festschrift G. Wirth, edited by W. Will and J. Heinrichs, vol. 1, 467-86, Amsterdam: A.M. Hakkert. Hammond, Nicholas G.L. 1952. “The Arrangement of the Thought in the Proem and in other Parts of Thucydides I.” CQ 2: 127-41. —. 1980. “Some Passages in Arrian concerning Alexander.” CQ 30: 45576. —. 1981. Alexander the Great. King, Commander and Statesman. London: Chatto & Windus. —. 1983a. “The Text and Meaning of Arrian VII 6.2-5.” JHS 103: 139144. —. 1983b. Three Historians of Alexander the Great. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 1993. Sources for Alexander the Great. An Analysis of Plutarch’s Life and Arrian’s Anabasis Alexandrou. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 1999. “The Speeches in Arrian’s Anabasis and Indica.” CQ 49: 23853. Hanslik, Rudolf. 1971-72, 1973-74. “Tacitus 1939-1972.” Lustrum 16: 143-304; 17: 71-216. Hanson, V.D. 2007. “The Modern Historiography of Ancient Warfare.” In The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Warfare, edited by P. Sabin, H. van Wees and M. Whitby, vol. 1, 3-21. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hanson, W.S. 1987. Agricola and the Conquest of the North. London: Barnes & Noble. Harder, Richard. 1943. “Bemerkungen zur griechischen Schriftlichkeit.” Die Antike 19, 86-108. Harrison, Thomas. 2000. Divinity and History. The Religion of Herodotus. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hartog, François. 1988. The Mirror of Herodotus: The Representation of the Other in the Writing of History, translated by J. Lloyd. Berkeley: University of California Press. —. 2001. Memories of Odysseus. Frontier Tales from Ancient Greece, translated by J. Lloyd. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Hatscher, Christoph R. 2003. Alte Geschichte und Universalhistorie. Weltgeschichtliche Perspektiven aus althistorischer Sicht. Stuttgart: Steiner.

376

Bibliography

Heckel, Waldemar. 1992. The Marshals of Alexander’s Empire. London; New York: Routledge. —. 1996. “Resistance to Alexander the Great.” In The Greek World in the Fourth Century, edited by L.A. Tritle, 189-227. London: Routledge. —. 2003. “King and ‘Companions’: Observations on the Nature of Power in the Reign of Alexander.” In Roisman 2003a, 197-225. Heckel, Waldemar, and John C. Yardley. 1981. “Roman Writers and the Indian Practice of Suttee.” Philologus 125: 305-11. Heer, Joyce. 1979. La personnalité de Pausanias. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Hekster, Olivier. 2002. Commodus: An Emperor at the Crossroads. Amsterdam: Gieben. Helly, Bruno. 1995. L’état Thessalien. Lyon: Maison de l’Orient mediterraneen. Helmreich, Fritz. 1927. Die Reden bei Curtius. Paderborn: Schöningh 1927. Heubner, Heinz. 1963. P. Cornelius Tacitus. Die Historien. Kommentar. Vol. 1: Erstes Buch. Heidelberg: Carl Winter Universitätsverlag. Higgins, William E. 1977. Xenophon the Athenian: The Problem of the Individual and the Society of the Polis. Albany: State University of New York Press. Hillebrandt, Alfred. 1987. Kleine Schriften, edited by R.P. Das. Stuttgart: Steiner. Hirsch, Steven W. 1985. The Friendship of the Barbarians: Xenophon and the Persian Empire. Hanover, NH; London: University Press of New England. Hodkinson, Stephen. 2000. Property and Wealth in Classical Sparta. London: Duckworth. Hoffer, Stanley E. 1999. The Anxieties of Pliny the Younger. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Holladay, Carl R. 1983. Fragments from Hellenistic Jewish Authors. Vol. I: Historians. Chico: Scholars Press. Holleaux, Maurice. 1921. Rome, la Grèce et les monarchies hellénistiques: au IIIe siècle avant J.-C. Paris: De Boccard. Holzberg, Niklas. 1995. The Ancient Novel, translated by Christine Jackson-Holzberg. London; New York: Routledge. Honko, Lauri. 1998. Textualizing the Siri Epic. Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica. —. ed. 2000. Thick Corpus, Organic Variation and Textuality in Oral Tradition, Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura.

The Children of Herodotus

377

Hooff, Anton J.L. van. 1990. From Autothanasia to Suicide. Self-killing in Classical Antiquity. London; New York: Routledge. hooks, bell. 1992. Black Looks: Race and Representation. Boston: South End Press. Hopkins, Keith. 1978. Conquerors and Slaves. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hornblower, Jane. 1981. Hieronymus of Cardia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hornblower, Simon. 1994. “Narratology and Narrative Technique in Thucydides.” In Greek Historiography, edited by S. Hornblower, 13166. Oxford: Clarendon Press. —. 1995. “The Fourth-Century Reception of Thucydides.” JHS 105: 4768. —. 1996. A Commentary on Thucydides. Vol. 2: Books IV-V.24. Oxford: Clarendon Press. —. 2006. “Herodotus’ Influence in Antiquity.” In Dewald and Marincola 2006, 306-18. Huart, Pierre. 1968. Le vocabulaire de l’analyse psychologique dans l’œuvre de Thucydide. Paris: C. Klincksieck. Hunter, L.W. and S.A. Handford. 1927. Aeneas on Siegecraft. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hunter, Virginia. 1982. Past and Process in Herodotus and Thucydides. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Hurley, Donna W. 1989. “Gaius Caligula in the Germanicus Tradition.” AJP 110: 316-38. Huss, W. 1986. “Hannibal und die Religion.” Studia Phoenicia 4: 223-38. Hutton, Patrick H. 1993. History as an Art of Memory. London: University Press of New England. Hutton, William. 2005. Describing Greece: Landscape and Literature in the Periegesis of Pausanias. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hutzel, Th. 1974. From Gadrosia to Babylon: A Commentary on Arrian’s Anabasis Alexandri 6.22-7.30 . Ph.D. thesis, Indiana University. Iggers, Georg G. 1983. The German Conception of History: The National Tradition of Historical Thought from Herder to the Present. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Immerwahr, Henry R. 1966. Form and Thought in Herodotus, Cleveland: Press of Western Reserve University. Irwin, E., and Greenwood, E., eds. 2007. Reading Herodotus: A Study of the Logoi in Book 5 of Herodotus’ Histories. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

378

Bibliography

Jacob, Christian. 1980. “The Greek Traveler’s Areas of Knowledge: Myth and Other Discourses in Pausanias’ Description of Greece.” Yale French Studies 59: 65-85. Jacoby, Felix. 1913a. Herodotos. RE Suppl. II: 205-520. [Reprinted in Jacoby, Felix. Griechische Historiker, 7-164. Stuttgart: Druckenmüller, 1956.] —. 1913b. “Hieronymos von Kardia.” RE VIII 2: 1540-60. Jähns, M. 1889. Geschichte der Kriegswissenschaften. Vol. 1. München; Leipzig: R. Oldenburg. Johns, William. 1816. A Collection of Facts and Opinions Relative to the Burning of Widows. Birmingham: W. H. Pearce. Johnson, W.A. 1994. “Oral Performance and the Composition of Herodotus’ Histories.” GRBS 35: 229-54. Jolly, Julius. 1897. Recht und Sitte: Einschliesslich der einheimischen Litteratur (Grundriss der Indo-Arischen Philologie und Altertumskunde). Strassburg: K.J. Trübner. Jones, Brian W. 1979. Domitian and the Senatorial Order: A Prosopographical Study of Domitian’s Relationship with the Senate. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. —. 1992. The Emperor Domitian. London: Routledge. —. 1996. Suetonius, Domitian. Edited with Introduction, Commentary, and Bibliography. Bristol: Bristol Classical Press. Jones, Brian W., and Robert Milns. 2002. Suetonius, The Flavian Emperors: A Historical Commentary. Bristol: Bristol Classical Press. Jones, C.P. 2004. “Multiple Identities in the Age of the Second Sophistic.’ In Paideia: the World of the Second Sophistic, edited by B.E. Borg, 1321. Berlin; New York: W. de Gruyter. Jong, Irene J.F. de. 2002. “Narrative Unity and Units”. In Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002, 245-66. Junker, D., and P. Reisinger. 1974. “Was kann Objektivität in der Geschichtswissenschaft heissen, und wie ist sie möglich?” Historische Zeitschrift Beiheft 3: 1-46. Köchly, H., and W. Rüstow. 1853. Griechische Kriegsschriftsteller. Vol. 1. Leipzig: W. Engelmann . Kagan, Donald. 1987. The Fall of the Athenian Empire. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Kajanto, Iiro. 1970. “Tacitus’ Attitude to War and the Soldier.” Latomus 29: 699-718. Kallet-Marx, Lisa. 1993. Money, Expense, and Naval Power in Thucydides’ History 1-5.24. Berkeley: University of California Press.

The Children of Herodotus

379

Kane, Pandurang V. 1930, 1941, 1946, 1953. History of DharmaĞƗstra. 4 vols. Poona: Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute. Kaplan, Ann E. 1983. “Is the Gaze Male?” In Desire: The Politics of Sexuality, edited by A. Snitow, C. Stansell and S. Thompson, 321-38. London: Virago. —. 1997. Looking for the Other: Feminism, Film and the Imperial Gaze. London: Routledge. Kappeler, Susanne. 1986. The Pornography of Representation. Cambridge: Polity. Karageorghis, Vassos, and Iannis Taifacos, eds. 2004. The World of Herodotus. (Proceedings of an International Conference held at the Foundation Anastasios G. Leventis, Nicosia, September 18-21, 2003). Nikosia: Foundation Anastasios G. Leventis. Karttunen, Klaus. 1989. India in Early Greek Literature (Studia Orientalia 65). Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society. —. 1997. India and the Hellenistic World (Studia Orientalia 83). Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society. —. 2002. “The Ethnography of the Fringes.” In Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002, 457-74. —. 2004. “Ancient India as Described in Classical Literature: The Minor Sources 1. Lucianus of Samosata.” In Du corps humain, au carrefour de plusieurs savoirs en Inde. Mélanges offerts à Arion Roúu par ses collègues et ses amis à l’occasion de son 80e anniversaire (Studia Asiatica 4-5), edited by Eugen Ciurtin, 693-706. Bucureúti; Paris: Université de Bucarest; De Boccard. Keitel, Elizabeth. 1984. “Principate and Civil War in the Annals of Tacitus.” AJP 105: 306-25. Kennedy, D.F. 1992. “‘Augustan’ and ‘Anti-Augustan’: Reflections on Terms of Reference.” In Roman Poetry and Propaganda in the Age of Augustus, edited by Anton Powell, 26-58. London: Bristol Classical Press. Kessler Gerhard. 1905. Die Tradition über Germanicus. Diss. Leipzig. Berlin: F. Rosenthal. Kienast, Dietmar. 1999. Augustus. Prinzeps und Monarch. 3rd edn. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Kienitz, Friedrich Karl. 1953. Die politische Geschichte Ägyptens vom 7. bis 4. Jahrhundert vor der Zeitwende. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag. Kivistö, S. 2007. ”Kirjallisuuden esityspaikkoja ja instituutioita.” [“Performance Venues and Institutions for Literature.”] In Kivistö et al. 2007, 68-83.

380

Bibliography

Kivistö, S., et al., eds. 2007. Kirjallisuus antiikin maailmassa. [Literature in the Ancient World.] Jyväskylä: Kustannusosakeyhtiö. Klingner, Friedrich. 1940/1986. “Die Geschichte Kaiser Othos bei Tacitus.” In Pöschl 1986, 403-27. [Originally published in 1940.] —. 1953/1986. “Tacitus über Augustus und Tiberius. Interpretationen zum Eingang der Annalen.” In Pöschl 1986, 513-56. [Originally published in 1953.] —. 1956. Römische Geisteswelt. 3rd edn. München: Hermann Rinn. Knoepfler, Denis. 1981. “Argoura: un toponyme eubéen dans la Midienne de Démosthène.” BCH 105: 289-329. —. 1997. “Le territoire d’Erétrie et l’organisation politique de la cité (dêmoi, chôroi, phylai)”. In The Polis as an Urban Centre and the Political Community, edited by M.H. Hansen, 352–449. Copenhagen: Munksgaard. —. 1998. “Chronologie delphique et histoire eubéenne: retour sur quelques points controversés.” Topoi 8: 197-214. Koestermann, Erich. 1963. Cornelius Tacitus, Annalen. Erläutert und mit einer Einleitung versehen. Vol. 1: Buch 1-3. Heidelberg: Carl Winter Universitätsverlag. Konrad, C.F. 2006. “From the Gracchi to the First Civil War (133-70).” In Rosenstein and Morstein-Marx 2006, 167-89. Konstan, David. 2001. “To HellƝnikon ethnos: Ethnicity and the Construction of Ancient Greek Identity.” In Malkin 2001a, 29-50. Kornemann, Ernst. 1947. Tacitus. Wiesbaden: Dieterich. Koselleck, Reinhart, Wolfgang Mommsen, and Jörn Rüsen. 1977. Objektivität und Parteilichkeit in der Geschichtswissenschaft. München: Dt. Taschenbuch Verlag. Krohn, Friedrich. 1934. Personendarstellungen bei Tacitus. Diss. Leipzig. Großschönau i. Sa.: H. Engelhardt. Kuhn, Thomas S. 1962. The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. La Penna, Antonio. 1975. “Polemiche sui sogni nella storiografia latina arcaica.” StudUrb 49, 1: 49-60. Lancel, Serge. 1997. Hannibal. Paris: Fayard. Lang, Mabel L. 1984. Herodotean Narrative and Discourse. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. —. 1987. “Reply to Greg Nagy over ‘Herodotus the Logios.’” Arethusa 20: 203f. Latacz, Joachim. 1994. “Die rätselhafte ‘Große Bewegung.’ Zum Eingang des Thukydideischen Geschichtswerks.” In eiusdem, Erschließung der

The Children of Herodotus

381

Antike. Kleine Schriften zur Literatur der Griechen und Römer, edited by F. Graf et al., 399-426. Stuttgart; Leipzig: B.G. Teubner. Lateiner, Donald. 1985. “Nicias’ Inadequate Encouragement (Thucydides 7.69.2),” CP 80: 201-13. —. 1989. The Historical Method of Herodotus. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Latte, Kurt. 1940. “Todesstrafe.” RE Suppl. VII: 1599-619. Lattimore, R. 1958. “The Composition of the History of Herodotus.” CP 53: 9-21. Lauffer, Siegfried. 1993. Alexander der Große. 3rd edn. München: Dt.Taschenbuch Verlag. Lendle, Otto. 1964. “Die Auseinandersetzung des Thukydides mit Hellanikos.” Hermes 92: 129-43. —. 1990. “DŽǍǁdžƻ ƿnj ƻǃƿǃ. Thukydides und Herodot.” RhM 133: 23184. Lenfant, Dominique. 1999. “Peut-on se fier aux ‘fragments’ d’historien? L’exemple des citations d’Hérodote.” Ktèma 24: 103-21. Leo, Friedrich. 1896/1986. “Tacitus.” In Pöschl 1986, 11-25. [Originally published in 1896.] Lesky, Albin. 1959. “Aithiopika.” Hermes 87: 27-38. Levick, Barbara. 1990. Claudius. New Haven: Yale University Press. —. 1999. Tiberius the Politician. Rev. edn. London; New York: Routledge. Levin, Saul. 1996. “Diodoros of Sicily on Egyptian and Boiotian Thebes.” Boeotia Antiqua 6: 13-8. Liebenam, Wilhelm. 1891. “Bemerkungen zur Tradition über Germanicus.” Jahrbücher für classische Philologie 37: 717-36, 793816, 865-88. Llewelyn, J. 1988. “On the Saying that Philosophy Begins in thaumazein.” In Post-structuralist Classics, edited by A. Benjamin, 173-91. London: Routledge. Lloyd, Alan B. 1975-88. Herodotus, Book II. 3 vols. Leiden; Köln: E.J. Brill. —. 1985. “Egypt 404-332 B.C.” In CAH2, vol. 6, 337-60. —. 2002. “The Late Period (664-332 BC).” In The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt, edited by Ian Shaw, 369-94. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lloyd, G.E.R. 1987. The Revolutions of Wisdom. Studies in the Claims and Practice of Ancient Greek Science Berkeley: University of California Press.

382

Bibliography

Longo, Oddone. 1987. “I mangiatori di pesci: regime alimentare e quadro culturale.” MD 18: 9-55. Loomba, Ania. 2005. Colonialism/Postcolonialism. 2nd edn. London: Routledge. Luce, T.J. 1989. “Ancient Views on the Causes of Bias in Historical Writing.” CP 84: 16-31. Luginbill, Robert D. 1999. Thucydides on War and National Character. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Luraghi, Nino. 2000. “Author and Audience in Thucydides’ Archaeology. Some Reflections.” HSCP 100: 227-39. —. 2001. “Der Erdbebenaufstand und die Entstehung der messenischen Identität.” In Gab es das griechische Wunder? Griechenland zwischen dem Ende des 6. und der Mitte des 5. Jahrhunderts v. Chr., edited by D. Papenfuss and V.M. Strocka, 279-301. Mainz: P. von Zabern. —. 2002. “Becoming Messenian.” JHS 122: 45-69. Mackay, E.A., ed. 1999. Signs of Orality. The Oral Tradition and its Influence in the Greek and Roman World. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Mackie, C.J. 1996. “Homer and Thucydides: Corcyra and Sicily.” CQ 46: 103-13 MacQueen, Bruce D. 1981. Plato’s Republic in the Monographs of Sallust. Chicago: Bolchazy-Carducci. —. 1985. “Longus and the Myth of Chloe.” ICS 10: 119-34. —. 1991. Myth, Rhetoric, and Fiction: A Reading of Longus’s Daphnis and Chloe. Lincoln, NE; London: University of Nebraska Press. —. 2006. “Catiline, Caesar, and the Roman Revolution from the historical perspective of Sallust.” Eos 93: 65-82. —. 2007. “ToĪsamoĞü jako tekst.” In ToĪsamoĞü czáowieka z perspektywy interdyscyplinarnej, edited by Maria Pąchalska, BoĪena GrochmalBach and Bruce Duncan MacQueen, 231-56. Kraków: Wydawnictwo WAM. Mahlstedt, C. 1910. Ueber den Wortschatz des Aineias Taktikus. Jena: Frommannsche Buchdruckerei. Major, Andrea, ed. 2007. Sati. A Historical Anthology. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Malcovati, Enrica. 1975, “Sull’orazione di Catone De Bello Carthaginiensi.” Athenaeum NS 53: 205-11. Malitz, Jürgen. 1982. “Thukydides’ Weg zur Geschichtsschreibung.” Historia 31: 257-89. —. 1983. Die Historien des Poseidonios. München: C.H. Beck.

The Children of Herodotus

383

Malkin, Irad, ed. 2001a. Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity (Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity. Washington: Center for Hellenic Studies. Malkin, Irad. 2001b. “Introduction.” In Malkin 2001a, 1-28. Malloch, S.J.V. 2004. “The End of the Rhine Mutiny in Tacitus, Suetonius, and Cassius Dio.” CQ 54: 198-210. Manning, J.G. 2003. Land and Power in Ptolemaic Egypt. The Structure of Land Tenure. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Marinatos, N. 1980. “Nicias as Wise Advisor and Tragic Warner in Thucydides.” Philologus 124: 305-10. Marincola, John. 1997a. Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 1997b. “Comments on P. Stadter, ‘Herodotus and the North Carolina Oral Narrative Tradition.’” Histos 1 at www.dur.ac.uk/Classics/histos/ 1997/stadresp.html. —. 1999. “Tacitus’ Prefaces and the Decline of Imperial Historiography.” Latomus 58: 391-404. —. 2007. “alƝtheia.” Lexicon historiographicum Graecum et Latinum, vol. 2, 7-29. Pisa: Edizioni della Normale. Martin, Ronald H. 1981. Tacitus. London: Batsford 1981. —. 2001. Tacitus. Annals V & VI, Edited with an Introduction, Translation & Commentary. Warminster: Aris & Phillips. Martin, Ronald H., and Anthony J. Woodman. 1989. Tacitus: Annals, Book IV. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Marton, Lisa. 2002. “Tra Eubea e Iapigia. Analogie toponomastiche e trame leggendarie.” RSA 32: 7-43. Matthews, Victor J. 1993. “In Defence of the Artemis of Antimachos.” LCM 18: 86-8. —. 1996. Antimachus of Colophon, Text and Commentary. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1996. Mayer, Roland. 2001. Tacitus: Dialogus de oratoribus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mayerson, Philip. 1993. “A Confusion of Indias: Asian India and African India in the Byzantine Sources.” JAOS 113: 169-74. McCoskey, Denise Eileen. 2005. “Gender at the Crossroads of Empire: Locating Women in Strabo’s Geography.” In Dueck, Lindsay and Pothecary 2005, 56-72. McCulloch, Harold Y., Jr. 1984. Narrative Cause in the Annals of Tacitus. Königstein/Ts.: Anton Hain. McHugh, Mary R. 2004. “Historiography and Freedom of Speech: The Case of Cremutius Cordus.” In Free Speech in Classical Antiquity,

384

Bibliography

edited by Ineke Sluiter and Ralph M. Rosen, 391-408. Leiden: E.J. Brill. McInerney, J. “Plutarch’s Manly Women.” 2003. In Andreia. Studies in Manliness and Courage in Classical Antiquity, edited by R.M. Rosen and I. Sluiter, 319-44. Leiden: E.J. Brill. McKechnie, P. 1999. “Manipulation of Themes in Quintus Curtius Rufus Book 10.” Historia 48: 44-60. Meadows, A.R. 1995. “Pausanias and the Historiography of Classical Sparta.” CQ 45: 92-113. Meier, Christian. 1980. Die Ohnmacht des allmächtigen Diktators Caesar. Drei biographische Skizzen. Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp. —. 1990. The Greek Discovery of Politics. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. —. 1995. Caesar, translated by David McLintock. London; New York: Harper Collins. Meister, Klaus. 1971. “Annibale in Sileno.” Maia 23: 3-9. —. 1975. Historische Kritik bei Polybios. Wiesbaden: Steiner. Mellor, Ronald. 1993. Tacitus. London; New York: Routledge. Mendels, Doron. 1984-1986. “Did Polybius Have Another View of the Aetolian League? A Note.” AncSoc 15-17: 63-73. Mikalson, John D. 2003. Herodotus and Religion in the Persian Wars. Chapel Hill; London: University of North Carolina Press. Millar, Fergus G.B. 1992. The Emperor in the Roman World. 2nd edn. London: Duckworth. —. 1993. The Roman Near East: 31 BC-AD 337, Cambridge. Mass.: Harvard University Press. Miller, W. 1914. Xenophon: Cyropaedia, Books I-IV. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Mitchell, Lynette G. 2001. “Euboean Io.” CQ 51: 339-52. Moles, John L. 1993. “Truth and Untruth in Herodotus and Thucydides.” In Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, edited by Ch. Gill and T.P. Wiseman, 88-121. Exeter: Exeter University Press. —. 1996. “Herodotus Warns the Athenians.” PLLS 9: 259-84. —. 2002. “Herodotus and Athens.” In Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002, 33-52. Momigliano, Arnaldo. 1990. The Classical Foundations of Modern Historiography. Berkeley: University of California Press. Morales, Helen. 2004. Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Morford, Mark. 1991. “How Tacitus Defined Liberty.” ANRW II 33.5: 3420-50.

The Children of Herodotus

385

Mørkholm, O. 1967. “The Speech of Agelaus of Naupactus, 217 B.C.” C&M 28: 240-53. —. 1974. “The Speech of Agelaus. Again.” Chiron 4: 127-32. Mortley, Raoul. 1996. The Idea of Universal History from Hellenistic Philosophy to Early Christian Historiography. Lewiston, NY: Mellen. Müller, Sabine. 2003. Maßnahmen der Herrschaftssicherung gegenüber der makedonischen Opposition bei Alexander dem Großen. Frankfurt a.M.: Peter Lang. Mulvey, L. 1975. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” Screen 16: 618. Munson, J.R.V. 1993. “Herodotus’ Use of Prospective Sentences and the Story of Rhampsinitus and the Thief in the Histories.” AJP 114: 27-44. Murray, Oswyn. 1970. “Hecataeus of Abdera and Pharaonic Kingship.” Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 56: 141-71. —. 1972. “Herodotus and Hellenistic Culture.” CQ 22: 200-13. —. 1987. “Herodotus and Oral History.” In Achaemenid History. Vol. 2: The Greek Sources: Proceedings of the 1984 Achaemenid History Workshop, edited by H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg and A. Khurt, 93-115. Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten. Myres, J.C. 1953. Herodotus. Father of History. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Nachtergael, Georges. 1977. Les Galates en Grèce et les Sôtéria de Delphes: Recherches d’histoire et d’épigraphie hellénistiques. Brussels: Palais de Academie. Nadon, Christopher. 2001. Xenophon’s Prince: Republic and Empire in the Cyropaedia. Berkeley: University of California Press. Nagle, D.B. 1996. “The Cultural Context of Alexander’s Speech at Opis.” TAPA 126: 151-72. Nagy, Gregory. 1987. “Herodotus the Logios.” Arethusa 20: 175-84. —. 1990. Pindar’s Homer: The Lyric Possession of an Epic Past. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Narasimhan, Sakuntala. 1990. Sati: A Study of Widow Burning in India. New Delhi: Viking. Nawotka, Krzysztof. 2007. Aleksander Wielki. Wrocáaw: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocáawskiego. Nenci, Guiseppe, ed. 1990. Hérodote et les peuples non Grecs (Entretiens sur l'Antiquité Classique 35). Vandœuvres; Genève: Foundation Hardt. Nicols, John. 1980. “Pliny and the Patronage of Communities.” Hermes 108, 365-85. —. 2006. “The Civic Religion and Civic Patronage.” In The Impact of Imperial Rome on Religions, Ritual and Religious Life in the Roman

386

Bibliography

Empire, edited by L. De Blois, P. Funke and J. Hahn, 36-50. Leiden: E.J. Brill. NiwiĔski, Andrzej. 1990. Bóstwa, kulty i rytuaáy staroĪytnego Egiptu. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo PRO-EGIPT. Nora, Pierre, ed. 1984-92. Les Lieux de mémoire. 3 vols. Paris: Gallimard. Novick, Peter. 1988. That Noble Dream: The ‘Objectivity Question’ and the American Historical Profession. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. O’Gorman, Ellen. 2000. Irony and Misreading in the Annals of Tacitus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ogden, Daniel. 2004. Aristomenes of Messene. Legends of Sparta’s Nemesis. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Ogilvie, R.M., and Ian Richmond. 1967. Cornelii Taciti De Vita Agricolae. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Olbrycht, Marek J. 2004. Aleksander Wielki i Ğwiat iraĔski, Rzeszów: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Rzeszowskiego. —. 2006-07. “Alexander the Great versus the Iranians: An Alternative Perspective.” Folia Orientalia 42/43: 159-72. Oliva, Pavel. 1971. Sparta and her Social Problems, translated by I. Urwin-Lewitová. Prague; Amsterdam: Academia; Hakkert. Olmstead, Albert T. 1973. Dzieje imperium perskiego, translated by Krzysztof Wolicki. Warszawa: PaĔstwowy Instytut Wydawniczy. Onians, Isabelle. 2005. Daŷŝin: What Ten Young Men Did. New York: New York University Press. Orwin, Clifford. 1994. The Humanity of Thucydides. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Pąchalska, Maria. 2003. “The Microgenetic Revolution: Reflections on a Recent Essay by Jason Brown.” Journal of Neuropsychoanalysis 4: 109-17. Pąchalska, Maria, and Bruce D. MacQueen. 2005. “Microgenetic Theory: A New Paradigm for Contemporary Neuropsychology and Neurolinguistics.” Acta Neuropsychologica 3: 1-18. Pagán, Victoria E. 2005. “The Pannonian Revolt in the Annals of Tacitus.” SLLRH 12: 414-22. Pailler, J.-M., and R. Sablayrolles, eds. 1994. Les années Domitien. Pallas 40. Papanikolau, Antonios D. 1973. Chariton-Studien. Untersuchungen zur Sprache und Chronologie der griechischen Romane. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Patterson, Orlando. 1982. Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.

The Children of Herodotus

387

Pearson, L. 1962. “The Pseudo-History of Messenia and its Authors.” Historia 11: 397-426. Pease, Samuel James. 1934. “Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, ‘The Compleat General.’” CJ 29: 436-40. Pédech, Paul. 1964. La méthode historique de Polybe. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. —. 1984. Historiens compagnons d’Alexandre: Callisthène, Onésicrite, Néarque, Ptolémée, Aristobule. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Pelling, Christopher. 1991. “Thucydides’ Archidamus and Herodotus’ Artabanus.” In Georgica. Greek Studies in Honour of George Cawkwell, edited by M.A. Flower, M. Toher, 120-42. London: Institute of Classical Studies. —. 1993. “Tacitus and Germanicus.” In Tacitus and the Tacitean Tradition, edited by T.J. Luce and A.J. Woodman, 59-85. Princeton: Princeton University Press. —. 1997. “East is East and West is West—Or Are They? National Stereotypes in Herodotus.” Histos 1 at www.dur.ac.uk/Classics/histos/ 1997/pelling.html. —. 2000. Literary Text and the Greek Historian. London; New York: Routledge. Penzer, Norman M. 1968. “Widow-Burning (Appendix I).” In The Ocean of Story, translated by C.H. Tawney, edited by N.M. Penzer, vol. 4, 255-72. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Percival, John. 1971. “Thucydides and the Uses of History.” G&R 18: 199-212. Perry, Ben E. 1967. The Ancient Romances: A Literary-Historical Account of their Origins. Berkeley: University of California Press. Pfeiffer, Rudolf. 1978. Geschichte der Klassischen Philologie. Von den Anfängen bis zum Ende des Hellenismus. 2nd edn. München: C.H. Beck. Picard, Olivier. 1979. Chalcis et la Confédération eubéenne. Étude de numismatique et d’histoire (IVe-Ier siècle). Athènes; Paris: École française d’Athènes. PigoĔ, Jakub. 2001. “Tacitus on Galba and Sejanus: Two Textual Notes (Hist. 1,49,2; Ann. 4,12,2).” Latomus 60: 631-6. —. 2003. “Thrasea Paetus, Libertas senatoria, and Tacitus’ Narrative Methods.” Electrum 9: 143-53. Pohlenz, M. 1937. Herodot: der erste Geschichtschreiber des Abendlandes. Leipzig: Teubner. Porter, J.I. 2001.“Ideals and Ruins. Pausanias, Longinus, and the Second Sophistic.” In Alcock, Cherry and Elsner 2001, 63-92.

388

Bibliography

Pöschl, Viktor. 1962/1986. “Der Historiker Tacitus.” In Pöschl 1986, 111126. [Originally published in 1962.] —. 1968. “Einleitung.” In Tacitus. Historien, translated by Walther Sontheimer. Stuttgart: Kröner. —. ed. 1986. Tacitus. 2nd edn. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Posener, Georges. 1936. La première domination Perse en Égypte. Recueil d’inscriptions hiéroglyphiques. Le Caire: Institut français d’archéologie orientale. Prandi, Luisa. 1985. Callistene. Uno storico tra Aristotele e i re macedoni. Milano: Jaca Books. —. 1988. “La critica storica di Strabone alla geografia di Erodoto.” In Geografia e storiografia nel mondo antico, edited by Marta Sordi, 5272. Milano: Vita e pensiero. Pratt, Mary L. 1992. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. London: Routledge. Price, Simon R.F. 1984. Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Prinz, Wilhelm. 1911. De Xenophontis Cyri Institutione. Göttingen: Dieterich. Pucci Ben-Zeev, M. 1995. “Seleucus of Rhosos and Hyrcanus II.” JSJ 26, 2: 113-121. Puskás, Ildikó. 1977-78. “On an Ethnographical topos in the Classical Literature (the Gold-digging Ants).” AUSB 5-6: 73-87. Questa, Cesare. 1963. Studi sulle fonti degli Annales di Tacito. 2nd edn. Roma: Edizioni dell’Ateneo. Raaflaub, Kurt A. 1979. “Polis Tyrannos. Zur Entstehung einer politischen Metapher.” In Arktouros. Hellenic Studies Presented to Bernard M.W. Knox, edited by G.W. Bowersock, W. Burkert and M.C.J. Putnam, 237-52. Berlin; New York: W. de Gruyter. —. 1987a. “Grundzüge, Ziele und Ideen der Opposition gegen die Kaiser im 1. Jh. n. Chr.: Versuch einer Standortbestimmung.” In Opposition et résistances à l’empire d’Auguste à Trajan (Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique 33), edited by Adalberto Giovannini, 1-55. Vandœuvres; Genève: Fondation Hardt. —. 1987b. “Herodotus, Political Thought, and the Meaning of History.” Arethusa 20, 1/2 (Herodotus and the Invention of History, edited by D. Boedeker): 221-48. —. 2000. “Poets, Lawgivers, and the Beginnings of Political Reflection in Archaic Greece.” In The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman

The Children of Herodotus

389

Political Thought, edited by Christopher Rowe and Malcolm Schofield, 23-59. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 2001. “Political Thought, Civic Responsibility, and the Greek Polis.” In Agon, Logos, Polis: The Greek Achievement and Its Aftermath, edited by Johann P. Arnason and Peter Murphy, 72-117. Stuttgart: Steiner. —. 2002a. “Herodot und Thukydides: Persischer Imperialismus im Lichte der athenischen Sizilienpolitik.” In Widerstand — Anpassung — Integration: die griechische Staatenwelt und Rom. Festschrift für Jürgen Deininger, edited by Norbert Ehrhardt and Linda-Marie Günther, 11-40. Stuttgart: Steiner. —. 2002b. “Philosophy, Science, Politics: Herodotus and the Intellectual Trends of His Time.” In Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002, 149-68. —. 2004. The Discovery of Freedom in Ancient Greece. First English edn., revised and updated from the German. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. —. 2006. “Thucydides on Democracy and Oligarchy.” In Rengakos and Tsakmakis 2006, 189-222. —. Forthcoming. “Ulterior Motives in Ancient Historiography: What Exactly, and Why?” In Intentionale Geschichte—Spinning Time, edited by Lin Foxhall, Hans-Joachim Gehrke and Nino Luraghi. Stuttgart: Steiner. Raaflaub, Kurt, and L.J. Samons II. 1990. “Opposition to Augustus.” In Between Republic and Empire: Interpretations of Augustus and His Principate, edited by Kurt Raaflaub and Mark Toher, 417-54. Berkeley: University of California Press. Rabinowitz, P. 1987. Before Reading: Narrative Conventions and the Politics of Interpretation. Ithaca; London: Cornell University Press. Radt, Stefan. 2002-06. Strabons Geographika. Vols. 1-4: Text und Übersetzung Bücher I-XVII. Vol. 5: Abgekürzt zitierte Literatur. Buch I-IV: Kommentar. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Rajak, T. 1984. “Was There a Roman Charter for the Jews?” JRS 74: 10723. Ranke, Leopold von. 1883. Weltgeschichte. Vol. 3, 2: Das altrömische Kaiserthum. Mit kritischen Erörterungen zur alten Geschichte. 1st and 2nd edn. Leipzig: Duncker & Humblot. Rankin, H.D. 1969. “‘Eating People is Right’: Petronius 141 and a ǭǵǩǨǫ.” Hermes 97: 381-4. Rao, Sakuntala. 1932-33. “Suttee.” Annals of the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute 14: 218-40.

390

Bibliography

Rawlings, Hunter R. III. 1981. The Structure of Thucydides’ History. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Ray, J.D. 1988. “Egypt 525-404 B.C.” In CAH2, vol. 4, 254-86. Rebenich, Stefan. 1997. “Historical Prose.” In Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in the Hellenistic Period 330 B.C.-A.D.400, edited by S.E. Porter, 265-339. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Reber, K., M.G. Hansen and P. Ducrey. 2004. “Euboia.” In An Inventory of Archaic and Classical Poleis, edited by Herman Mogens Hansen and Thomas Heine Nielsen, 643-63. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Redfield, James M. 1994. Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hector. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Reichel, M. 1995. “Xenophon’s Cyropaedia and the Hellenistic Novel.” In Groningen Colloquia on the Novel, ed. H. Hofmann, vol. 4, 1-20. Groningen: Egbert Forsten. Reinhold, M. 1985. “Human Nature as Cause in Ancient Historiography.” In The Craft of the Ancient Historian: Essays in Honor of Chester G. Starr, edited by J.W. Eadie and J. Ober, 21-40. Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Rengakos, Antonios. 2006. “Thucydides’ Narrative: The Epic and Herodotean Heritage.” In: Rengakos and Tsakmakis 2006, 279-300. Rengakos, Antonios, and Antonios Tsakmakis, eds. 2006. Brill’s Companion to Thucydides. Leiden; Boston: E.J. Brill. Richlin, Amy. 1992. “Reading Ovid’s Rapes.” In Pornography and Representation in Greece and Rome, edited by A. Richlin, 158-79. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Richter, Heinz-Dietmar. 1987. Untersuchungen zur hellenistischen Historiographie. Die Vorlagen des Pompeius Trogus für die Darstellung der nachalexandrinischen hellenistischen Geschichte (Iust. 13-40). Frankfurt a.M.: Peter Lang. Riemann, Karl-August. 1967. Das herodoteische Geschichtswerk in der Antike. Diss. München. Rigsby, Kent J. 1996. Asylia. Territorial Inviolability in the Hellenistic World. Berkeley: California University Press. Roduit, A. 2003. “Le discours d’Agrippa II dans La Guerre juive de Flavius Josephe.” REJ 162: 365-402 Rogkotis, Zacharias. 2006. “Thucydides and Herodotus: Aspects of their Intertextual Relationship.” In Rengakos and Tsakmakis 2006, 57-86. Rohde, Erwin. 1914. Der griechische Roman und seine Vorläufer. 3rd edn. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel. Roisman, Joseph, ed. 2003a. Brill’s Companion to Alexander the Great. Leiden; Boston: E.J. Brill.

The Children of Herodotus

391

—. 2003b. “Honor in Alexander’s Campaign.” In Roisman 2003 a, 279321. —. 2003c. “The Rhetoric of Courage in the Athenian Orators.” In Rosen and Sluiter 2003, 127-44. —. 2005. The Rhetoric of Manhood. Masculinity in the Attic Orators. Berkeley: University of California Press. Römer, Franz. 1984, 1985. “Tacitus 4. Bericht.” Anzeiger für die Altertumswissenschaft 37: 153-208; 38: 129-204. —. 1999. “Kontrastfiguren in den Annalen des Tacitus.” AAntHung 39: 297-312. Romilly, Jaquelline de. 1966. “Thucydide et l’idée de progrès.” ASNP ser. 2, 35: 143-91. —. 1990. La construction de la vérité chez Thucydide. Paris: Julliard. Rood, Tim. 1998a. “Thucydides and his Predecessors.” Histos 2: 1-30 at www.dur.ac.uk/Classics/histos/1988/Rood.html. —. 1998b. Thucydides: Narrative and Explanation. Oxford: Clarendon Press. —. 2006. “Objectivity and Authority: Thucydides’ Historical Method.” In Rengakos and Tsakmakis 2006, 225-49. Rosen, R.M., and I. Sluiter, eds. 2003. Andreia. Studies in Manliness and Courage in Classical Antiquity. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Rosenstein, Nathan, and Robert Morstein-Marx, eds. 2006. A Companion to the Roman Republic. Malden, Mass.; Oxford: Blackwell. Rösler, W. 2002. “The Histories and Writing.” In Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002, 97-116. Ross, Donald O., Jr. 1973. “The Tacitean Germanicus.” YCS 23: 209-27. Rossignoli, Benedetta. 2004. L’Adriatico greco. Culti e miti minori. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider.

Rubiés, Joan-Pau. 1994. “Nero in Tacitus and Nero in Tacitism: The Historian’s Craft.” In Reflections of Nero: Culture, History, and Representation, edited by JaĞ Elsner and Jamie Masters, 29-47. London: Duckworth. Rubincan, C. 1987. “The Organization and Composition of Diodorus’ Bibliotheke.” EMC 31: 313-28. Rudich, Vasily. 1993. Political Dissidence under Nero: The Price of Dissimulation. London: Routledge. —. 1997. Dissidence and Literature under Nero: The Price of Rhetoricization. London: Routledge. Rutland, Linda W. 1987. “The Tacitean Germanicus. Suggestions for a Re-Evaluation.” RhM 130: 153-64. Rutledge, Steven H. 1998. “Trajan and Tacitus’ Audience: Reader Reception of Annals 1-2.” Ramus 27: 141-59.

392

Bibliography

—. 2001. Imperial Inquisitions: Prosecutors and Informants from Tiberius to Domitian. London: Routledge. Rutz, W. 1983. “Seditionum Procellae: Livianisches in der Darstellung der Meuterei von Opis bei Curtius Rufus.” In Livius: Werk und Rezeption: Festschrift für Erich Burck zum 80. Geburtstag, edited by E. Lefevre and E. Olshausen, 399-409. München: C.H. Beck. Ryberg, Inez Scott. 1942. “Tacitus’ Art of Innuendo.” TAPA 73: 383-404. Ryder, Timothy T.B. 1965. Koine Eirene: General Peace and Local Independence in Ancient Greece. London; New York: Oxford University Press. Rzepka, Jacek. 2000. “Poleis czáonkowskie w polityce zagranicznej Związku Etolskiego w okresie hellenistycznym.” Przegląd Historyczny 91: 157-80. —. 2004. “Philip II of Macedon and the Garrison of Naupactus. A ReInterpretation of Theopompus FGrHist 115 F 235.” Tyche 19: 157-66. —. 2005. “Koine Ekklesia in Diodorus Siculus and the General Assemblies of the Macedonians.” Tyche 20: 119-42. —. 2006. “Appendix on the Malians (FGrH III B XLIX) (483).” In Brill’s New Jacoby, edited by Ian Worthington. Leiden: Brill Online. —. 2007. “Titormus of Aetolia and his Lonelines.” In Sport and the Construction of Identities / Sport und Identitätskonstruktion: Proceedings of the XIth International CESH-Congress, Vienna, September 17th-20th 2006, edited by B. Kratzmüller et al., 222-9. Wien: Turia+Kant. Sacks, Kenneth S. 1975. “Polybius’ Other View of Aetolia.” JHS 95: 92106 —. 1981. Polybius on the Writing of History. Berkeley: University of California Press. Said, Edward W. 1978. Orientalism. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Said, Suzanne. 2001. “The Discourse on Identity in Greek Rhetoric from Isocrates to Aristides.” In Malkin 2001a, 275-99. Salmenkivi, E. 2007a. “Kirja antiikin aikana.” [“The Book in Antiquity.”] In Kivistö et al. 2007, 46-55. —. 2007b. “Luku- ja kirjoitustaito antiikin aikana.” [“Reading and Writing Skills in Antiquity.”] In Kivistö et al. 2007, 56-67. Sanders L.J. 1987. Dionysius I of Syracuse and Greek Tyranny (London: Croom Helm. Sansone, David. 1985. “The Date of Herodotus’ Publication.” ICS 10: 1-9. Santoro L’Hoir, Francesca. 2006. Tragedy, Rhetoric, and the Historiography of Tacitus’ Annales. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

The Children of Herodotus

393

Schachermeyr, Fritz. 1973. Alexander der Grosse: Das Problem seiner Persönlichkeit und seines Wirken. Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Schanz, Martin, and Carl Hosius. 1935. Geschichte der römischen Literatur bis zum Gesetzgebungswerk des Kaisers Justinian. Vol. 2: Die römische Literatur in der Zeit der Monarchie bis auf Hadrian. 4th edn., revised by C. Hosius. München: C.H. Beck. Schepens, Guido. 2007. “History and Historia: Inquiry in the Greek Historians.” In A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, edited by J. Marincola, vol. 1, 39-55. Oxford: Blackwell. Schmal, Stephan. 2005. Tacitus. Hildesheim: Georg Olms. Schmid, Walter T. 1992. On Manly Courage: A Study of Plato’s Laches. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Schmitzer, Ulrich. 2000. Velleius Paterculus und das Interesse an der Geschichte im Zeitalter des Tiberius. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag C. Winter. Schneider, Pierre. 2004. L’Éthiopie et l’Inde. Interférences et confusions aux extrémités du monde antique. Rome: École française de Rome. Schöll, A. 1855. “Herodots Verlesungen.” Philologus 10: 410-31. Scholten, Joseph B. 2000. The Politics of Plunder. Aitolians and their Koinon in the Early Hellenistic Era, 279-217B.C., Berkeley: California University Press. Schottlaender, Rudolf. 1975. “Sine ira et studio. Ein Tacituswort im Lichte der römischen Prozessordnung.” Klio 57: 217-26. Schuller, Wolfgang. 1977. Polis Tyrannos. Konstanz: Universitätsverlag. Schürer, Emil. 1973-87. The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175 B.C.-A.D. 135). Revised edn. by G. Vermes, F. Millar and M. Goodman. 3 vols. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Schwartz, D. 1984. “Josephus on the Jewish Constitutions and Community.” SCI 7: 30-52 Schwartz, Eduard. 1894. “Aineias 3.” RE I 1: 1019-21. —. 1896. “Archemachos 4.” RE II 1: 456. —. 1899. “Cassius Dio Cocceianus.” RE III 2: 1684-722. —. 1905. “Diodoros von Agyrion.” RE V 1: 663-704. —. 1929. Das Geschichtswerk des Thukydides. 2nd edn. Bonn: F. Cohen. —. 1943. Fünf Vorträge über den Griechischen Roman. Das Romanhafte in der erzählenden Literatur der Griechen. Berlin: W. de Gruyter. Schwartz, Seth. 1990. Josephus and Judaean Politics. Leiden: E.J. Brill. —. 2001. Imperialism and Jewish Society: 200 B.C.E. to 640 C.E., Princeton: Princeton University Press.

394

Bibliography

Scullion, Scott. 2006. “Herodotus and Greek Religion.” In Dewald and Marincola 2006, 192-209. Segrè, Mario. 1928. “La fonte di Pausania per la storia dei diadochi.” Historia 2: 217-37 Seibert, Jakob. 1981. Alexander der Grosse. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. —. 1985. Die Eroberung des Perserreiches durch Alexander den Großen auf kartographischer Grundlage. Wiesbaden: Reichert. —. 1993. Forschungen zu Hannibal. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. —. 1997. Hannibal: Feldherr und Staatsmann. Mainz: P. von Zabern. Sharma, Arvind, et al. 1988. Sati. Historical and Phenomenological Essays. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Shaw, V., ed. 1983. The Short Story. London: Longman. Shero, L.R. 1938. “Aristomenes the Messenian.” TAPA 69: 500-31. Sherwin-White, Adrian N. 1973. The Roman Citizenship. 2nd edn. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Shotter, David C.A. 1968. “Tacitus, Tiberius and Germanicus.” Historia 17: 194-214. —. 1991. “Tacitus’ View of Emperors and the Principate.” ANRW II 33.5: 3263-331. Siikala, A-L. 2000. “Variation and Genre as Practice: Strategies for Reproducing Oral History in the Southern Cook Islands.” In Honko 2000, 215-42. Simpson, R.H. 1959. “Abbreviations of Hieronymus in Diodorus.” AJP 80: 370-79. Šišova, Iulia A. 1975. “O statuse penestov.” VDI 133: 39-57. Slings, S.R. 2002. “Oral Strategies in the Language of Herodotus.” In Bakker, de Jong and van Wees 2002, 53-77. Smallwood, E. Mary. 1970. Philoni Alexandrini Legatio ad Gaium. (Introduction, Translation and Commentary). 2nd rev. edn., Leiden: E.J. Brill. —. 1976. The Jews under Roman Rule: from Pompey to Diocletian. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Smart, J.D. 1986. “Thucydides and Hellanicus.” In Past Perspectives. Studies in Greek and Roman Historical Writing, edited by I.S. Moxton, J.D. Smart and A.J. Woodman, 19-36. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sordi, Marta. 1983. “Alessandro Magno e l’eredità di Siracusa.” Aevum 57, 1: 14-23.

The Children of Herodotus

395

—. 1997. “La Grecia degli ‘ethne’: genti e regioni settentrionali e centrali.” In I Greci. Storia, cultura, arte, società, edited by S. Settis, vol. II 2, 87-108. Torino: Einaudi. Southern, Pat. 1997. Domitian: Tragic Tyrant. London: Routledge. Soverini, Paolo. 1989. “Impero e imperatori nell’opera di Plinio il Giovane: Aspetti e problemi del rapporto con Domiziano e Traiano.” ANRW II 33.1: 515-54. Spalinger, Anthony John. 1978. “Addenda to the Reign of King Chabbash: An Interpretation.” ZÄS 105: 142-54. Spawforth, Antony. 2001. “Shades of Greekness: A Lydian Case Study.” In Malkin 2001a, 375-400. Stadter, Philip A. 1992. “Herodotus and the Athenian Arche.” ASNP, ser. 3, 22: 781-809. —. 1993. “The Form and Content of Thucydides’ Pentecontaetia (1.89117).” GRBS 34: 35-72. —. 1997. “Herodotus and the North Carolina Oral Narrative Tradition.” Histos 1 at www.dur.ac.uk/Classics/histos/1997/stadter.html. Stahl, Hans P. 2003. Thucydides: Man’s Place in History. Swansea: The Classical Press of Wales. Stahl, M. 1983. “Tyrannis und das Problem der Macht. Die Geschichten Herodots über Kypselos und Periander von Korinth.” Hermes 111: 202-20. Starr, R.J. 1981. “The Scope and Genre of Velleius’ History.” CQ 31: 16274. Steidle, Wolf. 1951. Sueton und die antike Biographie. München: C.H. Beck. Stein, Otto. 1932. “Megasthenes.” RE XV 1: 230-326. Stekelenburg, A.V. van. 1976. “Lucan and Cassius Dio as Heirs to Livy: The Speech of Julius Caesar at Placentia.” AC 19: 43-57. Stephens, S. 1970. “Who Read Ancient Novels?” In Tatum 1994, 405-18. Strasburger, Hermann. 1955. “Herodot und das perikleische Athen.” Historia 4: 1-25. —. 1972. Homer und die Geschichtsschreibung (SBHAW 1972, 1). Heidelberg: Carl Winter Universitätsverlag. Strauss, L. 1939. “The Spirit of Sparta or the Taste of Xenophon.” Social Research 6: 502-36. Syme, Ronald. 1939. The Roman Revolution. Oxford: Oxford University Press. —. 1958. Tacitus. Oxford: Clarendon Press. —. 1959. “Livy and Augustus.” HSCP 64: 27-87.

396

Bibliography

—. 1964. Sallust. Berkeley: University of California Press. [Reprinted with a new foreword by Ronald Mellor, 2002.] —. 1983. “The Year 33 in Tacitus and Dio.” Athenaeum 61: 3-23. Tarn, William W. 1948. Alexander the Great. Vols. 1-2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tarpin, M. 2002. “L’héroïque et le quotidien : Hannibal et les autres dans les Alpes.” AV 7-17. Tatum, James. 1989 Xenophon’s Imperial Fiction: On the Education of Cyrus. Princeton: Princeton University Press. —. ed. 1994. The Search for the Ancient Novel. Baltimore; London: Johns Hopkins University Press. Tatum, W. Jeffrey. 2006. “The Final Crisis (69-44).” In Rosenstein and Morstein-Marx 2006, 190-211. Taylor, Charles. 1989. Sources of the Self. The Making of the Modern Identity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Thakur, Upendra. 1963. The History of Suicide in India. An Introduction. Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal. Thesleff, H. 1966. “Scientific and Technical Style in Early Greek Prose.” Arctos 4: 89-113. Thomas, Rosalind. 1989. Oral Tradition and Written Record in Classical Athens. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 1992. Literacy and Orality in Ancient Greece. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 2002. Herodotus in Context: Ethnography, Science and the Art of Persuasion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Thompson, Edward. 1928. Suttee. A Historical and Philosophical Enquiry into the Hindu Rite of Widow-Burning. London: George Allen & Unwin. Too, Y.L. 1998. “Xenophon’s Cyropaedia: Disfiguring the Pedagogical State.” In Pedagogy and Power: Rhetorics of Classical Learning, edited by Y.L. Too and N. Livingstone, 282-302. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tritle, Lawrence A. 1992. “Eretria, Argoura and the Road to Tamynai.” Klio 74: 131-65. Tsakmakis, Antonis 1995. “Thucydides and Herodotus: Remarks on the Attitude of the Historian Regarding Literature.” SCI 14: 17-32. Tuplin, Christopher J. 1985. “Imperial Tyranny: Some Reflections on a Classical Greek Political Metaphor.” In Crux: Essays in Greek History Presented to G.E.M. de Ste. Croix, edited by P.A. Cartledge and F.D. Harvey, 348-375. London: Duckworth.

The Children of Herodotus

397

—. 1990. “Persian Décor in the Cyropaedia: Some Observations.” In Achaemenid History. Vol. 5: The Roots of the European Tradition: Proceedings of the 1987 Groningen Achaemenid History Workshop, edited by H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg and J.W. Drijvers, 17-30. Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten. —. ed. 2004. Xenophon and his World. Stuttgart: Steiner. Turner, Eric G. 1952. Athenian Books in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries B.C. London: H.K. Lewis. Ungern-Sternberg, Jürgen von. 2004. “The Crisis of the Republic.” In The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Republic, edited by Harriet I. Flower, 89-109. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Urbach, E.E. 1959. “The Rabbinical Laws of Idolatry in the Second and Third Centuries in the Light of Archaeological and Historical Facts.” IEJ 9: 149-65, 229-45. Urban, Ralf. 1971. Historische Untersuchungen zum Domitianbild des Tacitus. Diss. München. Vansina, Jan. 1985. Oral Tradition as History. London: Currey. Vernant, Jean-Pierre. 1991. Mortals and Immortals: Collected Essays, edited by F.I. Zeitlin. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Vlachos, Angelos S. 1970. Partialités chez Thucydide. Athènes: Institut français d’ Athènes. Vliet, Edward Ch.L. van der. 1977. Strabo over Landen, Volken en Steden, bezien tegen de historische en sociale achtergronden van zijn leven en werken. Assen; Amsterdam: Van Gorcum. —. 1984. “L’ethnographie de Strabon: idéologie ou tradition?” In Strabone. Contributi allo studio della personalità e dell’opera, edited by Francesco Prontera, vol. 1, 27-86. Perugia: Università degli Studi. Vofchuk, Rosalia C. 1988. “The Woman of India as Pictured by Greek and Latin Authors.” Annals of the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute 69: 141-54. Vogt, Joseph. 1936/1969. “Tacitus und die Unparteilichkeit des Historikers.” Würzburger Studien 9: 1-20. [Reprinted in Pöschl 1969, 39-59.] Walbank, Frank William. 1957, 1967, 1979. A Historical Commentary on Polybius. 3 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press. —. 1972. Polybius. Berkeley: California University Press. Walker, Andrew D. 1993. “Enargeia and the Spectator in Greek Historiography.” TAPA 123: 353-77 Walker, Keith G. 2004. Ancient Eretria. A Political and Social History from the Earliest Times to 490 BC. London; New York: Routledge.

398

Bibliography

Wallace, R.W. 1995. “Speech, Song and Text, Public and Private. Evolutions in Communications Media and Fora in Fourth-Century Athens.” In Die athenische Demokratie im 4. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Vollendung oder Verfall einer Verfassungsform?, edited by W. Eder, 199-217. Stuttgart: Steiner. Wallace, William P. 1947. “The Demes of Eretria.” Hesperia 16: 115-46. —. 1956. The Euboian League and its Coinage. New York: American Numismatic Society. Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew. 1983. Suetonius. London: Duckworth. Walser, Gerold. 1951. Rom, das Reich und die fremden Völker in der Geschichtsschreibung der frühen Kaiserzeit. Studien zur Glaubwürdigkeit des Tacitus. Diss. Basel. Baden-Baden: Verlag für Kunst und Wissenschaft. Waters, Kenneth H. 1985. Herodotos the Historian: His Problems, Methods, and Originality. London: Croom Helm. Watson, J., ed. 2001. Speaking Volumes: Orality and Literacy in the Greek and Roman World. Leiden: E.J. Brill. Webb, R. (1999) “Ekphrasis Ancient and Modern: The Invention of a Genre.” Word and Image 15: 7-18. WĊcowski, Marek. 1996. “Ironie et histoire: le discours de Soclès (Hérodote V 92).” AncSoc 27: 205-58. —. 2004a. “The Hedgehog and the Fox. Form and Meaning in the Prologue of Herodotus.” JHS 124: 143-64. —. 2004b. “The auxesis of Athens. A Forgotten Aspect of the Athenian Ideology of the Fifth Century BC.” [In Polish, with a summary in English.] In Ideologia i propaganda w staroĪytnoĞci. Materiaáy konferencji Komisji Historii StaroĪytnej PTH, Rzeszów 12-14 wrzeĞnia 2000, Rzeszów 2004, edited by L. Morawiecki and P. Berdowski, 10124. Rzeszów: Fraza. Wees, Hans van. 2003. “Conquerors and Serfs: Wars of Conquest and Forced Labour in Archaic Greece.” In Helots and their Masters in Laconia and Messenia: Histories, Ideologies, Structures, eited by N. Luraghi and S. Alcock, 33-80. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies; Harvard University Press. Weinberger-Thomas, Catherine. 2000. Ashes of Immortality: WidowBurning in India, translated by J. Mehlman and D.G. White. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Welleck, Rene, and Austin Warren. 1970. Theory of Literature. 3rd edn. London: Penguin Books. Wendel, Carl. 1936. “Nikanor (26).” RE XVII 1: 273f.

The Children of Herodotus

399

West, Stephanie. 1985. “Herodotus’ Epigraphical Interests.” CQ 35: 278305. Wheeldon, M. J. 1989. “‘True Stories’: The Reception of Historiography in Antiquity.” In History as Text: The Writing of Ancient History, edited by Averil Cameron, 33-63. London: Duckworth. Whitehead, David. 1990. Aineias the Tactician: How to Survive under Siege. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Whitmarsh, Timothy. 2001. “‘Greece is the World’: Exile and Identity in the Second Sophistic.” In Being Greek under Rome. Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic and the Development of Empire, edited by S. Goldhill, 269-305. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 2005. The Second Sophistic. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wiedemann, T.E.J. 2000. “Tiberius to Nero.” In CAH2, vol. 10, 198-255. Wiesehöfer, J. 1980. “Die ‘Freunde’ und ‘Wohltäter’ des Großkönigs.” Studia Iranica 9: 7-21. Wilcken, Ulrich. 1906. “Ein Sosylos-Fragment in der Würzburger Papyrussammlung.” Hermes 41: 103-41. —. 1907. “Zu Sosylos.” Hermes 42: 510-12. —. 1967. Alexander the Great, translated by G.C. Richards. London: W.W. Norton. [Originally published in German in 1931]. Wille, Günther. 1983. Der Aufbau der Werke des Tacitus. Amsterdam: Grüner. Williams, Mary Frances. 1997. “Four Mutinies: Tacitus Annals 1.16-30; 1.31-49 and Ammianus Marcellinus Res Gestae 20.4.9-20.5.7; 24.3.18.” Phoenix 51: 44-74. Wilson Nightingale, Andrea. 2000. “Sages, Sophists, and Philosophers: Greek Wisdom Literature.” In Literature in Greek and Roman Worlds, edited by Oliver Taplin, 156-91. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Winterling, Aloys. 2003. Caligula. Eine Biographie. München: C.H. Beck. Winternitz, Moriz. 1920. Die Frau in den indischen Religionen. Vol. 1: Die Frau im Brahmanismus. Leipzig: Curt Kabitzsch. Wiseman, Timothy P. 1997. “Thucydides on logographoi: A Modern Parallel?” Histos 1 at www.dur.ac.uk/Classics/histos/1997/wiseman. html. Witkowski, Stanisáaw. 1925, 1926, 1927. Historiografja grecka i nauki pokrewne. 3 vols. Kraków: Polska Akademja UmiejĊtnoĞci. Wojciechowska Agnieszka. 2004. “Czarna legenda Kambyzesa.” Nowy Filomata 8: 45-54. Woodman Anthony J. 1975. “Questions of Date, Genre and Style in Velleius: Some Literary Answers.” CQ 25: 272-306.

400

Bibliography

—. 1977. Velleius Paterculus, The Tiberian Narrative (2.94-131). Edited with an Introduction and Commentary. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 1988. Rhetoric in Classical Historiography. Four Studies. London: Croom Helm. —. 1989. “Tacitus’ Obituary of Tiberius.” CQ 39: 197-205. [Reprinted in Woodman 1998, 155-67.] —. 1998. Tacitus Reviewed. Oxford: Clarendon Press. —. 2006. “Mutiny and Madness: Tacitus Annals 1.16-49.” Arethusa 39: 303-29. Woodman, Anthony J., and Ronald H. Martin. 1996. The Annals of Tacitus, Book 3. Edited with a Commentary. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wooliscroft, David J. and Brigitta Hoffmann. 2006. Rome’s First Frontier: the Flavian Occupation of Northern Scotland. Stroud: Tempus Books. Wüst, Fritz R. 1953a. “Die Meuterei von Opis.” Historia 2: 418-31. —. 1953b. “Die Rede des Alexanders des Großen in Opis, Arrian VII 910.” Historia 2: 177-88. —. 1954. “Zur Meuterei von Opis.” Historia 3: 418-28. Yerushalmi, Yosef H. 1982. Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Yoyotte, Jean, Pascal Charvet and Stéphane Gompertz. 1997. Strabon. Le voyage en Égypte. Un regard romain. Paris: NiL Ed. Yule, Henry, and Arthur C. Burnell. 1886. Hobson-Jobson. The Dictionary of Anglo-Indian Colloquial Words and Phrases. London: John Murray. Zachariae, Theodor. 1904-05. “Zur Indischen Witwenverbrennung.” Zeitschrift des Vereins für Volkskunde 14: 198-210, 302-13, 395-407; 15: 74-90. [Reprinted in eiusdem Opera Minora, ed. by C. Vogel, 54599. Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1977.] Zadorojnyi, A.V. 1998. “Thucydides’ Nicias and Homer’s Agamemnon.” CQ 48: 298-303. Zambrini, Andrea. 1982-85. “Gli Indiká di Megastene.” ASNP 12: 71-149; 15: 781-853. Zanker, Graham. 1981. “Enargeia in the Ancient Criticism of Poetry.” RhM 124: 297-311. Zeitlin, Froma. 1994. “The Artful Eye: Vision, Ecphrasis and Spectacle in Euripidean Theatre.” In Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, edited by Simon Goldhill and Robin Osborne, 138-96. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

INDEX OF ANCIENT PERSONAL NAMES

Achilles Tatius 336, 344 Acilius, Gaius 211f., 214 Aelian (Aelianus Tacticus) 95, 98 Aelian (Claudius Aelianus) 20, 22, 25, 29 Aelius Aristides 163, 169, 174 Aeneas Tacticus 92-101 passim Aeschylus 48, 112, 114, 181, 184f. Agatharchides of Cnidus 19n., 20, 155 Agelaus of Naupactus 218-30 Agricola, Gnaeus Iulius 263, 265f., 274, 289, 304-16 passim Agrippa II 174 Agrippina the Elder 302 Agrippina the Younger 298 Alcibiades 62 Alexander the Great 18f., 22, 24, 30, 119f., 181-6 passim, 202, 208, 214, 231-52 passim Amasis 26-9 Anaximander 159 Apollodorus of Athens 149, 152-5 Appian 207 Aquila Romanus 326 Archemachus 102-8 passim Aristarchus of Samothrace 147, 154 Aristeas of Proconnesus 22 Aristobulus of Cassandreia 120, 134n., 135-8 , 186 Aristodama of Smyrna 220-2 Aristomenes the Messenian 188-94, 197, 201-5 Aristophanes 332f. Aristotle (of Stagira, the philosopher) 4, 18, 23, 56f., 99f., 116f., 189, 330-2, 335, 344 Aristotle of Chalcis 117f. Arminius 324

Arrian of Nicomedia 98, 107, 160, 186, 231-52 passim Arruntius, Lucius 283f. Artaxerxes III 29f. Astyages 85n., 89n. Athenaeus 105, 115 Augustus 163, 172, 174, 255-7, 259-61, 267, 279, 305, 315 Brennus 221, 227 Burrus, Afranius 298f. Calgacus 307, 314 Caligula, see Gaius Caligula Callimachus 19, 25 Callines 247, 249 Callisthenes 149, 152, 154 Calpurnius Piso Frugi, see Piso Frugi, Lucius Calpurnius Cambyses 26-33 passim, 71n., 72 Cassius Dio 264-6, 290, 294, 296, 299, 302 Cassius Hemina 211, 216 Catiline (Lucius Sergius Catilina) 323 Cato the Elder 211, 215, 217, 218, 317, 320 Cephalion 160 Ceteus 120, 122-4, 130f., 136, 139f. Chaereas 218, 211 Chariton 336, 338, 340, 344f. Cicero 17, 136, 138, 139n., 206, 209, 215, 217, 258, 268f., 31722 Cincius Alimentus 211, 213 Claudius (Roman emperor) 174, 178, 255, 298f., 305 Claudius Quadrigarius 211, 213, 217 Cleon 61

402

Index of Ancient Personal Names

Clitarchus 133 Coelius Antipater 211-6 Commodus 264-6 Craterus 236, 238, 251 Cremutius Cordus 257 Ctesias of Cnidus 19, 21f., 156 Curtius Rufus 231-52 passim Cyaxares 82f., 91 Cyrus the Great 69-91 passim Darius I 17 Darius III 231 Demetrius of Scepsis 152, 154 Dio of Prusa (Chrysostomus) 19 Diodorus of Sicily 119-43 passim, 148, 156, 186, 233, 235, 237f., 240f., 245-7 Dionysius I of Syracuse 181-6 passim Dionysius of Halicarnassus 4, 320n. Dionysius of Miletus 48n. Dionysius Periegetes 24 Domitian 253f., 258, 260-3, 265-7, 273f., 312, 315f. Drusus (son of Tiberius) 288, 292f., 295f., 299 Ephorus of Cyme 147-9, 153, 15860 Eprius Marcellus 276 Eratosthenes 152-4, 158-60 Eumenes of Cardia 120, 131f. Euripides 59, 181, 184 Eutropius 321f. Fabius Pictor 211f., 215, 317 Flavius Josephus 162-80 passim, 190 Florus (Lucius Annaeus Florus) 321-3, 325-8 Gaius Caligula 164, 168, 171, 176, 255, 302 Galba 277-9, 285, 298 Germanicus 282f., 287-303 passim Gobryas 78-80, 86-91 Hadrian 253f. Hamilcar Barca 206, 212 Hannibal 206-18 passim Harpalus 181f.

Harpocration 104f., 117f. Hasdrubal (son-in-law of Hamilcar Barca) 212 Hasdrubal Barca (son of Hamilcar Barca) 212 Hecataeus of Abdera 20 Hecataeus of Miletus 18, 159 Heliodorus 336f., 345 Hellanicus of Lesbos 35, 48, 54, 156 Hephaestion 236 Herodian 178 Herodotus 1-16 passim, 17-25 passim, 26-33 passim, 34-57 passim, 59, 92-4, 99-101, 114, 116, 136-9, 144-61 passim, 164, 248, 269, 329f., 335, 341f. Hesiod 110f., 117 Hieronymus of Cardia 130-2, 141f., 226n. Homer 4, 6, 8f., 14, 16, 24, 39, 4750, 53f., 58-68 passim, 107, 110-3, 116f., 153f., 158f., 330, 341, 345 Hyrcanus II 176f. Isidorus of Sevilla 20, 22, 24f. Josephus, see Flavius Josephus Julius Caesar 258f., 304-16 passim, 318 Justinus 219-30 passim, 231-52 passim Juvenal 218 Lepidus, Marcus Aemilius 266, 273, 275f. Livy 206f., 213-8, 222, 257, 269, 293, 295 Longus 336f., 345 Lucian of Samosata 20, 24f., 319, 340 Marius, Gaius 324 Maroboduus 321 Megasthenes 19-22, 24 Mela, Pomponius 19, 24 Menander 332 Nearchus 19f., 149, 152, 154 Nepos, Cornelius 217

The Children of Herodotus Nero 253, 255, 260, 262, 265, 281f. Nerva 253, 262, 275f. Nicander of Colophon 220f. Nicias 58-68 passim Nicolaus of Damascus 136-8 Onesicritus 19n., 23n., 119, 133-7 Orosius, Paulus 207, 322n. Pausanias the Periegete 160, 187205 passim, 219, 225f. Pericles 43f. Peucestas 234-6 Philinus of Acragas 208, 211 Philip II of Macedon 110 Philistus of Syracuse 181-6 passim Philo Judaeus 162-80 passim Philoxenus of Cythera 181, 184 Phrynichus (the tragedian) 48 Piso, Gnaeus Calpurnius (cos. 7 BC) 260, 270 Piso Frugi, Lucius Calpurnius 212, 216, 317 Plato 7n., 11, 189, 331f., 343 Pliny the Elder (Gaius Plinius Secundus) 19, 21-3, 25, 104, 106f., 310n., 312 Pliny the Younger (Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus) 169n., 254, 261, 263, 266, 319 Plutarch 18, 29, 73n., 103f., 106, 160, 163, 181-6 passim, 231, 233, 237f., 240, 242, 246f., 252 Polybius 93, 95, 97n., 154f., 159, 208, 211, 218, 220, 222, 229, 268f., 280 Pompeius Trogus 219-30 passim, 233 Pontius Pilate 168 Posidonius of Apamea 148f., 1535, 157, 159 Propertius 19, 25 Psamtek III (Psammenitus) 26-8, 30 Quintilian 320 Quintilius Varus 324 Roxana 186, 234f. Rufius Festus 322

403

Sallust 257, 269, 281, 320-8, 342 Scipio the Elder (Cornelius Scipio Africanus) 206, 213f., 217, 293 Sejanus 284 Seneca the Elder 320 Seneca the Younger 282 Silenus of Caleacte 215f. Simonides 6, 7n., 48 Sisenna, Cornelius 217 Socrates 331 Solinus, Iulius 24 Sophocles 181, 184, 332 Sosylus of Sparta 208f., 211 Stephanus of Byzantium 104f., 107 Strabo of Amasia 19, 21f., 24f., 103-6, 112, 114, 119f., 133-5, 138, 144-61 passim, 304f., 307 Suetonius 254, 290, 305-7 Sulla (Lucius Cornelius Sulla Felix) 324, 326 Sulpicius Severus 322 Tacitus 253-70 passim, 271-86 passim, 287-303 passim, 304-16 passim Telestes 181, 184 Theagenes of Rhegium 117 Theophanes of Mitilene 148 Theopompus of Chios 104, 110f., 113-7, 153, 160 Thrasea Paetus 265f. Thucydides 2, 5n., 9-11, 34-57 passim, 58-68 passim, 73n., 98, 100, 110, 113, 115-7, 155, 26870, 320, 341f., 344 Tiberius 173, 255-7, 277, 281-4, 287-90, 299f. Tibullus 21, 25 Titormus the Aetolian 260 Titus 253, 261 Trajan 253f., 262f., 273, 275f. Tyrtaeus 190f., 194 Tzetzes 20, 25 Udjahorresne 30f. Valerius Antias 212, 216f. Velleius Paterculus 299f., 318f., 321-8

404

Index of Ancient Personal Names

Vergil 285 Vespasian 253f. Xenophon of Athens 44, 56f., 6991 passim, 94-7, 99, 331

Xenophon of Ephesus 336, 340, 344f. Xerxes I 17