The Hellenistic Reception of Classical Athenian Democracy and Political Thought 9780198748472, 0198748477

Table of contents :
Cover
The Hellenistic Reception of Classical Athenian Democracy and Political Thought
Copyright
Preface and Acknowledgements
Contents
List of Abbreviations
List of Contributors
1: Introduction
1.1 Classical Athenian Politics as Cultural Memory and Political Resource in the Hellenistic World
1.2 The Structure of the Volume
1.2.1 Part I: The Reception of Classical Athens in the Early Hellenistic World
1.2.2 Part II: Changing Approaches to Classical Athenian Democracy and Political Thought from Polybius to Plutarch
1.3 Common Themes and Questions Raised by the Essays
1.3.1 Political Institutions, Hellenistic Democracy, and the Elites
1.3.2 Athenocentrism as a Focus of Hellenistic and Modern Debates
1.3.3 Political Thought, the Anti-Democratic Tradition, and Alternatives to Democracy
Part I: Early Hellenistic Responses to Classical Athenian Democracy and Political Thought
2: Stairway to Heaven: The Politics of Memory in Early Hellenistic Athens
2.1 Athenian Politics and the Past
2.2 The Chremonidean War, or, What´s in a Name
2.3 The Decree of the Demagogues
2.4 From the Lamian War to the Chremonidean War
2.5 The Decree of Chremonides: Declaring War, between Past and Present
2.6 The End of an Age-in Some Sense
3: Alexander the Great and Democracy in the Hellenistic World
3.1 Introduction
3.2 Philip, Alexander, and the Cities of Mainland Greece
3.3 Philip, Alexander, and the Cities of Western Asia Minor
3.4 Alexander in Athens
3.4.1 Polyperchon and Athens, 319/8-318/7
3.4.2 Demetrius and Athens, 307/6
3.4.3 Demochares and Athens, 281/0
3.5 Alexander in Asia Minor
3.6 Alexander between City and King
4: Demosthenic Influences in Early Rhetorical Education: Hellenistic Rhetores and Athenian Imagination
4.1 Demosthenes´ (Un)popularity in the Hellenistic Period
4.2 The Influence of Demosthenic Oratory and the Importance of Athenian Imagination
4.3 Conclusions
5: Sophists, Epicureans, and Stoics
5.1 Stoics on Sophistry and Education
5.2 Epicureans, Protagoras, and Sophistic
5.3 Many but One: Sophists on Justice
5.4 One and Many: Early Epicureans on Justice
6: Comedy and the Athenian Ideal
Part II: Later Hellenistic and Early Imperial Developments in the Reception of Classical Athenian Politics
7: Polybius on `Classical Athenian Imperial Democracy´
7.1 Δημοκρατία, Ὀχλοκρατία, and Athens in Book 6
7.2 Athens in Action: Athenian Diplomacy in the Historical Narrative
7.3 Polybius´ Characterizations of Athens in Political Context
7.4 Conclusion
8: A Later Hellenistic Debate about the Value of Classical Athenian Civic Ideals?: The Evidence of Epigraphy, Historiography, and Philosophy
8.1 Introduction
8.2 Posidonius´ Athenion: Radically Democratic Classicism
8.3 A Broader Later Hellenistic Reaction against Certain Classical Athenian Civic Ideals?
8.4 Traces of Later Hellenistic Advocacy of Classical Athenian Civic Ideals, beyond Posidonius´ Athenion
8.4.1 Self-confident Later Hellenistic Democrats?
8.4.2 Traces of Later Hellenistic Assertion of Certain Classical Athenian Philosophical Ideals of Strong Civic Community
8.4.2.1 The Role of the Hellenistic Peripatetics
8.4.2.2 Posidonius´ Athenion as a Peripatetic
8.5 Conclusion
9: Philanthropia, Athens, and Democracy in Diodorus Siculus: The Athenian Debate
9.1 Introduction
9.2 Framing the Athenian Debate
9.3 The Speech of Nicolaus
9.4 The Speech of Gylippus
9.5 Judging the Athenian Debate
10: Getting Over Athens: Re-Writing Hellenicity in the Early Roman History of Dionysius of Halicarnassus
10.1 Introduction
10.2 `The City with the Greatest Renown´: The Ambiguities of `Hellenization´ in Dionysius´ Narrative
10.2.1 A Paradigm Made to Order: Athens in the Conflict between Rome and Alba
10.2.2 `No´ to Athenian Democracy: The Debate about the Roman Republican Constitution
10.3 Leaving Athens Behind: Dionysius´ `Pragmatic´ Hellenism
11: Standing up to the Demos: Plutarch, Phocion, and the Democratic Life
11.1 Introduction
11.2 Plutarch and Athenian Democracy
11.3 Handling the Demos
11.4 Phocion the Good
11.5 Phocion and Socrates
11.6 Between the Demos and the Governor´s Boots
12: The Orator in the Theatre: The End of Athenian Democracy in Plutarch´s Phocion
13: Whatever Happened to Athens?: Thoughts on the Great Convergence and Beyond
13.1 The Hellenistic vs Athens
13.2 The Great Convergence
13.3 Athens and/in the Great Convergence
13.4 Beyond the Great Convergence: Classicism, Plutarch, Pausanias
13.5 Whatever Happened to Athens? Reception and Reflexivity
Bibliography
Index Locorum
Literary Sources
Inscriptions
Papyri
General Index

Citation preview

T H E HE L L E N I S T I C R E C E P T I O N O F C LAS S I C A L A T H EN I A N D E M OC R AC Y A N D PO L I T I C A L T H O UG H T

The Hellenistic Reception of Classical Athenian Democracy and Political Thought Edited by M I R K O CA N E V A R O and B E N J A MI N G RA Y

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries © Oxford University Press 2018 The moral rights of the authors have been asserted First Edition published in 2018 Impression: 1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Control Number: 2017941654 ISBN 978–0–19–874847–2 Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

Preface and Acknowledgements This volume seeks to make a contribution to ongoing efforts to understand the full political and cultural complexity of the Hellenistic cities, now widely acknowledged to have been vibrant centres of civic politics and political thought. It attempts in particular to understand how Hellenistic cities and intellectuals responded to, but also themselves shaped, the legacy of Classical Athenian democracy and political thought. The volume originated in a conference on this theme, held at the School of History, Classics, and Archaeology of the University of Edinburgh, which was the Classical Association of Scotland Conference for 2013. Some papers originated at meetings of the weekly Classics Research Seminar of the University of Edinburgh, at which we further discussed themes of the conference. We are very grateful to the participants at these events for their contributions to this volume. These events were made possible by support from the Classical Association of Scotland and from the School of History, Classics, and Archaeology at Edinburgh, which we acknowledge with gratitude. Mirko Canevaro would also like to thank the Leverhulme Trust, and Benjamin Gray the Humboldt Foundation, for their support in the last stages of the preparation of the volume. Sara Zanovello prepared the indexes with great efficiency and skill. We are also very grateful to Charlotte Loveridge, Georgina Leighton, and their colleagues at OUP, and to Tim Beck and Jan Chamier for their assistance with editing and proofreading, as well as to the anonymous reviewers of the manuscript, for their help in developing the book. Mirko Canevaro Benjamin Gray Edinburgh and Berlin March 2017

Contents List of Abbreviations List of Contributors

1. Introduction Mirko Canevaro and Benjamin Gray

ix xiii 1

PART I. EARLY HELLENISTIC RESPONSES TO CLASSICAL ATHENIAN DEMOCRACY AND POLITICAL THOUGHT 2. Stairway to Heaven: The Politics of Memory in Early Hellenistic Athens Nino Luraghi 3. Alexander the Great and Democracy in the Hellenistic World Shane Wallace 4. Demosthenic Influences in Early Rhetorical Education: Hellenistic Rhetores and Athenian Imagination Mirko Canevaro

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5. Sophists, Epicureans, and Stoics A. G. Long

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6. Comedy and the Athenian Ideal David Konstan

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PART II. LATER HELLENISTIC AND EARLY IMPERIAL DEVELOPMENTS IN THE RECEPTION OF CLASSICAL ATHENIAN POLITICS 7. Polybius on ‘Classical Athenian Imperial Democracy’ Craige B. Champion 8. A Later Hellenistic Debate about the Value of Classical Athenian Civic Ideals? The Evidence of Epigraphy, Historiography, and Philosophy Benjamin Gray 9. Philanthropia, Athens, and Democracy in Diodorus Siculus: The Athenian Debate John Holton

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10. Getting Over Athens: Re-Writing Hellenicity in the Early Roman History of Dionysius of Halicarnassus Nicolas Wiater

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11. Standing up to the Demos: Plutarch, Phocion, and the Democratic Life Andrew Erskine

237

12. The Orator in the Theatre: The End of Athenian Democracy in Plutarch’s Phocion Raphaëla Dubreuil

261

13. Whatever Happened to Athens? Thoughts on the Great Convergence and Beyond John Ma

277

Bibliography Index Locorum General Index

299 335 351

List of Abbreviations For ancient authors and works, please see the Oxford Classical Dictionary (4th edn); for Classical periodicals, please see L’Année Philologique. Other abbreviations are as follows: Agora XVI BE BNJ CID 4 FD FGrH GHI I.Aphr.

I.Beroia

I.Erythrai I.Iasos I.Lampsakos I.Lindos I.Mylasa I.Priene I.Priene2

A. G. Woodhead (ed.) (1997), The Athenian Agora 16 Inscriptions: The Decrees, Princeton. Bulletin Epigraphique, published annually in the Revue des Études Grecques. Brill’s New Jacoby, general editor I. Worthington. F. Lefèvre (2002), Documents amphictioniques: corpus des inscriptions de Delphes IV. Athens. Fouilles de Delphes, Paris. F. Jacoby (1923–58), Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker. 17 vols in 3, Berlin. P. J. Rhodes and R. Osborne (2003). Greek Historical Inscriptions 404–323 BC. Oxford. J. Reynolds, C. Roueché, and G. Bodard (2007), Inscriptions of Aphrodisias: http://insaph.kcl.ac.uk/ iaph2007. L. Gounaropoulou and M. B. Hatzopoulos (1998), Ἐπιγραφὲς Κάτω Μακεδονίας (μεταξὺ τοῦ Βερμίου Ὄρους καὶ τοῦ Ἀξιοῦ Ποταμοῦ). Τεῦχος Αʹ: Ἐπιγραφὲς Βεροίας. Athens. H. Engelmann and R. Merkelbach (1972–3), Die Inschriften von Erythrai und Klazomenai. 2 vols. Bonn. W. Blümel (1985), Die Inschriften von Iasos. 2 vols, Bonn. P. Frisch (1978), Die Inschriften von Lampsakos. Bonn. C. Blinkenberg (1941), Lindos. Fouilles et recherches, II. Fouilles de l’acropole. Inscriptions. Berlin. W. Blümel (1987–8), Die Inschriften von Mylasa. 2 vols, Bonn. F. Hiller von Gaertringen (1906), Inschriften von Priene. Berlin. W. Blümel and R. Merkelbach (2014), Die Inschriften von Priene. 2 vols, Bonn.

x IG IGRR IK ILLRP I.Milet ISE IvO KD LSJ

Mauerbauinschriften Milet VI 2 MRR Naturalization OGIS P.Berol. P.Herc. P.Hib. P.Lond.Lit. P.Oxy. P.Stras. Mertens-Pack3

PCG RC

List of Abbreviations Inscriptiones Graecae. Berlin, 1873–. Inscriptiones Graecae ad res Romanas pertinentes. 1906–. Die Inschriften von Kleinasien. Bonn, 1972–. A. Degrassi (ed.), Inscriptiones Latinae liberae rei publicae, vol. 12 (1965), 2 (1963). Florence. A. Rehm (1914), Milet III, Das Delphinion in Milet (nos. 31–186). Berlin. L. Moretti (ed.) (1967–2001), Iscrizioni storiche ellenistiche, 3 vols, Florence. W. Dittenberger and K. Purgold (1896), Die Inschriften von Olympia. Berlin. Kyriai Doxai H. G. Liddell and R. Scott (1996), A Greek–English Lexicon, revised and augmented by H. Stuart Jones, with the assistance of R. McKenzie. 9th edn, Oxford. F. G. Maier (1959), Griechische Mauerbauinschriften. Heidelberg. P. Herrmann (1998), Inschriften von Milet, Teil 2: Inschriften n. 407–1019. Berlin and New York. T. R. S. Broughton, The Magistrates of the Roman Republic (1951–2); Suppl. (1986). New York. M. J. Osborne (1981–3). Naturalization in Athens. 4 vols, Brussels. W. Dittenberger (1903–5), Orientis Graeci inscriptiones selectae. 2 vols, Leipzig. Berlin Papyri. Papyri Herculanenses. Hibeh Papyri (1906–55). H. Milne (ed.) (1927), Catalogue of the Literary Papyri in the British Museum. London. Oxyrhynchus Papyri (1898–). Griechische Papyrus der kaiserlichen Universitäts- und Landesbibliothek zu Strassburg (1912–). P. Mertens and R. A. Pack, Catalogue des papyrus littéraires grecs et latins, online at http://cipl93.philo. ulg.ac.be/Cedopal/MP3/dbsearch.aspx. R. Kassel and C. Austin, Poetae Comici Graeci, vol. 1 (1983), vol. 2 (1991). Berlin. C. B. Welles (1934). Royal Correspondence in the Hellenistic Period. London.

List of Abbreviations RDGE

Schenkungen

SEG Syll.3 SV SVF

xi

R. Sherk (1969). Roman Documents from the Greek East: Senatus Consulta and Epistulae to the Age of Augustus. Baltimore. K. Bringmann and H. von Steuben (1995). Schenkungen hellenistischer Herrscher an griechische Städte und Heiligtümer, Teil 1: Zeugnisse und Kommentare. Berlin. Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum. W. Dittenberger (1915–1924), Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum. 4 vols, 3rd edn, Leipzig. Die Staatsverträge des Altertums, II (ed. H. Bengtson, Munich 1962); III (ed. H. H. Schmitt; Munich 1969). H. von Arnim (1903–24), Stoicorum veterum fragmenta. 4 vols, Berlin.

List of Contributors Mirko Canevaro is Reader in Greek History at the University of Edinburgh. Craige B. Champion is Associate Professor of History at the Maxwell School of Citizenship and Public Affairs, Syracuse University. Raphaëla Dubreuil was recently awarded a PhD in Classics at the University of Edinburgh. Andrew Erskine is Professor of Ancient History at the University of Edinburgh. Benjamin Gray is Lecturer in Ancient History at Birkbeck College, University of London, currently on leave as an Alexander von Humboldt Research Fellow at the Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin. John Holton is Lecturer in Ancient History at Newcastle University. David Konstan is Professor of Classics at New York University and John Rowe Workman Distinguished Professor Emeritus of Classics and Professor Emeritus of Comparative Literature at Brown University. A. G. Long is Senior Lecturer in Classics at the University of St Andrews. Nino Luraghi is David Magie ’97 Class of 1897 Professor of Classics at Princeton University. John Ma is Professor of Classics at Columbia University. Shane Wallace is Walsh Family Lecturer in Classics and Ancient History at Trinity College Dublin. Nicolas Wiater is Lecturer in Classics at the University of St Andrews.

1 Introduction Mirko Canevaro and Benjamin Gray

1.1 CLASSICAL ATHENIAN POLITICS AS CULTURAL MEMORY AND P OLITICAL RESOURCE IN TH E HELLENISTIC WORLD In the city of Herakleia in South Italy, a certain Antileon fell in love with the striking young man Hipparinos. Hipparinos resisted his advances, setting him the apparently impossible task of stealing the bell or trumpet of the reigning, ferocious tyrant, which was under special guard. After Antileon managed this unlikely feat, by killing the guard, and won over Hipparinos, the tyrant himself began to covet the young man. Antileon responded by killing the tyrant, his rival, on the street, as he came out of his house. Antileon would have escaped capture, a heroic tyrannicide, except that he tripped over some bound sheep being led through the city. When the ancestral constitution of Herakleia was subsequently re-established, the citizens of Herakleia voted for honorific statues of the two lovers—as well as a ban on bringing flocks tied together into the city. This story is told by Parthenius of Nicaea, in his first-century BCE Erotika pathemata, a collection of arresting love stories with potential for development into poetry.1 He ascribes the story to the early Hellenistic Peripatetic Phainias of Eresos. Phainias must have recorded his own version of the story of a tyrannicide through love in South Italy, which Aristotle had also mentioned, attributing it to Metapontum rather than Herakleia.2 Both an early Hellenistic philosopher and a late Hellenistic poet thus recorded this story about the intersection of politics and love in a South Italian city, quite probably drawing on local traditions among Western Greek communities themselves, developed as aetiological justifications for aspects of local 1 Parth. Amat. narr. 7, with Lightfoot 1999 ad loc. For a discussion of this tradition, see Lombardo 1982. 2 Arist. Eth. Eud. 1229a20–4; compare Plut. Amat. 760b8–c5.

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law and monuments. Even in fixing their attention on the local politics of this small city far from Athens, these different Hellenistic Greeks consciously or unconsciously evoked an Athenian template: the sixth-century Athenian lover-tyrannicides, Harmodios and Aristogeiton,3 who were more explicitly commemorated in other public contexts in the Hellenistic Mediterranean beyond Athens.4 This is emblematic of the way in which, whenever postClassical Greeks addressed controversial and emotive issues of civic freedom, equality, and fraternity, the stirring and paradigmatic political history of the Athenian democracy was never far from the surface—whether they welcomed it or not. That history was a central and influential aspect of Hellenistic cultural and political memory, which shaped contemporary political thinking and action. On the other hand, the post-Classical Greeks were certainly not mere passive inheritors of Classical Athens’ political legacy. There was wide scope for active shaping and adaptation of Athenian models: for example, this version of the story of the Italian tyrannicides gave the Athenian template distinctive colouring and twists, suitable to the new context. Nor was acceptance or admiration the only possible response to Classical Athenian political models. Indeed, the broader evidence for civic identity and ideals in the Hellenistic West reveals a determination to resist Athenocentrism: Diodorus Siculus, for example, partly drawing on his Sicilian predecessor Timaeus of Tauromenion, strives to develop a picture of Western Greek civic achievements, structures, and ideals to compete with Athenian democratic ones, not least those of the Classical Syracusan democracy.5 A similar story can be told about the interlocking fate of the anti-democratic political thought and philosophy which was developed in Classical Athens, through a complex dialogue with democratic culture and ideals.6 Hellenistic Greeks developed many innovative political ideas and theories, from the lawgoverned cosmopolis to new visions of the mixed constitution. Nonetheless, even for the most innovative, the landmarks of Classical Athenian antidemocratic political thinking remained unavoidable features of the landscape to be negotiated. Plato’s political and philosophical approach, for example, could be treated principally as a foil to react against in political thought, as it was by many Stoics and Epicureans,7 as well as by Polybius.8 However, it still demanded close engagement. Galen’s On Freedom from Grief, recently discovered in a manuscript in a monastery in Thessaloniki, reveals the existence of a ‘Plato of Panaetius’, presumably a version of Plato’s works annotated by 3

Compare Plut. Amat. 760b11–c2; Lightfoot 1999 ad Parth. Amat. narr. 7. See Azoulay 2014a: 179–86. 5 See, for example, Holton, Chapter 9 this volume. On Classical Syracusan democracy and the ancient debate about it, see Rutter 2000; Asmonti 2008; Robinson 2011: 67–92. 6 7 Compare Ober 1998. See Long, Chapter 5 this volume. 8 See Champion and Gray, Chapters 7 and 8 this volume. 4

Introduction

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the second-century BCE Stoic Panaetius.9 Panaetius was a dominant figure in later Hellenistic Stoic political thought, who developed a distinctive, Romaninflected theory of civic duties, offering a more contemporary alternative to the older republican theories of Plato and Aristotle;10 but that distinctive political vision clearly emerged through rigorous, intensive, often critical engagement with his Classical Athenian forerunners.11 This volume examines in detail Hellenistic Greeks’ varied, dynamic responses to, and adaptations of, the Classical Athenian political legacy. It brings together historical, philosophical, and literary approaches to Hellenistic politics and political debate. This enables close attention to the wide range of media through which Hellenistic Greeks gained access to, and engaged with, Classical Athenian political history, institutions, and ideals: for example, rhetoric and rhetorical education;12 comic drama;13 historiography;14 philosophical treatises, commentaries, and teaching;15 and still-vibrant civic institutions and epigraphy.16 Physical monuments, art, and city-planning were another important medium, not discussed in detail here. Consideration of different media shows that the Classical Athenian political legacy was partly transmitted quite deliberately by intellectuals and citizens, perhaps especially by teachers in civic gymnasia and the schools of Hellenistic metropoleis. However, the legacy was also transmitted through more complex processes of osmosis. Indeed, it was one of the important strands which fed into the civic koine of the Hellenistic poleis, developed and refined through ongoing practical experimentation with civic institutions, practices, and styles of rhetoric. Attention to this wide range of media and processes involves studying together dimensions of Hellenistic political life often studied separately: on the one hand, the everyday civic life of the Hellenistic poleis, attested mainly in inscriptions; and, on the other, the political thought of Hellenistic intellectuals, especially philosophers and historians. Through this approach, this volume builds up a picture of a complex, multi-faceted Hellenistic public sphere of political debate, whose participants engaged with the equally complex and multi-faceted public sphere of Classical Athens. A central theme in both the Classical and Hellenistic public sphere was that of the merits and shortcomings of democracy itself: in each case, democratic and anti-democratic voices

9

See Hatzimachali 2013: 8–10. See Cicero De officiis, with Long 1995; Erskine 2011: 156; Brunt 2013: ch. 5. 11 Philodemus also claims that Panaetius showed a special interest, of new intensity for a Stoic, in Plato and Aristotle: Phld. Stoicorum historia col. 61 Dorandi; compare Cic. Tusc. 1.79. Other evidence confirms intensified interest in the texts and ideas of Plato and Aristotle in the later Hellenistic world: see Schofield 2013: xiv, introducing a recent volume on this topic. 12 13 See Canevaro, Chapter 4 this volume. See Konstan, Chapter 6 this volume. 14 See Luraghi, Champion, Holton, and Wiater, Chapters 2, 7, 9, and 10 this volume. 15 See Long, Chapter 5 this volume. 16 See Wallace, Canevaro, Gray, and Ma, Chapters 3, 4, 8, and 13 this volume. 10

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were in dialogue, together with advocates of some third way such as the mixed constitution. Hellenistic Greeks frequently drew on Classical debates as they preserved, adapted, blunted, or overturned democratic institutions and practices, and as they re-imagined or criticized varying Classical Athenian ideals of civic freedom, equality, and virtue. The cultural authority of Classical Athenian literature and philosophy in the Hellenistic world added urgency to a central theme of these Hellenistic debates that often emerges in this volume: the connection between politics, education, and cultural flourishing.17 Supporters of Athenian-style democracy could present Classical Athens as a coherent paradigm of political and cultural achievement, the basis for an integrated educational programme, with a prominent place for rhetoric. This left critics of Athenian-style democracy confronted with the challenge of somehow weakening or dissolving the link between Classical Athens’ undoubted cultural and intellectual prowess, which they sought to harness, and its distinctive political culture of vigorous open debate and very wide political participation, about which they were sceptical. These different approaches to the links between politics and culture shaped the emerging model of a truly ‘Classical’ Athens which was to play a dominant role in Greek culture in the Roman Empire, now very well and intensively studied by scholars.18 Indeed, an important role of this volume is to bridge the gap between that tendency in Imperial Greek culture and the equally wellstudied first stages in the development of a widely influential retrospective ideal of Classical Athens, which took place in Athens itself in the second half of the fourth century BCE, partly under the influence of the orator and civic leader Lycurgus and the Athenian intellectuals and teachers of that period, who developed extensive contacts with the rest of the Greek world.19 As has been pointed out in book reviews, recent volumes on the Greek East in the early Roman Empire offer excellent accounts of central aspects of Imperial Greek political thought and culture, from Classicism to cosmopolitanism, and their roots in Classical Athens, but mainly leave open for future study the complex processes of transmission and reinvention which took place in the intervening centuries.20 17 Pfeiffer 1968: 87–104 famously stressed the break between fourth-century Athenian culture and Alexandrian culture, but recent scholarship has stressed how extensive the contacts were, and how strong the ‘Athenian’ dimension of Hellenistic culture really was (e.g. Bruzzese 2011: 18–22; 2013; Benedetto 2011; and Konstan, Chapter 6 in this volume). See, in general, on the centrality of Athenian culture in the formation of Hellenistic culture, alongside many other influences, Luraghi 2017 and the conclusion of Chapter 2 in this volume. 18 See recently, for example, Whitmarsh 2005 and Spawforth 2012, with much further bibliography; recent works build on the insights of (for example) Bowersock 1965 and Bowie 1970. 19 See recently Azoulay 2011; Hanink 2014, with further bibliography. 20 See K. Vlassopoulos in CR 63.1 (2013), 184; cf. his comments in Greece and Rome 59.2 (2012), 261.

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This volume attempts to contribute to filling in this part of the picture. Recent work has helped to clarify questions of Hellenistic Greek identity, ethnicity, and culture and their connections with Hellenistic conceptions of earlier Greek history.21 This volume shifts the focus onto the question of how Hellenistic Greeks processed the distinctively political aspects of the Classical Athenian past, cultivating cultural memories and developing political resources on which Greeks of the Roman Empire were to rely. The inclusion of two papers on Plutarch22 in a volume otherwise concerned with Hellenistic debates is geared towards this purpose: Plutarch drew on lost Hellenistic traditions of interpreting Classical Athenian politics, to which he gives revealing access, but he also reflected and promoted moves towards the new approaches to Classical Athens central to Imperial Greek political culture.23 It is as a crucial pivot between Hellenistic and Imperial Greek politics and culture that he is included here. In section 1.2 of this introduction, we summarize the papers in the two parts of the volume. In section 1.3 we pick out for discussion some common themes which unify the different chapters: debates about democracy and the role of elites in the polis; varieties of Athenocentrism, and their critics; and the development of the anti-democratic tradition, and of alternatives to democracy, in Hellenistic political thought.

1.2 THE STRUCTURE OF THE VO LUME

1.2.1 Part I: The Reception of Classical Athens in the Early Hellenistic World Two powerful yet apparently contradictory phenomena characterized the early Hellenistic period, as Greeks came to terms with Alexander’s conquests and their implications for civic life. On the one hand, as discussed by Ma (Chapter 13), a combination of factors—a variety of royal political actors in the Eastern Mediterranean who eliminated the possibility of one polis exercising hegemony over a large number of others, together with the disqualification of monarchical and oligarchical options within cities—led to a ‘great convergence’. By the early third century BCE, a variety of manifestations of the city-state form converged towards a recognizable model of the autonomous and democratic polis—a widespread constitutional arrangement that involved the absence of censitary barriers to citizenship and to participation in decision-making; 21 22 23

See, for example, Schmitz and Wiater 2011. See the chapters by Erskine and Dubreuil. See the closing parts of Ma’s chapter in this volume.

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rigorous democratic accountability of magistrates; and wide publicity for public decisions. The existence of a roughly uniform constitutional polisscape increased the scope for peer-polity interaction, and produced a distinctly polycentric world. Within this world, political change and innovation emerged from the interaction of a variety of loci, rather than from the hegemonic pull of particular centres, which had often been the pattern in the Classical period. As a result, while the constitutional model towards which the early Hellenistic poleis converged has much in common with fourth-century Athenian democracy, this was not in any way a convergence towards the Athenian model.24 In fact, Athens, because of foreign interference and oligarchic experiments, was rather slow in fully joining the ‘great convergence’. This wide phenomenon of convergence sidestepped, as it were, Athens itself. Another contemporary phenomenon, however, cemented the place of Athens as a key cultural and political reference point in the very world that was finally freed of the reality or threat of Athenian hegemony. While it finally lost its political centrality after the Lamian War, Athens preserved its centrality as an intellectual centre for culture and political reflection far beyond this point. In Chapter 2 of this volume and in another recent contribution,25 Luraghi has drawn attention to the fact that a variety of cultural forms that would come to characterize Hellenistic culture found their origin, to a considerable extent, in the ‘thickly integrated social landscape’ of Athens between the Lamian and the Chremonidean Wars, ‘one in which politics and cultural spheres and activities such as philosophy, dramatic poetry, historiography, [and] antiquarianism [were] ostensibly more tightly interconnected than ever before’.26 At a time when the city was struggling to preserve its political system and its autonomy in the face of Macedonian expansion, the city was the epicentre of intense political and intellectual activity, characterized by features that were to become typical of what we now define as Hellenistic culture. From antiquarian interests such as inscriptions and chronology (typical of, for example, Timaeus and Philochorus), to New Comedy, literary criticism (practised by, for example, Douris and Demetrius of Phalerum), local history, and philosophical engagement, early Hellenistic Athens is a microcosm of Hellenistic culture as a whole. Citizens and intellectuals of early Hellenistic Athens thus developed rich cultural ideals and idealizing approaches to Classical Athens, extending and transforming similar tendencies of the preceding Lycurgan era. Their achievements then arguably became Hellenistic Athens’ most valuable and influential export. Through education at Athens itself and across the Hellenistic world, Classical Athens seems to have become a leading focus of civic education, civic 24 On the influence of the Athenian political system on early Hellenistic constitutional solutions, see section 1.3.1 of this introduction. 25 26 Luraghi 2017. Luraghi 2017: 201.

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culture, and civic discourse, as several of the chapters in the volume show: rhetorical exercises, philosophical speculation, and literary works in the Hellenistic world all took a generic or idealized Classical Athens, or a generic Classical polis much resembling Classical Athens, as their scene. As Konstan shows in Chapter 6, theatrical performances also played an important role in sustaining Athens’ reputation as an exceptional and leading polis. The chapters in Part I explore particular case studies of early Hellenistic reception and interrogation of Classical Athens, against the background of the two concurrent tendencies we have outlined. In Chapter 2, Luraghi develops his picture of early Hellenistic Athens as the originator of distinctive idealizing approaches to Classical Athens that would become principal lenses through which Classical Athens was viewed, in the Hellenistic world and beyond. He analyses, in particular, how the Athenians of the period between the Lamian and the Chremonidean War looked at their identity and their past, and particularly at the fifth century BCE, from the Persian Wars to the aftermath of the Peloponnesian War. Luraghi observes that the Persian Wars in this period were not used, as before, to underpin the Athenians’ claims to hegemony, but rather to justify the city’s struggle for freedom and autonomy—a representation that was appropriate not only for the new position of Athens, but more widely for a context in which the impossibility of hegemony had opened new opportunities for autonomy for poleis across the Greek world. If the case study explored by Luraghi is arguably an instance in which the early Hellenistic Athenian point of view was to become a reference point, Wallace explores in Chapter 3 a case study in which we find no one-sided influence, but rather the interplay of different perspectives on Alexander’s actions towards the Greek poleis, which highlight the polycentric nature of early Hellenistic approaches to the recent past. The different treatments to which cities from different parts of the Greek world were subjected by Alexander (and Philip) gave rise to a variety of different traditions concerning his actions. If the Athenians came to conceptualize their right to democracy in opposition to the interference of Alexander and the other Macedonian kings, for the Greeks of Asia Minor Alexander’s actions were the foundation of their right to democracy, and an example to which they would return for centuries in their dealings with Hellenistic kings. Elsewhere, Alexander’s support of oligarchies across mainland Greece and the Peloponnese was to become less significant than the introduction of Macedonian-sanctioned autonomy against the hegemonic drives of Athens, Sparta, and Thebes. The case of the behaviour of the Peloponnesian leaders towards Philip and Alexander is also central to the discussion by Canevaro in Chapter 4. Despite the polycentric nature of the formation of Hellenistic traditions, by the second century BCE Polybius (18.14) was forced to defend these Peloponnesian leaders against widespread representations of them as traitors. The popularity of these representations is due to the centrality that Athenian fourth-century oratory,

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and in particular the oratory of Demosthenes, acquired in education across the Greek world—Polybius himself shows significant signs of Demosthenic influence in his writing. The evidence of Hellenistic declamations as well as of Hellenistic scholarship on the orators shows that teachers and students in gymnasia across the Greek world engaged with these texts not only from a stylistic perspective, but primarily from the point of view of the democratic ideology and institutional environment they represented, which resonated with the reality of the vitality of the Hellenistic poleis. Side by side with the popularity of these texts, we find alternative traditions that challenge their worldview, in particular in the writings of the Peripatetics, and yet even these alternative traditions consist of engagement with Athenian political debates that have their origin partly in the world of early Hellenistic Athens investigated by Luraghi. The last two chapters of Part I explore two different crucial forms of engagement with Classical Athenian political culture. Long in Chapter 5 shows that in debates about political philosophy, early Hellenistic philosophers often took as a principal point of reference, for development or deconstruction, the political philosophical debates of Classical Athens. The towering figures of fourth-century Athenian philosophy were ever present: for example, much Hellenistic political thought, starting with Zeno’s Republic, responded to Plato’s Republic. Nonetheless, as Long shows, Hellenistic philosophers also engaged with the thought and practices of a much wider range of Classical Athenian political thinkers, offering fine-grained responses to the Sophists and to Sophistic ideas and teaching methods. Konstan in Chapter 6 makes the case that the spread of New Comedy in the Hellenistic period made a generically Athenian political, social, and ideological setting—‘not necessarily the historical Athens at any given stage, but an idealized image of Athens that had wide appeal’—extremely familiar to Greeks across the world of the Greek poleis. This must have been a contributing factor to the ‘great convergence’ discussed by Ma.

1.2.2 Part II: Changing Approaches to Classical Athenian Democracy and Political Thought from Polybius to Plutarch The second part of this volume focuses on developments in Greek approaches to the Classical Athenian political past in the period during which the Romans developed and entrenched their political authority over the Greek world. This period saw numerous changes in civic life and political thought which might, at first sight, appear to reduce the scope for intensive engagement with Classical Athenian politics and political philosophy. Those interested in promoting, or contesting, civic ideals now had to reckon not only with Roman power but also with distinctive Roman approaches to politics, ethics, and

Introduction

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culture. Moreover, the spread of Roman power ran in parallel with other major changes in the politics of the Greek cities and in Greek philosophical life, which might also have been expected to push Classical Athenian political models to the margins. In many Greek poleis, civic elites gained new types of power, sometimes outside the strict framework of institutions of democratic civic scrutiny. This changed the dynamics of civic politics in the later Hellenistic world, to a degree which is still being debated.27 At the same time, culture and paideia became ever more central to civic life, perhaps partly at the expense of warfare and traditional forms of political engagement. The decisive change in the practice of Greek philosophy came after Sulla’s sack of Athens in 86 BCE: after the dispersal of refugee Athenian philosophers around the Mediterranean, Greek philosophy became far more polycentric, with flourishing centres in Rhodes, Alexandria, Pergamon, and Rome, not to mention the vast network of local teachers and travelling philosophers. Despite first appearances, these changes could in fact serve to intensify engagement with Classical Athens, even if they also sometimes encouraged disengagement or focus on other models. Indeed, it was precisely in this period that members of the Greek philosophical diaspora, like many exiles excluded from their traditional heartland, displayed an intensified interest in the central figures and ideas of the world they had lost: in particular, the philosophy of Plato and Aristotle, on whose works they began to write detailed commentaries, initiating a long tradition.28 In the world of poleis and federal leagues, too, the various changes—subordination to Rome, changing power dynamics and new civic priorities—often provoked, rather than marginalizing, debates about Classical Athenian politics and political thought. For example, new roles for civic elites, who were expected to make ever more substantial voluntary contributions to the welfare of the city, gave a new urgency to past Athenian debates about liturgies, honours, and reciprocity, such as those found in Demosthenes Against Leptines (see section 1.3.1). They also intensified the importance of the ideal of the voluntarily supererogative, devoted citizen, who must be moulded through civic education (paideia), common to the political thought of Plato, Isocrates, Xenophon, and Aristotle. Indeed, the great benefactors of the later Hellenistic world were perhaps not so sharply different from the leaders of the Classical Athenian democracy, in their complex relationship with their wealth and with the demos: scholars have perhaps been too quick to see the liturgy system as a sign mainly of democratic control of elites in the earlier period, but of elite dominance in the later period.29 The chapters in Part II explore varied aspects of the developing Greek reception of Classical Athenian politics against this background. Craige B. Champion 27

28 See Gauthier 1985; Fröhlich and Müller 2005. Cf. Schofield 2013: xiv. Compare Habicht 1995 for the similarities. Why should the model of Ober 1989, for example, not also be applicable to later Hellenistic civic life? 29

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analyses in detail Polybius’ critical approach to Classical Athenian democracy, which he combined with unexpected admiration for some Athenian diplomatic achievements and some Athenian leaders. Champion analyses Polybius’ complex and ambivalent approach to Classical Athens’ ‘imperial democracy’ by placing it in the context of the rhetorical and political role of the Histories. Polybius’ scepticism about Athens’ constitutional order, with its prominent role for the demos, was related to Polybius’ embrace of alternative political models, including a distinctive, Roman-influenced version of the mixed constitution, which retained democratic elements but also gave considerable power to civic elites. Benjamin Gray places Polybius’ approach to Athenian democracy, and to other aspects of the Classical Athenian political legacy, in a later Hellenistic discursive context. He argues that Polybius’ arguments can be situated in a broader later Hellenistic debate about whether to preserve and revivify those Classical Athenian democratic and philosophical traditions which prized civic equality and solidarity above all, or to supersede them in favour of alternative models of justice and stability, based on both Greek and Roman models. This ongoing debate can be reconstructed from historiography, epigraphy, and philosophical fragments. John Holton and Nicolas Wiater then each examine case studies of the approaches to these problems of particular authors of the first century BCE. Holton examines Diodorus Siculus’ complex handling of questions of Athenian and Western Greek democracy in his account of the Sicilian expedition. Both the Athenian and the Syracusan democracies emerge as centres of debate about ethical values central to Diodorus’ own political thought, especially ‘humanity’ (philanthropia). In turn, Diodorus himself uses the history of these democracies to examine, and reflect about, issues of ethics, culture, and political decision-making, all central to his aspirations to educate his contemporary readers. Wiater shows that Dionysius of Halicarnassus shared some of Diodorus’ tendency to use Classical Athens as an ideal context for interrogating philanthropia and paideia. Nonetheless, Dionysius also saw in Rome a political and cultural paradigm which could even eclipse Classical Athens. This was so even though both the Romans and Dionysius himself had to remain constantly in dialogue with Classical Athens’ legacy. The following two papers examine Plutarch’s approach to Athenian democracy, as both a summation of Hellenistic trends and a heralding of a distinctive Imperial Greek Classicism, which disparaged the democratic dimension of Classical Athenian flourishing. They both do so through the lens of Plutarch’s biography of the later fourth-century Athenian leader Phocion. Andrew Erskine places the Life of Phocion in the broader context of Plutarch’s critical approach to Athenian democracy, directed more at the unpredictability of the demos than at democratic institutional structures. This went hand in hand with Plutarch’s admiration for Classical Athenian models of the integrity of the intellectual or philosophical life, partly illustrated by Phocion himself.

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Erskine also shows the close links with political issues of Plutarch’s own day, such as city relations with superior powers and the connection between politics and paideia. After Erskine establishes the broader context, Raphaëla Dubreuil focuses on the specific example of Plutarch’s use of theatrical imagery and concepts to study the decline of Athenian democracy in the Life of Phocion. This example illustrates Plutarch’s keen interest in understanding the dynamics of democratic politics and oratory, but also his close and imaginative engagement with the Athenian anti-democratic tradition itself, especially the Platonic tradition, which had been sustained through the Hellenistic period (see, for example, Champion’s chapter here). John Ma’s concluding chapter draws together the two parts of the volume, as well as looking forward to the Roman Empire and beyond. He begins by arguing for the idea of a ‘great convergence’ in Greek cities’ institutions and civic life in the early Hellenistic period, around a consensual model of participatory government and inter-polis interaction (compare section 1.2.1). He concludes by analysing the changes which occurred in the later Hellenistic and early Imperial period, sketching the background to the topics addressed elsewhere in Part II. Ma sees a gradual shifting away from the polycentric pluralism of the early Hellenistic period, in which Athens and Athenian influences were part of a complex, varied political landscape. Hellenistic civic life and Hellenistic creative appropriations of Classical Athenian politics were increasingly, though not universally, forgotten or obscured, in favour of a nostalgic image of Classical Athens as the ideal polis, distinguished more by its culture and power than by its democratic politics. This shift, and its longlasting impact, has contributed to diverting attention from the complex Hellenistic processes and debates which this volume seeks to bring back into focus.

1.3 COMMON THEMES AND QUESTIONS RAISED BY TH E E SSAYS

1.3.1 Political Institutions, Hellenistic Democracy, and the Elites The spread of a recognizably coherent democratic constitutional model in the early Hellenistic period cannot help but invite comparisons between the institutional features that are characteristic of the ‘great convergence’ and the political institutions of Classical Athenian democracy. Such comparisons give rise to fundamental questions. One question concerns descent: is there a direct line of descent between Classical Athenian democracy and the

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generalized Hellenistic democratic koine? Another question has to do with evaluation: when assessing the democratic credentials of Hellenistic demokratiai, should Classical Athenian democracy be considered the paradigmatic, normative example? These questions are appearing again and again in current research. To give only two examples, what should we make of Domingo Gygax’s confident statement, at the end of his extensive investigation into ‘the origins of euergetism’, that ‘civic euergetism was invented by Athenian democracy’?30 If Domingo Gygax is correct, how should we imagine that line of descent working in practice? A different yet connected issue that has taken centre stage in recent work on the Hellenistic polis is that of the social and political character of the Hellenistic democratic polis: were the Hellenistic poleis actual democracies, as they called themselves? Or were they democracies only in name, in fact dominated by social elites that controlled all political institutions?31 Recent studies have tried to find an answer to this question, and the two most recent monographs on the topic, by Susanne Carlsson and Volker Grieb, use opposing criteria to define whether relevant Hellenistic poleis’ political systems were in fact democracies. Carlsson uses abstract definitions taken from modern political theorists, while Grieb and others use Classical Athenian democracy as the paradigm by which to measure Hellenistic democracies.32 In order for historians to make inroads into these problems, institutional comparison is not enough in itself. As argued by Ma in Chapter 13, there are institutions that are typical of the Hellenistic democratic koine that are unparalleled in Athens and vice versa. Ma mentions prographe and prosodos (i.e. the power of initiative by bodies or individuals in the polis), which are widespread in the Hellenistic poleis but unparalleled in Athens. Conversely, amendments from the floor, common in Athens, are absent from the record for the Hellenistic poleis.33 To these examples, one may add the important distinction between public and private charges in the courts, which is unattested outside Athens.34 Similarly, although variants of a distinction between nomoi and psephismata are found in a number of Hellenistic poleis, the distinction is never identical to the Athenian one, and the relevant procedures, inasmuch as we can reconstruct them, never reproduce fourth-century Athenian nomothesia. Moreover, their attestations start at the time when the Athenian procedures were actually discontinued.35 These examples alone should warn 30 Domingo Gygax 2016: 254 and passim. Cf. also: ‘it is ironic that the polis that was perhaps the least keen on civic euergetism developed it.’ 31 This is the line advocated e.g. by Quass 1992 and 1993; Chaniotis 2010. 32 Carlsson 2010; Grieb 2008. Cf. Hamon 2009 for an in-depth assessment of these works. Mann 2012 defends Grieb’s approach. 33 34 See Ma, Chapter 13, pp. 288–9. See Cassayre 2010: 316; Canevaro 2014: 355–6. 35 For an overall account of the development of Athenian nomothesia see Canevaro 2015; Canevaro 2016b analyses similar procedures outside Athens.

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historians against postulating simple lines of direct descent from Athenian democracy to the Hellenistic democratic koine. On the other hand, there are several cases in which Classical Athens clearly pioneers institutional practices that later become typical of the Hellenistic democratic koine, and these cases— from pay for judges and assembly-goers, to a variety of measures of financial administration, public accountability for magistrates, anti-tyranny measures, public epigraphy, and, indeed, civic euergetism—cannot be dismissed. A significant level of influence is undeniable.36 This volume helps to put these institutional similarities and differences in a broader context, by shedding light on the specific processes through which Athenian models contributed to Hellenistic political reflection and experimentation. Several chapters show us Hellenistic Greeks thinking and writing about issues that were central to the experience of the Hellenistic poleis through engagement with Athenian texts and the Athenian past. For example, Canevaro (Chapter 3) draws attention to the remarkable level of engagement with Athenian political oratory and institutions shown by a Hellenistic rhetorical exercise. This exercise is a response to Demosthenes’ Against Leptines, which concentrates on the relation between the city and its wealthy benefactors, explores various available policies for the liturgical taxation of the wealthy, and (against Demosthenes) downplays the reliance of the city on benefactors and plays up the duties of the benefactors towards the community. The implications of civic euergetism for the democratic equality of the community are the key theme of this exercise, and they are explored through engagement with an Athenian text which provides the most extensive extant exploration of these themes in ancient Greek literature.37 This rhetorical exercise is not in any way untypical: the Against Leptines was in fact, throughout the Hellenistic period and beyond, one of the most popular of Demosthenes’ speeches. In the first century AD Aelius Theon ranks it among the five best Demosthenic speeches (Progymnasmata 61.15). It is a clear favourite in the early Hellenistic treatise On Style by Ps.-Demetrius (10–11, 20, 245–6), and it is praised by Cicero (Orat. 111) and by Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Ad Amm. 1.4), who considers it ‘the most charming and vivid’ of Demosthenes’ speeches.38 Seeing the engagement of rhetors and critics with this text within the context of the challenges civic euergetism posed to egalitarian ideals in Hellenistic democracy not only allows us to appreciate the reasons for its success but also shows us that Classical Athenian democracy, for Hellenistic Greeks, was good to think with. Indeed, engagement with Classical Athens helped the successive generations of Hellenistic and early Imperial Greeks studied in this volume to 36 See Ma, Chapter 13, pp. 288–9 for these examples, and Domingo Gygax 2016 for civic euergetism. 37 38 See Canevaro 2016a: 77–97. See Kremmydas 2012: 62–4.

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investigate, from their different perspectives, the central and enduring issue of the relationship between a city’s demos and its elites (see, for example, Chapters 11 and 12 on Plutarch). The inscriptional record of the institutions and ideologies of the Hellenistic poleis can thus be greatly enriched through attention to the wider cultural context—what Hellenistic Greeks learned, read, and discussed.

1.3.2 Athenocentrism as a Focus of Hellenistic and Modern Debates The previous section makes clear that this volume is intended as a contribution to a lively debate about the central issue of Athenocentrism in Hellenistic history. This debate has taken stimulating turns in recent scholarship: for example, studies stressing the Classical Athenian influence on such symbols of Hellenistic civic vitality as organized ephebic education and anti-tyranny legislation have stimulated reflection concerning the issue of Athenocentrism.39 This volume contains within its own chapters contrasting approaches to this central issue, for example in the opening and closing chapters of Luraghi and Ma respectively. But the volume also shows something else: debates and disagreements about Athenocentrism, and its advantages and problems as a political ideal and interpretive tool, were already in full swing in the Hellenistic world itself. For all that many Hellenistic Greeks consciously looked to Classical Athens for political and cultural inspiration, there is also strong evidence in this volume for the opposite phenomenon: conscious rejection or questioning of Athenocentrism, in favour of a more pluralist or non-Athenian vision of the Greek world. Wallace, for example, shows in Chapter 3 how the cities of Asia Minor nourished their own ideals and traditions of democracy and autonomy, consciously distancing themselves from the democratic Athens which had once been their political overlord. Similarly, Champion and Canevaro show that Polybius insisted on the distinctiveness, and distinctive value, of Peloponnesian political traditions; these included federalism and a co-operative diplomatic style, based on careful, rule-governed negotiation with superior powers, from Macedonians to Romans, which stood in contrast with Demosthenic ideals of autonomy and defiance. Polybius also held up Rome and the West as an alternative source of political models, and focus for political analysis, in some ways superior to Athens (compare the opening to section 1.1 of this introduction). In this his approach was partly picked up by Diodorus Siculus and Dionysius of Halicarnassus, discussed by Holton and Wiater. Even in Hellenistic Athens itself, nostalgic longing for past Classical glories was certainly 39

See Chankowski 2010, with R. van Bremen’s comments in JHS 135 (2015), 234–5; and responses to Teegarden 2014.

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not the only available cultural option. Rather, the expansion of the Greek world introduced many new possibilities: as Paraskevi Martzavou has shown, for example, the originally Egyptian cult of Isis was a thriving and prominent part of the cultural life, but also the power politics, of later Hellenistic Athens.40 We hope that the different positions and evidence presented in this volume will stimulate further debate on this issue. Any new synthesis will have to do justice to a nuanced, mixed picture. New centres of culture and politics developed distinctive identities and perspectives in the Hellenistic period— but they often did so through dialogue with Classical Athens. The city of Rhodes, for example, was a new and innovative political and cultural centre in the Hellenistic world: it developed its own form of mixed constitution, certainly not a straightforward democracy,41 and became a new centre of rhetorical and philosophical education, the base of innovative Stoic teachers (Panaetius, Posidonius) in the later Hellenistic world. Nonetheless, we know that Athenian literature and philosophy was a staple of education in Hellenistic Rhodes. A Rhodian inscription contains a list of books held by the library (probably) of the local gymnasium:42 young Rhodians, in the second century BCE, were reading and studying texts such as Demetrius of Phalerum’s On Law-Making at Athens (Περὶ τῆς Ἀθήνησι νομοθεσίας) and On Constitutions at Athens (Περὶ τῶν Ἀθήνησι πολιτειῶν), Hegesias of Magnesia’s Athenophiles, Aspasia, and Alcibiades (Οἱ Φιλαθηναῖοι, Ἀσπασία, and Ἀλκιβιάδης), and several speeches by Theopompus including a Panathenaicus. Traditions were also developing about the exile of Aeschines on Rhodes,43 which would have offered an excellent aetiology for Rhodes’ new role as a centre of rhetorical education, well-suited to continuing and revising Athenian traditions. To concentrate only on long-established poleis such as Rhodes would obviously be to underestimate the extent of innovation and experimentation in forms of community and interaction in the Hellenistic world, often sharply divergent from Classical Athenian precedents: it is necessary also to take into account, for example, new forms of federalism, cross-polis collaboration and festival communities, and new types of local or travelling associations, such as the associations of Dionysiac artists. Nonetheless, even the most innovative and polycentric Hellenistic communities also often relied on an ideal of Classical Athens in order to articulate their aspirations and identities. This is clear from a decree of the Delphic Amphictyony (c.120–115 BCE) responding to an embassy from the association of artists of Dionysus based at Athens. The Dionysiac artists had sent as envoys a priest of Dionysus and tragic poet,

40

41 Martzavou 2014. Cf. Strabo 14.2.5. Maiuri 1925: no. 11. Cf. Canevaro, Chapter 3, p. 88, n. 65, and Ma, Chapter 13, p. 290, n. 40. 43 These are reflected in the letters of Ps.-Aeschines, probably written sometime in the early Roman Empire; these are the subject of an ongoing Edinburgh PhD thesis by Guo Zilong, which will offer an edition, translation, and commentary. 42

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together with two epic poets, in order to ask the Amphictyons to uphold their honours and privileges. This is clearly a distinctively Hellenistic context of interaction between fluid, cosmopolitan, predominantly cultural-religious communities, which adapted for their own purposes traditions of civic decision-making, diplomacy, honours, and epigraphy. Nonetheless, precisely this characteristically Hellenistic decree contains fulsome praise from the Amphictyons for Athens—specifically, the demos of the Athenians—as the origin and centre of human civilization. Significantly, the representation of Athens’ achievements here was tailored not only to recalling the past glories of imperial Athens by evoking the tradition of Thucydides and Isocrates,44 but also to expressing these groups’ specific concerns: the focus is the Athenian demos’ role in introducing education, religion, and literature under the guidance of ideals of civility, trust, and humanity.45 As these examples show, Classical Athenian influence and Hellenistic polycentrism went hand in hand in different contexts, through complex interactions which invite further study.

1.3.3 Political Thought, the Anti-Democratic Tradition, and Alternatives to Democracy This volume is also intended to contribute to another ongoing development in the study of the Hellenistic world: at the same time as historians have come to lay more stress on the vitality of the Hellenistic polis, scholars of Hellenistic philosophy and thought have brought into greater focus the often underestimated vibrancy and range of Hellenistic political thought, including reflection about citizenship.46 This volume contributes to this tendency by studying the detailed and argumentative engagement of many Hellenistic Greeks with Classical Athenian political reflection. This is partly a question of studying the full range of Hellenistic philosophical enquiry: as Long shows in his chapter, even Stoics and Epicureans, often thought to be keen to transcend the polis, were very consistent and rigorous in their engagement with Classical Athenian civic life and thought. This dimension of the volume is also built on a very broad conception of Hellenistic, and Classical, political thought: reflections about politics ranging from philosophy, through historiography, to the everyday political rhetoric of speeches and inscribed decrees. As has already emerged in this introduction, the chapters in this volume show that Hellenistic Greeks kept alive, and adapted, the Classical Athenian anti-democratic and extra-democratic traditions in political thought. This was 44 45 46

Cf. Le Guen (2001), vol. I, 97–8; vol. II, 6–7. CID 4.117, ll. 11–22; see also Le Guen (2001), vol. I, text 11. See, for example, Laks and Schofield 1995.

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not only a question of the perpetuation of aristocratic and philosophical arguments against the rule of the demos—conceived as unsteady and capricious—well-attested in this volume in the thought of Polybius, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, and Plutarch. It was also a question of imaginative reworkings of Classical Greek political theories, arguments, and utopias. For example, reworkings and extensions of the Sophistic and Peripatetic traditions of linking education with politics, for the sake of improving both, are prominent in the chapters by Long and Gray. Several chapters also engage with Hellenistic writers’ grappling with the possibility of an alternative republican political system to democracy, marked by greater wisdom, justice, and stability— something they usually thought could best be achieved through a form of mixed constitution, perhaps best realized in practice by the Romans. Such ideas stood in a tradition which linked Hellenistic thinkers not only with Plato and Aristotle but also with (for example) Thucydides and Xenophon. The ambivalent desire to preserve something of the strengths of democracy and the rule of law, while taming the demos, also aligned relevant Hellenistic thinkers with engaged internal critics of the Athenian democracy such as Isocrates. Relevant Hellenistic political thinkers and teachers were also the conduit through which Classical Athenian political and ethical ideas were passed on not only to Imperial Greek but also to Roman political thought. Indeed, the Hellenistic political debates reconstructed in this volume, including the development of anti-democratic arguments and the fashioning of republican, mixed alternatives, provide an excellent discursive context for the political and ethical philosophy of Cicero, especially his De re publica. Cicero himself, for example in the opening to Book 5 of his De finibus, gives a vivid picture of Hellenistic Athens partly as a philosophical and political museum, but also as a centre of ongoing, dynamic teaching and reflection: the interlocutors in that dialogue have to stroll to the Academy in the heat of the afternoon in order to have it to themselves, even at this dramatic date, not long after Sulla’s sack of Athens. They look for inspiration in their debates about the highest good not only to Plato and Aristotle themselves, but also to Hellenistic Academics and Peripatetics, such as Carneades and Critolaus, whose inspiring presence they feel looming in this place along with that of the fourth-century founders.47 A significant consequence of this analysis is that even the most doctrinaire aristocratic thinkers of the Hellenistic or Roman world had to take into account that Classical Athens’ achievements were those of a democratic polis, whose constitution enabled even the poorest citizens to participate fully in politics. This unavoidable fact must have helped to sharpen the

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Cic. Fin. 5.1–3.

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political thought of post-Classical intellectuals: there was no space for blankly denying the plausibility or efficiency of democracy, rather than arguing against it as a viable option trumped by a better alternative, which had to be defined and defended. As a result, we hope that this volume will offer much to those interested in ancient political thought, as well as ancient politics: its story is one of Hellenistic engagement with Classical Athenian political discourse as a whole, constituted by tensions between democrats and anti-democrats.

Part I Early Hellenistic Responses to Classical Athenian Democracy and Political Thought

2 Stairway to Heaven The Politics of Memory in Early Hellenistic Athens Nino Luraghi

To the memory of my father Raimondo (1921–2012), historian and freedom-fighter

2.1 A THENIAN P OLITI CS AND THE P AST The image of Athens ‘school of Hellas’, and thereby indirectly the fountainhead of the Classicist intellectual tradition, was ultimately a product of Athenian culture itself. Needless to say, there is no denying the crucial role of Roman imperial culture, from the Augustan age to the Second Sophistic and beyond, in consolidating and transmitting the powerful corpus of symbols and texts that formed and supported the Classical tradition through the centuries.1 Still, there is abundant evidence that the Athenians themselves, especially during the fourth century, were very much involved in creating an image of their history and culture, ultimately an image of themselves that was going to serve as a matrix for centuries to come. What happened immediately thereafter, though, is more controversial. Wilamowitz famously judged that Alexandrian culture defined itself against the Athenian model, and it is certainly the case that so far students of the Hellenistic world have been less than impressed by the survival of the myth of Classical Athens during the third and second centuries BCE. Nevertheless, a case can be made for a reassessment of the impact of the Athenian cultural and political model in the centuries that followed Alexander’s death, as the present 1 For this crucial phase in the transmission and transformation of the cultural heritage of Classical Greece I may be allowed to refer the reader to the dense and powerful synthesis offered by Spawforth 2012.

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collection of essays shows. An important step towards such a reassessment is to investigate how the Athenians themselves reflected on their past, or perhaps more accurately, how the past was a part of the living horizon of the Athenians of this period, and how they, or some of them, deployed it in order to cope with the present without giving up their sense of themselves. What follows is meant to offer some preliminary thoughts towards such an investigation. The use of the past, recent and distant, in Athenian public discourse is hardly a new topic. All too often, however, scholars have been inclined to regard it either as purely decorative and rhetorical (as though rhetoric were nothing more than functionally useless ornamentation), or as a way to disguise a realistic and utilitarian approach to political decision-making—and clearly the two approaches are compatible rather than mutually exclusive. In the wake of a new wave of studies on tradition and memory—now labelled as ‘collective’ or ‘social’—the readiness to think in terms of a shared repertoire of facts (no matter how accurate or inaccurate) and notions, themselves incorporating values and social norms, has paved the way for a reassessment of the impact of the past as a real force in Athenian politics. Even though not all scholars may be ready to follow Ernst Badian and believe that fourth-century Athenians were possessed by the ghost of their fifth-century empire,2 the assumption that notions and interpretations of their recent past had a real impact on the way Athenians at any given time assessed their present situation and decided how to cope with it has been gaining traction in recent research.3 The age of the great orators, with its wealth of public speeches, judicial and political, offers a particularly fertile ground for such an approach. The present contribution moves towards the boundary of that age, investigating a period in Athenian history that was characterized by an especially volatile international context and, as a consequence, faced the Athenians with particularly stark and sudden choices. Without underestimating the weight of other factors, the political use of the past and its social impact on Athenian decision-making between 323 and 269 will form the focus of the present discussion. The starting point will be the event that concluded the period: the Chremonidean War.

2.2 THE CHREMONIDEAN WAR, OR, W H A T ’ S I N A NAME Telling wars apart is a notorious problem for the political history of the early Hellenistic period, and nowhere is the problem felt more acutely than in the 2 Badian 1995, a characteristically sharp contribution, but one that subscribes implicitly to a radically utilitarian view of human behaviour which not every historian would be prepared to share; it falls squarely within the ‘realistic’ camp as defined by Steinbock 2013: 33–5. 3 See especially the lucid introductory discussion of Steinbock 2013: 30–43.

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history of the third century, where the absence of a continuous narrative from antiquity creates endless difficulties for the scholar attempting to turn a rich corpus of epigraphic evidence into a coherent story. In such a situation, historians are so relieved whenever the written sources allow them to isolate and identify a specific war, that they may feel less keenly the urge to question the identification and to regard it as a historiographical problem. The Chremonidean War is a case in point.4 We owe its name to a fragment of Hegesander of Delphi, probably a contemporary of Polybius and otherwise a rather shadowy figure. As far as we can tell, Hegesander was no historian in the proper sense of the word: he seems to have collected curiosities, anecdotes and noteworthy sayings from a wide array of earlier authors.5 Hegesander appears to have been known to Plutarch, even though the latter does not quote him by name, but it is Athenaeus’ banquet that saved him from falling into total oblivion: Hegesander shows up as many as forty-five times in the conversations of the Deipnosophists.6 Among other dinner-related things, Athenaeus was interested in flatterers, and here Hegesander offered him a peculiar example: rather than flattering individuals, the Athenian demagogues flattered a whole community, the Athenian demos.7 This happened, according to Hegesander, at the time of the Chremonidean War. The name of the war appears only here, and it took the ingenuity of Barthold Georg Niebuhr, piecing together a handful of passages from more or less obscure authors, to identify it as the war between the Athenians and Antigonus Gonatas, in which the former were supported by the Ptolemaic admiral Patroclus and by the king of Sparta, Areus I. Niebuhr’s insight was later brilliantly vindicated by the Chremonides decree, which confirmed that the name of the war was indeed derived from the Athenian politician Chremonides son of Eteocles of the deme of Aethalidae, who proposed in the summer of 269 an alliance with Sparta that is generally thought to have touched off the war.8

4 What follows is strongly indebted to Prandi 1989, a contribution that deserved more attention than it has received (Italicum est, non legitur). 5 Hegesander fr. 9 Müller, in Athen. 6.260f. A victim of Jacoby’s mortality, Hegesander did not make it into any edition of the FGrH so far; see however Jacoby 1912. Hegesander may not have been particularly friendly to the Athenians, see Prandi 1989: 25–6 and n. 11 (but the fragments she refers to seem more suggestive than conclusive). 6 Murray 2014 provides a precious introduction to this complex and idiosyncratic work. 7 The flattery of the Athenian demos, let it be noted, was an old theme, going back to Aristophanes’ Knights and running through fourth-century Athenian political discourse; see Isocr. On the Peace 8.3–5. In other words, the roots of Hegesander’s take on Athenian politics lay in Athens itself. 8 Niebuhr 1828 (originally published in 1826). As we wait for the publication of further documents relating to the war, the standard work of reference for the Chremonidean War is still Heinen 1972: 95–213 (adding Buraselis 1982: 119–51 for the chronology of the notorious battles of Andros and Cos). Habicht 2006: 161–7 provides a synthesis and in nn. 68 and 78 a precious compilation of what is currently known about the unpublished decree from Rhamnous for Aristeides of Lamptrae (on whom see Habicht 1994: 344–6, adding the new date of IG II2 2797 to 280/79, Byrne 2006/7: 170–5), who according to the decree commanded the fortresses of Eleusis

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Even in the woeful scarcity of information about this war, it is clear that it really was part of a long-drawn power struggle between the Ptolemies and the Antigonids.9 The strategic aim of Ptolemy Philadelphus during the war was to prevent Antigonus Gonatas from rebuilding his father’s hegemony over Greece and potentially threatening Ptolemaic control of the Aegean, and his immediate goal was to evict Gonatas from the Piraeus and thereby to deprive him of a crucially important naval base, one of the very few he controlled south of Euboea.10 For this purpose, a converging attack on Antigonid bases in Attica by Areus king of Sparta and by the Ptolemaic admiral Patroclus was mounted, to which the Athenians lent all the support they could, paying in the end the highest price for their daring. Even though the Athenian contribution to the war should not be underestimated, it is clear that the bulk of the troops involved came from the Peloponnese, where Areus had somehow managed to put together a surprisingly extensive alliance, almost a new Peloponnesian League from which only Sparta’s traditional enemies Argos, Messene, and Megalopolis remained aloof—and of course, also Corinth, under the direct control of an Antigonid garrison.11 Overall, it would not be wrong to say that Athens was a pawn in a power struggle that went well beyond its horizons.12 In light of this, it is not exactly clear why such a conflict, or even the part of it that directly involved the Athenians, should be called ‘the war of Chremonides’. Based on the evidence, it seems unlikely that the war might have taken its name because the Athenian Chremonides had a leading role in it.13 Not without reason, scholars have long ago observed that the naming of the war

and Rhamnous in successive years during the early phase of the war and previously went on an embassy to Antigonus Gonatas in Asia. 9 See Will 1979: 220–1 and Buraselis 1982: 157–8. Recently, O’Neil 2008: 84–9 has argued that the war was a rather low priority for Philadelphus, based on the fact that he does not appear to have engaged more land troops in it. 10 It is not entirely clear whether Antigonus controlled Megara in the years immediately before the war. See the lucid discussion of Heinen 1972: 70–2, add especially Buraselis 1982: 157 n. 160, and O’Neil 2008: 81, and note that the inscription from Rhamnous for Aristides of Lamptrae (see n. 8) appears to speak of Antigonus attacking Eleusis from Megara in the first (or second?) year of the war. 11 On the Spartan network in the Peloponnese, its roots in previous political relations, and its development in the course of the third century, see Marasco 1980: 140–1. 12 According to yet another view, the war may have been caused also by the desire of Arsinoe Philadelphus, the wife of Ptolemy II, to replace on the Macedonian throne Antigonus Gonatas with Ptolemy, the son she had had from her previous husband Lysimachus. This notion may have been more common in older scholarship, but see now Hauben 2013: 41 and 48, who favours it, if in a moderate way, and notice that the new chronology of the archon Pithidemus argued for by Byrne 2006/7: 175–9, and accepted by Osborne 2009: 89 (and consequently in IG II3 Fascicle 4), does away with the awkwardness of having Arsinoe mentioned in the Chremonides decree (IG II3 1 912, l. 17) after her own death. 13 As suggested by Sartori 1963: 119. Marasco 1980: 142 n. 18 advanced the even less likely suggestion that the name of the war derived from Athens’ leading role in the Persian Wars, evoked as a model in the Decree of Chremonides (see 2.5).

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betrays at the very least a significant overestimation of the role of the Athenians.14 We can go one step further and note that, based on what we know about the attitude with which the Athenians entered the war, this can hardly have been a name of their choosing, if not as a way retrospectively to distance themselves from a failed venture. It seems far more likely, though, also in light of Hegesander’s relatively strong interest in Macedonian affairs, that the name actually came from a hostile source that looked at the war with the eyes of the Macedonians, and was meant to reduce it to the deceitful and/or self-deceiving political schemes and dreams of a single Athenian demagogue.15 Who might be responsible for this trovata is difficult to tell, but some scholars have indicated a rather plausible candidate in the long-lived Antigonid historian Hieronymus, especially plausible because he is known to have played a very similar trick on another occasion, as we shall see in a moment.16 With this possibility in mind, we shall now turn to the demagogues and to their slogan—current, according to Hegesander, during the course of the war. The slogan had two parts: everything else was common to all Greeks, but only the Athenians knew the way that takes men to heaven.17 The first part may sound opaque at a first reading, but its meaning, if somewhat implicit, is made clear by what follows: the Greeks, taken together, were all superior to the rest of humanity, i.e. to the barbarians—and we can bet that the latter category in this case included the Macedonians. It was a statement of Panhellenic pride and unity that resonates with the text of the decree of Chremonides, as we shall see in a moment. The second part is straightforward and striking: only the Athenians knew how to achieve heroic immortality. It is significant that the slogan was not, according to Hegesander, circulating before the outbreak of the war. In other words, the purpose of the flattery of the demagogues was not to persuade the Athenians to enter the war, but to convince them to

14 See already the comments of De Sanctis 1970 (= 1893): 282 n. 6. We cannot exclude, based on the evidence available, that in antiquity the name actually designated only the part of the war that was fought in Attica, along the lines of the ‘four-years’ war’ of 307–304 BCE. 15 Decisive observations on this point in Prandi 1989: 27. In light of what has been observed (n. 7), we should also entertain the possibility that the name might have originated in Athens itself, among the kind of people described in D.S. 18.10.1 as opposed to the Lamian War; it is not entirely clear, though, how much we can rely on Diodorus’ characterization of the factions in Athens in socio-economical terms, which might itself be a projection of a pro-Macedonian view (pp. 28–9 and nn. 26 and 27); for what it is worth, Chremonides and his brother Glaucon appear to have been wealthy landowners, see Pouilloux 1975: 380. 16 Thus far, I follow Primo 2008; in my view, however, he overlooks significant differences in what he calls ‘Athenian propaganda’ at the time of the Chremonidean War and of the Lamian War respectively. On Hieronymus of Cardia and the Lamian War, see n. 26. 17 I have been unable to locate in modern scholarship any discussion of the actual meaning of these sentences; Sattler 1962, 59 n. 12, to whom Heinen 1972, 207 n. 456 refers, is rather vague; in any case, from the wording and the context it seems relatively obvious to me that the Athenian demagogues were not referring to the possibility of storming Olympus, as Sattler may be taken to suggest.

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endure it. It is not too much of a leap of imagination to speculate that it might have circulated when Athens was under siege.18 Two orders of observations are prompted by this promise of apotheosis for the Athenians. First, the references to the demagogues and to flattery alert the reader to the generally hostile tone of the passage. Accordingly, one wonders if, in the original context in which it was transmitted to Hegesander, the slogan may not have been framed by the surrounding narrative so as to provoke a deflating effect—so that the words of the demagogues would sound even more clearly like an empty, irresponsible boast. This is at any rate an impression one gains even from Hegesander’s own words as reported by Athenaeus. We know terribly little about the actual events of the Chremonidean War, but there is no sign of martial feats on the part of the Athenians that in hindsight might make the notion of obtaining heroic immortality seem obviously justified. The Athenians appear to have been mostly busy fending off attacks and raids in the part of their countryside that was still under their control, and then withstanding the siege. One can easily see a hostile author pointing with sarcasm to the mismatch between the grandiose slogan and the down-toearth realities of facing starvation inside a beleaguered city. Second, assuming that the slogan, while reported for hostile purposes, did indeed circulate in Athens at the time of the war, its implications should not go unnoticed. Heroic immortality presupposes physical death. It is the reward promised to soldiers facing death in battle—the reward for those who fall, that is, and the only reward in case of defeat: overall, not a terribly optimistic message. The social plausibility of such a message lay on a twofold foundation. On the one hand, there was the collective ritualized memorialization of the citizen-soldiers who had fallen in battle, without discriminating between victory and defeat, that was characteristic of the political culture of the Athenian democracy ever since the time of the Persian Wars.19 On the other hand, the slogan of the demagogues relied on a particular strand of Athenian political discourse that developed in the aftermath of Chaeronea and is enshrined most famously in Demosthenes’ On the Crown, which maintained that it behoved the Athenians, because of their historical heritage, to fight for the freedom of the Greeks with all their forces, whatever the odds, whatever the consequences, and regardless of the attitude of the other Greeks. The recently published fragments of Hypereides’ speech Against Diondas show that such notions were not merely Demosthenes’ own creation, while Demosthenes’ comments on Aeschines’ speech during the debate on the Peace of Philocrates may point to the more distant roots of this theme.20 18

As suggested by Prandi 1989: 26. For a comprehensive investigation of the commemoration of the war dead in Classical Athens, see Arrington 2014. 20 See Todd 2009: 165–6 with references to earlier studies of the topic. At this point, the present contribution respectfully parts ways with Badian 1995; after Chaeronea at the latest, there cannot be question of the Athenians reacting to appeals to their glorious past out of 19

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For the politicians who had supported the war against Philip, the most immediate goal in formulating this discursive strategy was to fend off the attacks of the internal political opposition, and in particular the accusation that in the alliance with Thebes the Athenians had been induced to contribute well over their fair share, engaging in war when their vital interests were not really threatened.21 On a more general level, though, this interpretation of Chaeronea had a broader scope, in that it strove to domesticate defeat in the framework of the Athenians’ traditional vision of their past and their place in the world, and for this reason it was destined to have a lasting impact on Athenian political discourse.22 In fact, this take on the Athenian past is characteristic of the half century that goes from Chaeronea to the Chremonidean War. Two key texts from this period, and precisely from its beginning and from its end respectively, allow the modern observer to focus on the main features of this discourse, and at the same time to observe its development over time. To these texts we shall now turn.

2.3 THE DECREE OF THE DEMAGOGUES Even though the details escape us, scattered indications make it clear that in the years after 338, with varying degrees of intensity, some leading Athenian politicians were thinking about a revenge against Macedon. In the last years of Alexander’s reign a combination of conditions made the thought more and more acute. The Harpalus scandal, which caused some disruption inside the Athenian political leadership, clearly had something to do with the idea of using an unexpected windfall to fund a new war against the Macedonians. The shattering of the Persian Empire and Alexander’s campaigns had left splinters of various sorts floating around the Eastern Mediterranean, including especially rather large numbers of Greek mercenaries without employment, some of whom may have become mercenaries in the first place after/because their home poleis had been absorbed into the Macedonian unconfessed desire to regain their empire. According to Dem. 19.16, during the debate in 346 Aeschines had said (half-seriously, one supposes) that he intended to propose a law forbidding the Athenians to help any Greeks who had not previously helped them; this sounds very much like a rejoinder to Demosthenes’ altruistic view of the Athenians’ mission, and may suggest that such a view in fact pre-dated Chaeronea (cf. E. M. Harris 1995: 70–7). 21 See Hyp. Dion. 5.3–8 [176r] and Dem. 18.238. 22 As pointed out by Todd 2009: 165, Hyperides’ and Demosthenes’ strategy turned away from the standard Athenian practice of individuating a special non-structural cause for defeat, typically treason. Note also that the reaction of the Athenians to the Spartans’ victory in the Peloponnesian War appears to have been totally different, focusing on the excesses of imperial domination as the cause of the failure of the empire (i.e., essentially assuming responsibility for the defeat).

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orbit.23 The combined impact of Alexander’s exiles decree, announced at the Olympics in the summer of 324, which basically compelled the Athenians to evacuate Samos, and, rather more importantly, of the news of the death of the king in Babylon in June of 323 swayed the Athenians into spearheading a Panhellenic revolt against Macedonia. A passage in Diodorus’ Book 18 describes the Athenians’ decision to mobilize army and navy, a decision opposed by the propertied class, says Diodorus, but carried through by the demagogues, irresponsibly exploiting the irrational impulses of the Athenian demos. A damaging role was played also by unemployed mercenaries, people for whom, in Philip’s words quoted by Diodorus, war was really peace and peace war. A decree drafted by the rhetores, which Diodorus poetically says gave a body to the wishes of the people, was promptly approved by the assembly.24 It is a true pity that Diodorus has not preserved the memory of the man who proposed it. His preference for a vague ascription may reflect the attitude of his source, which is explicitly against the war and sides with the wealthy. Diodorus’ summary, in any case, clearly preserves some of the actual wording of the decree, and likely derives from an author who provided the complete text. The decree stated emphatically that the Athenians cared for the common freedom of the Greeks and accordingly intended to expel the garrisons from the cities. For this purpose, they were going to launch two hundred triremes and forty tetreres, and to mobilize all Athenians up to the age of 40, sending seven tribal contingents out and keeping three to guard the city. Meanwhile, they were to send ambassadors all around Greece, reminding their fellow Greeks that the Athenians in the past, regarding Greece as the common fatherland of the Greeks, had fought off at sea the barbaroi who had invaded Greece in order to enslave it.25 By the same token, they were now going to fight on land and sea, with all their resources, for the common freedom of the Greeks. Diodorus concludes by mentioning the views expressed at the time by the wisest among the Greeks (18.10.4): the Athenians had deliberated well from the point of view of glory, but poorly from that of expediency; this was not the right moment to fight the Macedonians, who were unconquered and at the peak 23 The careers of the Athenian generals Chares, Charidemus, Ephialtes, and Thrasybulus, all of whom were in Persian service at some point, offer a fascinating perspective on the upper echelons of this group; see the detailed study of Landucci Gattinoni 1994. Two of them returned to Greece after the defeat of the Persian forces in Asia Minor: Chares is found in command of a group of mercenaries at Taenarum, presumably after the death of king Agis III of Sparta in 331 (Badian 1961: 26) and possibly immediately before the Hellenic War (Landucci Gattinoni 1994: 53), and Thrasybulus was strategos in Athens in 326/5 (Landucci Gattinoni 1994: 58 with reference to IG II2 1628, ll. 40–1). 24 The passing of the decree is narrated in D.S. 18.10. 25 Athenian patriotic rhetoric traditionally underestimated the contribution of the other Greeks to Salamis, and to naval operations during the Persian Wars more in general; see Nouhaud 1982: 186–90.

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of their power. In spite of their reputation for cleverness, the Athenians had not even learned the lesson from the destruction of Thebes. Nevertheless, Diodorus continues, thanks to the usual rhetorical skill of their ambassadors the Athenians were able to move to war most of the other Greeks. Diodorus’ sour comments doubtless echo those of his source, clearly an author who had more sympathy for the oligarchs and for the Macedonians than for the Athenian political leadership at the time of the revolt.26 It is probably the same author who invented the name ‘Lamian War’ in the first place, a name that greatly reduced the scope of the war and completely glossed over the fact that the decisive battles of it were fought at sea.27 The general consensus identifies him with Hieronymus of Cardia. The Athenians actually, as we know from several inscriptions, referred to this war as ‘Hellenic War’, a terminology that is also found in one literary source.28 The bad timing of the decision that Diodorus somewhat cryptically refers to is presumably judged in hindsight: if the Athenians had waited, our author must have meant, the diadochs would have started to fight against one another over Alexander’s empire, making a revolt against the Macedonians in Greece that much easier. The nameless Athenian demagogues, however, were not looking at a future they could know nothing about; they were looking at the past, and deploying it in skilful ways for their political purposes. The potentially threatening implications of what amounted in fact to a bid for Panhellenic leadership were neutralized by insisting on the supposedly traditional altruistic motivations of the Athenians. At the same time, by reminding the rest of the Greeks, but even more importantly their fellow citizens, of Athens’ role in the Persian Wars, they were recasting the ancient glories of the city into a mission for the present, almost a manifest destiny of sorts: fighting for freedom was crucial for the identity of the Athenians. The plausibility of this discursive strategy depended directly on the reinterpretation of Chaeronea already discussed (section 2.2).29 The attempt announced in the decree at removing foreign (i.e. Macedonian) garrisons from the Greek cities points to what might seem like a paradox, that is, to the fact that Athens was not itself garrisoned at this point. In other words, the Athenians had no pressing reason to unleash a Panhellenic crusade just now, unless we believe that the trigger was the exiles decree and the impending

26 See Lehmann 1988: 133–4. I agree with Lehmann’s views regarding the sources of Diodorus’ Books 17 and 18; for a different take on the issue, see Poddighe 2002: 12–16 with further references. 27 Correspondingly, Diodorus’ narrative says very little about warfare at sea during the war; see the comments of Lehmann 1988: 139–40. The naval side of the war is discussed in Bosworth 2003. 28 The evidence for the name of the war is collected and commented on in Ashton 1984. 29 I should say that I am less inclined than Badian 1995: 105 to attribute the success of the demagogues to the Athenians’ longing for their lost fifth-century empire.

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loss of Samos. This is indeed what Diodorus suggests, emphasizing the convergence of interests between Athenians and Aetolians, but such a notion may be little more than one further product of the bias of Diodorus’ source. The Athenians were certainly not insensitive to this point,30 but it seems necessary to acknowledge that their move in the summer of 323 was something they had been working towards, more or less consistently, for years, as witnessed by the buildup of their navy. Obviously, the unforeseeable loss of Samos cannot have motivated the Athenians’ preparations in the years before.31 It is immaterial whether we think that their goal was realistic or not. The Athenians had faced the Persian Empire in the past and may have thought that the fact that it was now ruled by the Macedonians made little difference. The outcome of the war was a close call after all.32 For the Athenians, the consequences of the defeat were drastic. For the first time since the age of the Thirty Tyrants, the democratic constitution was abolished and replaced by an oligarchy. Antipater removed from the city thousands of poorer citizens and entrusted its government to a clique led by Phocion and Demades, while at the same time installing a garrison in the fortress of Munychia in the Piraeus. Leading Athenian politicians were hunted down by Antipater’s killing squad and murdered, after Demades had got through the Athenian assembly a decree condemning them to death.33 Even though in hindsight the battle of Chaeronea seemed, and still seems to most historians, the actual turning point in Athenian history, for the Athenians themselves the impact of the capitulation to Antipater must have felt even harder.34

2.4 F ROM THE LAMIAN WAR TO THE CHREMONIDEAN WAR Even though, upon Alexander’s death, the rifts between his former lieutenants that later snowballed into the diadochic wars became immediately obvious, the Hellenic War was in many ways the last war of an age that had reached its conclusion: the Hellenic League formed by the Athenians faced an essentially 30 As shown also by the diagramma of Philip Arrhidaeus (D.S. 18.56.7), which gave them back Samos. 31 See the comments of Badian 1995: 105. 32 Lest the reader wonder why the present discussion ignores Hyperides’ speech for the fallen in the Lamian War, I should say that I am persuaded by Canfora 2011 that this text is not authentic. 33 Plut. Dem. 28.2; see Brun 2000: 118. 34 Poddighe 2002 provides an extended discussion of the capitulation and of the conditions imposed on Athens by Antipater.

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unified Macedonian foe, as it had been in the days of Philip and Alexander. The future was going to be very different. For the half century that followed, Athenian foreign politics can be said to have consisted by and large of choosing with which one of the diadochs to side at any given time, and in most cases the choice was not free. In the summer of 307, after Demetrius of Phalerum was compelled to abandon Athens by Demetrius Poliorcetes and the garrison of Cassander in Munychia capitulated, the democratic constitution was reestablished and the Athenians could celebrate freedom regained; but in fact Athens was now solidly in the Antigonid sphere of influence, where it remained for the next twenty years, with an interlude of five or six years after the battle of Ipsus. After the insurrection of 287 against Demetrius Poliorcetes, however, and thanks to a series of factors including the deaths, in rapid succession, of Demetrius, Lysimachus, Seleucus Nicator, and Ptolemy Ceraunus, the invasion of Macedonia and Northern Greece by the Gauls, and finally the return of Pyrrhus from Italy and the ensuing struggle with Antigonus Gonatas, for almost two decades Athens regained a level of independence it had not experienced since before the Hellenic War.35 The fact that the Aegean was solidly under the control of Athens’ friends the kings Ptolemy Soter and Ptolemy Philadelphus also contributed in a positive way.36 Various fortresses of Attica, although probably not all of them, seem to have returned to Athenian control in the course of the eighties, and by the time Gonatas seized the Macedonian throne it is possible that only the Piraeus with the fortress of Munychia and Salamis were still garrisoned.37 In these years, two interesting developments took place. First of all, in the relative calm that the external circumstances afforded, the Athenians seem once again to have concentrated on their past in an attempt at coming to terms with their sketchy recent history, as if to reestablish the continuity of democratic memory. Key to this development seems to have been the return to Athens in 286/5 of the politician Demochares of Leuconoe, Demosthenes’ 35

Earlier scholarship, working mostly based on dates of inscriptions which were later shown to be wrong, had postulated various phases of Macedonian control over Athens in these years; see Habicht 1979: 68–75. 36 Meadows 2013 provides a new appraisal of the growth of Ptolemaic power in the Aegean; see also Hauben 2013, building on his previous works and focusing on the careers of the Ptolemaic admirals Callicrates and Patroclus. 37 The fate of the Athenian fortresses in this period, with the exception of Eleusis (reconquered by Demochares soon after his return to Athens) and Rhamnous (which was in Athenian hands at the beginning of the Chremonidean War), is rather obscure; see the diverging views expressed in Habicht 1979: 80–1 and in Habicht 2006: 248, and compare Oliver 2007: 125–7 with further references. Note that the decree for Philippides of Cephale, from 283/2 (IG II3 1 877, ll. 35–6), speaks of the wish of the Athenians to recuperate ‘the fortresses and the Piraeus’, while the decree for Euthius, from the following year (IG II3 1 881 = Agora XVI 181, ll. 30–1), mentions only the Piraeus (but, then again, in 285/4 IG II3 1 871, ll. 32–4 mentioned the Piraeus only; see also the reference to recovering the Piraeus in Agora XVI 176, too fragmentary to allow any conclusion).

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nephew, who had been in exile since 303. After his return, Demochares appears to have regained a leading political role in the city. In 281/0, he presented a request for the grant of highest honours to his uncle Demosthenes, which led to a decree of the Athenian assembly and to the famous bronze statue of Demosthenes by the sculptor Polyeuctus, known to us thanks to many Roman copies in marble.38 The practice of proposing highest honours posthumously, while in itself not new, was a peculiar one, and had a strong political meaning, as shown by the two precedents known to us: the grant of highest honours to Phocion passed at some point during the dekaetia, the ten years during which Athens was controlled by Demetrius of Phalerum, and the decree for Lycurgus presented by Stratocles of Diomeia in 307/6, soon after the ‘liberation’ of Athens by Demetrius Poliorcetes.39 The decree for Phocion, sentenced to death for high treason in the spring of 318,40 amounted to an explicit rehabilitation, while the one for Lycurgus was meant to mark the return of democratic legitimacy after Demetrius of Phalerum was ousted and to reestablish ideological continuity with the age of the Hellenic War.41 Clearly, rewriting the past and making pointed statements about political continuity and discontinuity between past and present were among the purposes of this practice. In Demochares’ proposal, various aspects of Demosthenes’ biography were subtly or not-so-subtly rectified, probably against the unfavourable assessments put in circulation, especially by Demetrius of Phalerum with the likely contribution of Theophrastus.42 Demosthenes is presented, in so many words, as the politician of his times who had acted best for the sake of freedom and

38 We do not have the text of the actual decree that was passed by the Athenian assembly, but only that of Demochares’ request, preserved in the famous documentary appendix to the Lives of the Ten Orators, a short collection of biographies transmitted in the corpus of Plutarch but generally recognized as spurious (on these documents, see especially Faraguna 2003). For a commentary on the text of Demochares’ proposal, see Marasco 1984: 217–21. The proposal is dated to the archonship of Gorgias (Plut. Mor. 847 D–E), while the decree for Demochares himself, quoted immediately afterwards, is put in the tenth year after the one for Demosthenes and in the year of Pytharatus. Pytharatus is firmly dated to 271/0, but the archon Gorgias appears nowhere else, and Byrne 2006/7: 172–3 makes a persuasive case for emending the name to Ourias, the archon of 281/0. On the statue of Demosthenes, see now von den Hoff 2009; on Polyeuctus, 198 n. 20. On this decree and its contents see also Wallace, Chapter 3 in this volume, pp. 31–2 and Canevaro, Chapter 4, pp. 73–6. 39 The reference to statues (in the plural) of Hyperides in P.Oxy. XV 1800 Fr. 8 Col. II ll. 33–4 may point to posthumous honours for him, as well; unfortunately this is an isolated piece of information with no reference to a historical context, let alone a date. 40 19th of Mounychion, Plut. Phoc. 37.1. 41 Lycurgus actually passed away before the war, but Stratocles’ decree made him the mastermind of it, as pointed out in Luraghi 2014: 211. 42 In Dem. Phal. fr. 156 Stork-van Ophuijsen-Dorandi = Plut. Dem. 14.2 Demosthenes is described as a coward and as incorruptible only to the gold from Philip or Macedon, not to that from the Persian king or from Harpalus; see Cooper 2009: 316–17 and Canevaro, Chapter 4 in this volume, pp. 73–6 for this decree as a response to contemporary criticism of Demosthenes.

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democracy.43 The great orator was not famous for his physical bravery, so Demochares made a point of stating explicitly that he had died with honour. Countering accusations that Demosthenes had been in some sense responsible for the fate of Thebes, trumpeted by the prosecutors in the trial for the Harpalus affair, Demochares stated that on that very occasion Demosthenes had been able, making use of his personal skills and resources, to prevent the Peloponnesians from intervening on Alexander’s side against the Thebans.44 Interestingly, it does not seem to have been necessary any longer to vindicate Demosthenes for the policy that brought the Athenians to the battle of Chaeronea, as though that part of Athenian history had become uncontroversial, and the same is true for the accusation of embezzlement in regard to Harpalus’ money, which had cost him the exile from Athens—Demochares repeatedly mentions Demosthenes’ generosity towards the community, but the word ‘incorruptible’ is never used.45 On the other hand, Demosthenes’ unshakeable loyalty to the Athenian demos is emphasized by pointing to his exile by the oligarchy that had subverted the democratic constitution, which, strictly speaking, is not true: the decree that condemned to death Demosthenes and other anti-Macedonian politicians, proposed by Demades, was passed immediately after the capitulation of Athens, at which point the oligarchic reform requested by Antipater cannot have been implemented yet. This subtle distortion has the certainly not unintentional implication of likening Demosthenes’ fate to that of other politicians who, like Demochares himself, had been exiled and returned to Athens only after 287. At a deeper level, the tendency to resolve the opposition of freedom and lack thereof into an alternative of democracy versus oligarchy, cancelling out entirely the role of foreign dominations, resonates with what we read in other documents from these same years, where external factors in political events of the recent past are constantly represented in terms of internal politics.46 43 According to some scholars, this statement implies a negative judgement of Hyperides, arguably the most prominent Athenian politician at the time of the Hellenic War; see Culasso Gastaldi 1984: 153. 44 See Marasco 1984: 220–1. According to Deinarchus, Dem. 18–21, Demosthenes had refused to use, in order to get the support of the Arcadians for the Thebans, money he had received from the Persian king. The only surviving fragment of Stratocles’ speech (Phot. Bibl. Cod. 250, 447a), delivered before Deinarchus’, shows that Stratocles probably alluded to the same accusation (see already Aeschin. 3.239–40). Interestingly Hyperides, who at the time of the destruction of Thebes was a political ally of Demosthenes, does not appear to have mentioned this accusation (but his speech against Demosthenes is very fragmentary). Demochares’ claim is somewhat perplexing, in light of the general hostility to Alexander widespread in the Peloponnese according to D.S. 17.3.3–5. 45 Was that by now water under the bridge? Notice in any case the defence of Demosthenes in Paus. 2.33.3–5. 46 See as an example the systematic obfuscation of the role of Ptolemy Soter in the account of the Athenian insurrection against Demetrius Poliorcetes in IG II3 1 911, the famous decree for Callias of Sphettus; on this I may be allowed to refer the reader to Luraghi forthcoming.

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In many ways, the decree for Demosthenes amounted to a pointed statement about the recent past. True models of democratic political life had to be looked for in the age before the Hellenic War—the credentials of more recent heroes were thereby implicitly questioned. Ten years later, the posthumous decree for Demochares himself, drafted by his son, would make this questioning explicit.47 But Demosthenes was a peculiar choice as an icon for the now free Athenians: put in simple terms, he was an icon of defeat. He could be depicted as a consistent and unbending defender of democracy, but the fact remained that his political activity was most memorably associated with the devastating defeat of Chaeronea—whatever one thinks of the two-line epigram that various ancient sources associate with the statue. The portrait of Demosthenes created by Polyeuctus did nothing to conceal this: the pensive countenance of the orator and his decidedly non-idealized features evoke with striking realism a defeated hero.48 The other development alluded to above, while caused by an accidental external factor, may have contributed in bringing the Athenians’ mind back to their glorious past. In the fall of 279, the Athenian Callippus of Eleusis led a unit of one thousand picked soldiers, accompanied by cavalrymen, to tackle a band of Gauls who were marching south from Thessaly towards Central Greece.49 Pausanias’ report of the episode, which contains a wealth of circumstantial and reliable information, has certainly been filtered through a proAthenian author, and it is accordingly difficult to peel off the exaggeration and assess the actual role of the Athenians in the episode. The army that faced the Gauls included, alongside the Athenians, contingents from Boeotia, Phocis, Locris, Megara, Aetolia, and two units of mercenaries sent by Antigonus Gonatas and Antiochus the First.50 Pausanias claims that the Athenians contributed also a fleet of triremes and that Callippus was chosen as commanderin-chief in recognition of the Athenians’ record as protectors of Greece against the barbarians. Both pieces of information have been often rejected as later embellishments, and the fact that no reference to them is made in the decree with which the Athenians accepted the institution of the commemorative penteteric festival of the Soteria by the Aetolians in 249 speaks strongly for

47 Preserved in the documentary appendix to Pseudo-Plutarch’s Lives of the Ten Orators (Mor. 851F; see n. 38), the text of the proposal submitted by Demochares’ son Laches said, among other things, that Demochares was the only politician of his generation who had never tried to subvert democracy—thereby implicitly questioning, and not without reason, the democratic credentials of other prominent politicians of the early third century, such as for example Olympiodorus (on whom see Habicht 1979: 102–7). 48 See the comments of von den Hoff 2009: 205–12. 49 Callippus was one of the most prominent Athenian politicians of the period between 287 and the Chremonidean War; see the evidence assembled most recently by Bayliss 2011: 189. 50 Pausanias provides the list of the contingents, with their numbers and the names of their leaders, in 10.20.3–5; see the comments of Habicht 1979: 88.

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this view, as many scholars have observed.51 Scholars have not noticed, however, that the Athenians might have had a reason to present their participation in the defence of Central Greece in 279 in somewhat vague terms: the attempt to block Thermopylae was rather less than successful, as shown by the fact that the Gauls were able to penetrate into Phocis and attack Delphi. When the Athenians in 249 accepted the new Panhellenic games instituted by the Aetolians, some embarrassment as to their contribution to the common effort may not have been out of place, and passing over in silence their leading role in what could be construed as a failed attempt to keep the Gauls out of Central Greece seems like a reasonable course of action—all the more tactful, since the Aetolians had themselves offered a rather ineffective contribution to the blockade of Thermopylae. With this in mind, we may want to go back to the list of contingents initially assembled at Thermopylae according to Pausanias, a list taken for reliable by the most sceptical readers of his text, and ask ourselves: considering that at the time the Aetolians were favourably inclined to Gonatas, while the Boeotians are generally thought to have been hostile to him, how likely is it that the Boeotians would send 10,000 hoplites, the largest contingent in the army, to fight under the command of an Aetolian general? And by the same token, how likely is it that the Aetolians would fight under the command of the Boeotians?52 And yet, the army must have had a commander: an Athenian might have been the most logical choice, irrespective of Athens’ ancient glory, considering that at this point Athens had good relations both with the Aetolians and with the Boeotians, as we know thanks to epigraphic evidence.53 Be that as it may, it is certainly true that the Athenians celebrated their participation in this Panhellenic campaign against the barbarians: a painted portrait of Callippus was seen by Pausanias in the bouleuterion at Athens, while the shield of Cydias son of Cybernis, who fell in the battle at Thermopylae, was dedicated to Zeus Eleutherius in Athens (10.21.5). Ultimately, due to the uncertainties surrounding Pausanias’ report we cannot tell whether the description of the Gauls as the new barbarian foe of Hellenism, heirs to the Persians, which later became popular thanks to Aetolian and Pergamene propaganda, was already present in Athens of the seventies.54 Even if this was not the case, however, participation in an enterprise that must have 51 IG II3 1 1005; See Nachtergael 1977: 143–5 with further references. Add Habicht 1979: 91–2 and Bearzot 1992: 108, along the same lines. 52 This argument was formulated long ago by Tarn 1913: 151, and is brushed aside somewhat unceremoniously by Nachtergael 1977: 145 (whose comments on the epilektoi are out of place anyway, cf. ISE 7). By contrast, the arguments used by Bayliss 2011: 197–200 to defend Pausanias on this point strike me as not terribly persuasive. 53 See Habicht 1979: 77 with references to the relevant texts. 54 For what it is worth, it may be pointed out that the funerary epigram that accompanied the statue of Euanoridas of Thebes, ISE 68, while referring to the defence of Delphi, says nothing about the enemy. On the other hand, already a year later, in the decree of Cos from the spring or summer of 278, announcing a double thanksgiving ceremony to be performed at Delphi and Cos,

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counted as in some sense Panhellenic cannot have gone without some amount of symbolic elaboration. In this sense, the participation of the Athenians, in whatever capacity, to the defence of Central Greece in 279 surely helps to contextualize the striking Panhellenic rhetoric of the decree of Chremonides.55

2.5 THE DECREE OF CHREMONIDES: DECLARING WAR, BETWEEN PAST AND P RESENT Approved in the summer of 269, the decree of Chremonides is a highly peculiar document. In substantive terms, it amounted to an alliance between Athens and Sparta, with their respective allies—but only the allies of Sparta are listed, and an impressive list it is, almost a Peloponnesian League reborn, with the addition of some Cretans. The inscription, however, included much more than a simple description of the enactment. In a motivation clause that runs over almost thirty lines, Chremonides explained that the new alliance was advisable in light of the fact that, in the past, Athens and Sparta, with their respective allies, had established a common alliance which had permitted them to fight and defeat in many battles those who were attempting to enslave the poleis; thereby they (Athenians and Spartans that is) had won glory and secured freedom for the other Greeks. Now—the clause continues—Greece found itself in a similar situation due to the actions of those who were attempting to overthrow the traditional political institutions of each polis. Furthermore, in accordance with the policy of his ancestors and of his sister, King Ptolemy was clearly engaged for the common freedom of the Greeks. Then the fact that both Athens and Sparta were allied with Ptolemy is mentioned, and the other Greeks are encouraged to follow them on that path. Since now the Spartans had come to Athens offering alliance, the offer should be accepted so that, thanks to the establishment of a common concord (homonoia koine), the Greeks might become eager combatants alongside king Ptolemy and all together, against those who had wronged and betrayed the poleis and might for the future preserve their poleis in concord. Over fifty years after the Hellenic War, the resemblance between the Panhellenic rhetoric of the Decree of the Demagogues and the Decree of Chremonides is obvious and has been pointed out several times. It is certainly striking that in 269, having lost control of important portions of Attica itself, cut off from their main harbour, the Athenians might still be sensitive to this the Celts are already referred to as barbaroi, with no further specification (text and translation in Nachtergael 1977: 401–3). 55 See Bayliss 2011: 110–11.

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rhetoric and to the call for Panhellenic leadership it implied: what in 323 was wishful thinking by 269 had become utter self-delusion. On the other hand, the war against Antigonus was an uphill battle—and a steep hill it was—and one may find it less than surprising that such an endeavour would require a significant symbolic effort to appear worth it. The slogan of the demagogues discussed above points after all in exactly the same direction. On a general level, both decrees share what we could call a hermeneutic mobilization of the past in order to promote an interpretation of the present. In the process, both past and present are manipulated so as to correspond to the political agenda at hand. In both decrees, evoking the Persian Wars was a pointed, maybe even paradoxical statement about the present situation, and the historical precedent had the purpose of eliciting the same kind of reaction famously elicited by the Persian invasion, namely Panhellenic unity and resistance to a stronger enemy, and held the promise of attaining the same final result: needless to say, victory. It was a sophisticated operation, going well beyond the crudeness of a slogan. On the face of it, and in spite of the explicit statement to the contrary in the decree of Chremonides, in 269 the political situation in Greece did not significantly resemble the Persian Wars, any more than it did in 323, as already pointed out above (section 2.3). Greece was not facing invasion by a foreign army; in fact, in 269, just as in 323, the enemy does not even appear to have been particularly inclined to wage war sua sponte. The Athenians and their allies, one could say, were in both cases the true aggressor. The politicians who formulated the decrees were perfectly aware of all these differences, and it is probably no accident that in the Decree of Chremonides the Persian Wars are alluded to rather than mentioned explicitly, and the word barbaros is not used at all. In fact, to say that the decree depicts Gonatas as a new Xerxes does injustice to the political finesse of the Athenians.56 In the texts of the decrees, the past is subtly manipulated so as to mirror the present. In the Decree of the Demagogues, Athenian initiative and the decisive importance of the navy to the upcoming war made Salamis and naval warfare in general the natural focus of the reference to the Persian Wars. On the other hand, the centrality of an alliance with Sparta in the decree of Chremonides reflects the different circumstances of 269, and so does the silence on the traditional strength of Athens, the navy—nobody wanted to hear about that with the Piraeus occupied by a foreign garrison. At least in the decree of Chremonides, however, we can tell that the present itself was also manipulated so as to be a plausible correlative of the past. The traditional conceptualization of the Persian invasion as an attempt to deprive the Greeks of their freedom, which went back to the immediate aftermath of the war, is here used as a correlative to Gonatas’ politics in Greece, which consisted in installing loyalist 56

Cf. Habicht 2006: 163; my own formulation in Luraghi 2012: 368, while less explicit than Habicht’s, is imprecise, too.

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regimes, usually characterized by our sources as tyrannies, in the poleis he intended to control. The loss of political freedom functions as a precarious link between two completely different historical situations.57 Beyond the common focus on the freedom of the Greeks, seen in both cases as an unquestionably unitary notion, there are important differences between the two decrees. The Decree of Chremonides speaks a very characteristic political language, which lacks close parallels in earlier Athenian documents. The key concept is the concord among the Greeks: it is first introduced as a precondition for the Greeks to fight eagerly against their oppressor (ll. 31–2), and then as a desirable result of a victorious fight (ll. 34–5). Now it could be said that it was not necessary to spell out the importance of concord in the presence of friendship and alliance among the Greeks, for friendship and alliance could not come about without concord. The insistence on a concept that appears logically superfluous calls for special attention. Understandably, for the Greeks the value of concord seems to have been most obvious in the context of the individual political communities, where civil strife was almost endemic. To regard the relations between the poleis in terms of concord or lack thereof was somewhat less obvious, but the thought must have been facilitated by the radical opposition of Greek and non-Greek, in which framework no less a thinker than Plato could speak of conflicts across the ethnic border as the only true wars, while conflicts between Greeks were really to be categorized as civil strife.58 The concord of the Greeks was a key theme of fourth-century Panhellenism, and as such is best represented in the works of Isocrates.59 Up to this point, however, there is no real proof that concord among the Greeks, as found in the Decree of Chremonides, had become part of a more broadly shared political discourse within Athens or in the Greek world at large. A cornerstone for the history of concord in Greek political thought and discourse is associated with Chremonides’ elder brother Glaucon, who was, among other distinctions, agonothetes (possibly twice) and strategos of the hoplites twice or three times, including during the Chremonidean War, in 266/5.60 According to a decree of the common council of the Greeks in Glaucon’s honour, at the time when he was in the service of King Ptolemy 57

58 See Jung 2006: 313 and 315 n. 59. Plat. Rep. 5.470c. See Thériault 1996: 102–12. 60 See SEG 51.144, edited by Habicht 2000–3. The precise reconstruction of Glaucon’s career in Athens depends on the date of IG II2 3079, which lists (most of ) his achievements; the archon is Nicias, indicating either 282/1 or 266/5 (see Humphreys 2007: 70–2 and Paschidis 2008a: 510–13 with comprehensive discussion of the problems involved). Furthermore, Glaucon had been made a proxenos of the Delphians (FD III 2 72) and participated in a diplomatic mission to the Peloponnese alongside Callippus of Eleusis and Aristides of Lamptrae (see n. 8) immediately before the outbreak of the war (ISE 53 is a decree in their honour from Orchomenus in Arcadia). His victory with the chariot in Olympia, documented by IvO 178 and Paus. 6.16.9, may belong to the period after the war, when Glaucon was a high-ranking Ptolemaic officer, as suggested by 59

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(i.e., after the capitulation of Athens to Gonatas in 262), Glaucon had contributed in various ways to the cult of Zeus the Saviour and of the Concord of the Greeks in Plataea. His contributions consisted of dedications and also of a foundation whose yield was to finance the sacrifice to Zeus the Saviour and Concord and the competitions held in memory of those who had fallen fighting against the barbaroi for the freedom of the Greeks.61 As far as the biography of Glaucon is concerned, the decree confirms what we knew from various other sources, namely that after the capitulation of Athens he and his brother had become high-ranking officials of Ptolemy Philadelphus.62 The chronology of the decree, which ranges between 262/1 and 246/5, is a terminus ante for the institution of a cult of Concord in the context of the celebration of the memory of the battle of Plataea. In the absence of any direct evidence to this effect, there is general agreement that the cult of the Concord of the Greeks came to join the original cult of Zeus Eleutherius at some later stage of the development of the memorial celebrations held in Plataea.63 The decree for Glaucon however provides merely a terminus ante for the expansion of the cult, and scholars have been debating about the most appropriate historical context for such an expansion. At present, the discussion seems to have polarized around the time of the reconstruction of Plataea by Philip and the creation of the Hellenic League and the period immediately before the Chremonidean War. Both positions have been argued for eloquently, and no consensus is in sight.64 Epigraphic evidence however, which should carry a special weight in this discussion, points to the later context. More specifically, already the scholars who provided the standard edition of the decree for Glaucon, Étienne and Piérart, pointed to the insistent recurrence of the goddess Concord in documents associated with the Ptolemaic sphere of influence in the Aegean during the third century.

Nafissi 1999. The wealth of the family is confirmed by the fact that Glaucon’s father, Eteocles, had himself been an agonothetes, as shown by IG II2 3458. 61 The standard edition of the inscription, found in 1971, is Étienne and Piérart 1975. 62 The high rank is confirmed by the fact Glaucon was eponymous priest of Alexander and the Sibling Gods in 255/4 (like Callicrates of Samos and Patroclus the Macedonian before him; see Hauben 2013: 39; on the general importance of the holders of this office, see also Bagnall 1976: 84) and Chremonides is found leading a Ptolemaic fleet at the battle of Ephesus (Polyaen. 5.18). According to a diatribe on exile by the otherwise unknown Teles, the two of them became close advisers of Philadelphus (Teles fr. III.23 Fuentes González). A statue of Glaucon was dedicated in Olympia by Ptolemy Euergetes in reward for Glaucon’s service under his father (SEG 32.415). On Chremonides’ career after the capitulation of Athens, see Sartori 1970. 63 Note, however, that none of the sources that talk about the original institution of the celebrations mention homonoia, with or without capital, as pointed out by Jung 2006: 321; see especially the detailed description of Plutarch (Nic. 19–21). 64 The recent contributions of Jung 2006: 298–343 and Wallace 2011, arguing for the later and the earlier date respectively, provide easy access to the relevant bibliography. Étienne 1985 delivers a spirited and to my mind persuasive defence of the interpretation of the document put forth by himself and Marcel Piérart; Thériault 1996: 115 cautiously favours this solution, too.

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Their list includes the altar of Concord in the temenos of Ptolemy instituted by Artemidorus of Perge on Thera and an inscription from Cos.65 Other documents point to the association of concord, with or without a capital letter, with Ptolemaic possessions or high-ranking Ptolemaic officers. Philocles of Sidon, who has been called ‘the main architect of Ptolemaic thalassocracy in the eighties’, wrote to the Samians in 280 or thereabouts in order to promote concord within the city.66 In a decree of Nagidus from the time of Ptolemy Euergetes a cult of Concord is mentioned, in a way that gives the impression that this cult was seen as a token of Ptolemaic loyalty in the relations between Nagidus and its sort-of-colony Arsinoe, founded during the reign of Philadelphus and before the Second Syrian War, which began around 260 BCE.67 Together with the wording of the Decree of Chremonides, this evidence suggests the likelihood that the concord of the Greeks might have been an ideological building block that accompanied Ptolemaic expansion in the Aegean in the last years of Ptolemy Soter and during the reign of Philadelphus. Two further elements may support the suggestion of reading the wording of the decree in relation with Ptolemaic propaganda. The first is the fact that defence of the ancestral constitutions, which were endangered by the unnamed enemies mentioned in the Decree of Chremonides, is one of the benefactions attributed to the late Ptolemy Soter in the famous Nicouria decree, the document with which in 280 or thereabouts the League of the Islanders accepted the newly instituted penteteric festival of the Ptolemaea, founded by Philadelphus to honour the memory of his father.68 The second element is a six-line fragment of Alexis of Thurii, one of the most prominent poets of the Athenian new comedy, that appears to be a toast for Ptolemy, his sister, and concord. The comedy from which the toast comes cannot be dated except based on the toast itself, which puts it between the marriage of Ptolemy and Arsinoe, in 279 at the earliest, and the death of the queen in July 268.69 The fragment speaks of emptying four vessels of unmixed wine and praises the mixture of same with same. The reference is ostensibly to the wine, but it can hardly not extend to the sibling spouses. Considering the cultural implications of drinking unmixed wine, one has the strong impression that Alexis’ toast conveyed at least mild disapproval of the incestuous marriage. Now, obviously the concord of the sibling spouses is not the same as the concord of the Greeks and yet, in light of the later popularity of concord, in 65

Étienne and Piérart 1975: 71–4. The quote is from Hauben 1987: 419; see SEG 1.363, ll. 6–8, with Bagnall 1976: 80. 67 SEG 39.1426, l. 38; on this inscription see Jones and Habicht 1989 (for the date of the foundation of Arsinoe, esp. 336–7). Note that the counterpart in Arsinoe of the cult of Concord in Nagidus is the cult of the Sibling Gods (ll. 39–40). 68 IG XII 7 506; see Meadows 2013: 28. 69 Alexis PCG fr. 246. For the date, see Arnott 1996: 686–9. My interpretation is set forth in more detail in Luraghi 2012: 367–9. 66

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different formats, in the political language of the Ptolemies, it would be quite extraordinary if Alexis’ choice of words were due to mere coincidence. After all, it has to be recognized that concord was not the most obvious concept for Alexis to use for his purpose—not the most obvious, that is, unless the concept was already associated with Ptolemy for some other reason. The conclusion would be that the ideological language of the decree of Chremonides, unexpectedly, may turn out to represent a case in which Athens was a recipient rather than a producer of symbolic goods.

2.6 THE END OF AN AGE —I N S OM E S E NS E Many elements converge in suggesting to scholars a view of the Chremonidean War as the end of an age.70 For one thing, it was the last time the Athenians tried to regain control of their territory by force of arms—when the Piraeus did in the end return to their hands, it was thanks to the funds provided by the Achaean League and the willingness of the commander of the Antigonid garrison, Diogenes, to be bought off. If we turn from politics to the cultural life of Athens, the impression grows even stronger. Epicurus died immediately before the war, Zeno close to its end. Attic New Comedy ended with the death of Philemon immediately before the capitulation of the city. Philochorus, the last of the Athenian Atthidographers, was apparently killed because of his opposition to Gonatas. Ever since Niebuhr brought the Chremonidean War back to life, an impressive line of highly authoritative scholars, from Droysen to Ferguson, have stressed this notion.71 Surely we need to resist the latent desire to subdivide history into tidily separate boxes, which is perhaps the strongest force motivating the impulse to periodize. The present contribution, selecting one specific aspect of the political culture of the Athenians, has attempted to trace a hypothetical trajectory that allows us to see the turning point constituted by the Chremonidean War as an accelerated phase of a longer process with roots in the interwar period between Chaeronea and the Hellenic War and a starting point of sorts in the Hellenic War itself. The documents and events discussed shed light on one side, if arguably a very important and revealing one, of a larger and much more complex process. From the dissolution of the Second Naval League to the battle of Chaeronea, the Athenians were confronted with an unprecedented series of setbacks that undermined the cornerstones of their political ideology. In the years between 70 Niebuhr 1828: 462 memorably wrote: ‘Der chremonideische Krieg ist die letzte Lebensregung Athens, sein Ausgang der Zeitpunkt des geistigen Absterbens der griechischen Nation.’ 71 Few voices have contested it, most notably Treves 1955: 91–2 and 106 n. 49.

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Chaeronea and the death of Alexander, they reacted to this threat in the most logical way, namely by searching their past history, as they understood it, for the symbolic and intellectual building blocks necessary in order to recreate their greatness of yore.72 This reaction is usually associated, perhaps simplistically or at any rate in too univocal a way, with the name of Lycurgus. It involved aspects of the life of the Athenians ranging from cults, festivals, the training and education of the youth, and the establishment of the texts of the three tragedians, to the financial measures that created the means for rebuilding the fleet, in the past the foundation of Athenian power. Most crucially, this policy clearly had a high degree of plausibility: the Athenians accepted it with enthusiasm. The first failure of this effort in the Hellenic War did not really change the trajectory of Athenian political culture, it merely reinforced its momentum. The years that follow the Hellenic War saw a spectacular efflorescence in all the fields of Athenian cultural life—the list includes philology, antiquarianism, historiography, comedy, and of course philosophy, which soon became the jewel in the crown.73 The almost frantic creativity of Athenian culture in these decades was the most remarkable epiphenomenon of the Athenians’ attempt at standing their ground in the world, which in their terms meant protecting freedom and democracy.74 In the meantime, the world was changing at a fast pace. Alexander’s empire, the largest conglomeration of power ever seen on the coasts of the Mediterranean, soon gave ground to a plurality of kingdoms, immensely powerful and in continuous conflict. All of a sudden for Athens, as for most Greek poleis, protecting or regaining freedom and autonomy meant choosing which king to side with. And yet, as the Athenians looked at their political life, they kept describing it to themselves in old-fashioned terms, pervasively replacing external political factors with internal ones in their official shared utterances, the decrees. Throughout the half century from the Hellenic War to the Decree of Chremonides, the attempt to extract from the past the resources needed to cope with the present, an attempt of which the theme of the Persian Wars in the two decrees we have looked at is an obvious example, was a dominant concern for the Athenians. It was an all-abiding concern that invested 72

73 See the remarks of Lambert 2011: 187–90. See Habicht 1994: 231–47. This does not mean, of course, that the whole of Athens’ intellectual production in this period was involved in the effort to bring back the city’s past glory; far from it. Some of the key players, in fact, were working in a directly opposite direction, as is the case with the Peripatus in the last years of Aristotle and under Theophrastus. Van Wees 2011 has argued that the constitution of Dracon found in the Aristotelian Constitution of the Athenians was a blueprint of sorts of the oligarchy of Demetrius of Phalerum, and even though not all his arguments seem acceptable, the general thrust of his approach is correct. The constitution of Solon described in the Constitution of the Athenians may be argued to have had a similar relation to the constitution imposed upon the Athenians by Antipater after the Hellenic War, as I plan to show in more detail elsewhere. 74

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symbolic as well as material aspects of their communal life. Demochares, the politician who passed through the assembly the proposal to honour Demosthenes, is also usually held responsible for the reconstruction of the Athenian fortifications in 307, documented by an amazingly detailed decree.75 It was the last attempt to bring the Long Walls back to life, in order to defend Athens’ lifeline, the connection to the sea, in good Periclean fashion—the last attempt before the old fortification system that had made it possible for Athens to withstand the Spartans’ serial invasions of Attica finally fell victim to the spectacular new developments in siege warfare, which in the end made it unviable.76 Just as the Long Walls progressively lost their capacity to protect Athens’ access to the sea, over this period of fifty years Athenian political discourse increasingly focused on defensive goals, and the Athenians came to regard their past as a blend of splendid victories and honourable defeats held together by an overarching unity of purpose—the defence of freedom and democracy. At the end, Athens lost to Alexandria even the most ancestral of its prerogatives, the formulation of the ideological language of Panhellenism. In the future, the Persian Wars would become a theme in the propaganda of the Aetolian League, then of the Attalids. Athenian monopoly was over. In the struggle to come to terms with the new reality of the age of the diadochs, Athens became something of a cultural supernova, irradiating innovation throughout the Mediterranean world and impacting in a decisive way the formation of Hellenistic culture. By the end of the process other centres, created mostly at the courts of the kings and largely with fragments from the Athenian fallout, had replaced Athens as the cutting edge of Greek culture. One cannot but admire the powerful mobilization of intellectual resources that took place in Athens in the decades after the death of Alexander the Great, second only to the actual mobilization of those Athenians who fought for freedom and democracy as they understood them, embarking on the way that takes men to heaven.

75 Best consulted in Maier 1959: 48–67 nr. 11, with extensive explanatory notes; this is phase IV of the Long Walls in Conwell 2008: 161–70. 76 Note however that the traditional view according to which the Long Walls were simply not defensible any longer has been questioned by Conwell 2008, 165–9; if his views are accepted, then it would not be the progress in siege techniques, but simply the chronic scarcity of resources and the presence of foreign garrisons in the Piraeus that in the end induced the Athenians to abandon the Long Walls. Regardless of one’s view on the matter, Conwell’s discussion is extremely helpful in assessing what the Athenians may have thought they were doing at that point.

3 Alexander the Great and Democracy in the Hellenistic World Shane Wallace

3.1 I NTRODUCTION By the early third century a consensus had been reached within the Greek world, what John Ma elsewhere in this volume terms the ‘great convergence’ (see Chapter 13), that democracy was the best form of civic government.1 However, not everyone understood democracy to mean the same thing. For Athens, the democratic state par excellence, democracy was an inherent, self-attained right, incompatible with subordination to another power. The restored democracies of 319/8–318/7, 307–301, and 287–262 legitimized themselves by drawing on the city’s rich, late Classical tradition of democratic opposition to Macedonian monarchy, in particular Alexander the Great. For the Greek cities of western Asia Minor, which were granted democracy by Alexander, it was a royal gift compatible with and subject to royal control. Alexander’s example was cited throughout the Hellenistic period, by successors and cities alike; he was a democratic paradigm but democracy remained a royal gift, guaranteed by the king and necessitating continual reaffirmation.2 The expansion of Greek democracy went hand in hand with the rise of Macedonian monarchy. As a guarantor of the former and an archetype of the latter, Alexander played an important role in stimulating the ‘great convergence’. He influenced the development of the relationship between king and city by providing a model for how a democratic city and an authoritarian king should, or should not, interact with each other. In Athens he was generally, 1

With loving thanks to JB, who napped long and often. I would also like to thank the editors whose many astute comments have greatly improved this chapter. I am indebted to Prof. Brian McGing for his very helpful comments on Appian, Lucullus, and Alexander in section 3.4. Unless noted, dates are BCE and translations are my own. 2 On this distinction, see further Wallace 2011: 163–76.

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though not exclusively, used to present a model of democratic resilience against monarchy, while in Asia Minor he became a paradigm for how monarchy confirmed and defended democracy. This chapter examines two connected points. First, the different ways in which early Hellenistic democracies engaged with the recent Classical past and presented Alexander as either a threat to (Athens) or patron of (Asia Minor) democracy. Second, how and why Athens and the cities of Asia Minor were able to hold such strikingly different conceptions of democracy. The answer lies in the different historical traditions of democracy and civic self-government in the Classical period.

3.2 P HILIP, ALEXANDER, AND THE CITIES OF M AINLAND GREECE Before analysing Alexander’s democratic afterlife in Athens and Asia Minor, it is useful to provide an overview of Philip’s and Alexander’s actions in Greece and Asia Minor in the 330s and 320s, particularly their engagement with democratic and non-democratic regimes. This will contextualize the later analysis of Alexander’s democratic Nachleben in Athens and the cities of western Asia Minor. Philip’s and Alexander’s actions after the battle of Chaeronea were designed to achieve two goals: to weaken the traditional leading states of Sparta, Athens, and Thebes and to bolster support among the smaller Boeotian and Peloponnesian states through land grants and the promotion of pro-Macedonian regimes, which were frequently delegitimized as ‘oligarchies’ or ‘tyrannies’ by the disenfranchised.3 First, Philip undermined the power of hegemonic poleis such as Athens, Sparta, and Thebes by strengthening and supporting the interests of smaller poleis. The weakening of Sparta and Thebes allowed the cities of the Peloponnese and Boeotia, in Polybius’ words, ‘to breathe freely and to entertain the thought of liberty’.4 However, even weakened, Thebes and Sparta remained the focus of Boeotian and Peloponnesian attentions and acted as constant reminders of the old hegemonies and the benefits that arose from alliance with Macedon. In Thebes an oligarchy of three hundred was installed, leading democrats were exiled, and the Cadmea was garrisoned.5 Philip also transported, and 3

On Philip’s settlements with the Greek states after Chaeronea, see Roebuck 1948; Hammond and Griffith 1979: 604–23. 4 18.14.6: ἀναπνεῦσαι καὶ λαβεῖν ἐλευθερίας ἔννοιαν, trans. Paton 1926. 5 Just. Epit. 9.4.7; D.S. 16.87.3, 17.8.3–7; Paus. 9.1.8, 6.5; Arr. Anab. 1.7.1; cf. Plut. Mor. 177d; Green 1970: 80; Lane Fox 1974: 86; Hammond and Griffith 1979: 610–11; Errington 1990: 85.

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later returned, the bones of the Theban hero Linos from Thebes to Macedon (Paus 9.29.7–9). In contrast, the Boeotian cities were treated favourably. Plataea was re-founded and naopoioi were sent to Delphi from 337/6 onwards. It fought with Alexander at the siege of Thebes in autumn 335 and was one of the states calling for Thebes’ destruction. Its walls were rebuilt by Alexander and the League of Corinth, it was awarded control of Theban land, and it sided with Antipater during the Hellenic (or Lamian) War in 323/2 (on the same, see Luraghi, Chapter 2 in this volume, pp. 27–30).6 Orchomenus was also refounded by Philip, sent a hieromnemon to the Amphictyonic Council in 337 and 336, and had its walls rebuilt by order of the League.7 The presence of statues of Philip and Alexander in Thespiae suggests that it too was re-founded after Chaeronea and enjoyed close ties with Macedon.8 Tellingly, all three cities had previously been destroyed by Thebes.9 Sparta was also isolated and weakened. Philip invaded the Peloponnese in 337 and redistributed Spartan land to Argos, Messene, Megalopolis (where a stoa of Philip stood—Paus. 8.30.6; cf. IG V 2 469, l. 6), and Tegea.10 Unsurprisingly, anti-Macedonian politicians such as Demosthenes and Hyperides called the leading political figures of these cities friends of Philip and ‘traitors’ of Greece, a reputation that held into the second century CE (see Canevaro, Chapter 4 in this volume).11 Athens, in contrast, was treated sympathetically. Its fleet was important and in anticipation of Philip’s invasion of the Persian Empire it was prudent to treat the hero of the Persian Wars favourably. After Chaeronea two thousand Athenian prisoners were returned without ransom and the bones of the cremated dead were sent back with Alexander, Antipater, and Alcimachus, for which they were made citizens and proxenoi. No proscriptions were called for and Athens even became a refuge for exiles from other states that had fought against Macedon, such as Acarnania and Troezen.12 Control of Oropus 6 See in general, Wallace 2012: 149, 153–60. Re-foundation: Paus. 4.27.10, 9.1.8. Naopoioi: Kirsten 1950: col. 2312; Theban Land: Arr. Anab. 1.8.8; D.S. 17.13.5; Just. Epit. 11.3.8; Plut. Alex. 11.5. Walls: Plut. Alex. 34.1–2, Arist. 11.9; Fredricksmeyer 2000: 137–8. Hellenic War: D.S. 18.11.3–5. 7 Re-foundation: Paus. 4.27.10, 9.37.8. Hieromnemon: Hennig 1974: col. 342. Walls: Arr. Anab. 1.9.10. 8 Dio Chrys. Or. 37.42; Plin. HN 34.66; cf. Anth. Pal. 6.344. 9 Xen. Hell. 6.3.1; Isoc. Plat.; D.S. 15.46.6, 51.3, 57.1, 79.6; Paus. 9.14.2; Buckler 1980: 22, 182–4. 10 Plb. 9.28.7, 18.14.7; Roebuck 1948: 84–9; Hammond and Griffith 1979: 615–19; Shipley 2000; Piérart 2001: 30–7; cf. Luraghi 2008: 16–27; note also SEG 59.356 for Argos’ defence of its new border. On the role played by the League of Corinth, see Jehne 1994: 139–65; Magnetto 1994. Philip also had a statue in Elis (Paus. 6.11.1), perhaps suggesting benefactions there. 11 Dem. 17.4, 7; 18.295; Hyp. Athen. 31; Dion. 6.31–7.2 [173r–175r]; Cic. Att. 1.16.12; Hor. Odes 3.16; Juv. 12.47; see n. 23. 12 On the treatment of Athens see Hammond and Griffith 1979: 606–10. Prisoners: D.S. 16.86.5; 87.5; Just. Epit. 9.4.4; Plb. 5.10.1–5; Demades Twelve Years 9–10; Dem. Ep. 3.11. Bones: Plb. 5.10.4; 22.16; Plut. Dem. 22; Just. Epit. 9.4.5. Citizens and Proxenoi: Just. Epit. 9.4.5; Hyp. Fr.19.2 Burtt (LCL); IG II3 1 319; Anaximenes FGrH 72 F16; Schol. Ael. Arist. 178.16 (Philip had

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(Demades, Twelve Years 9; Paus. 1.34.1) and Samos (D.S. 18.56.7; Plut. Alex. 28.2) was awarded to Athens, though the Athenian Confederacy was disbanded (Paus. 1.25.3). Democracy remained in place—Demosthenes (Dem. 60; 18.285) delivered the eulogy for those who died at Chaeronea—but the Eucrates stele of 337/6 (IG II3 1 320 = Agora XVI 73) shows that certain groups in Athens were more concerned for the stability of the democracy from internal rather than external threats. Second, Philip granted benefactions to the Boeotian and Peloponnesian cities and either supported or installed pro-Macedonian governments within them. This policy, which guaranteed loyalty through the support of oligarchic regimes, was understandably unpopular with democratic factions, many of which were now ousted through a mix of internal revolutions and foreign interference. Polybius, however, had a more nuanced view of the matter and could appreciate, beyond the democratic rhetoric, that alliance with Philip allowed smaller poleis to break from their centuries-long dominance by Sparta, Athens, or Thebes (18.14–15). Oligarchies were installed in at least Thebes, Acarnania, Troezen, and Ambracia, and pro-Macedonian governments were probably also in place in Messene and Sicyon.13 Oligarchies were also installed or supported in Elis, Megara, Eretria, and Oreos.14 Garrisons were installed at certain key points, such as Thebes, Corinth, Ambracia, and perhaps Chalcis.15 It is, however, difficult to determine whether such governments and garrisons were imposed by Philip or were the result, as Griffith suggested, of internal pro-Macedonian uprisings supported by Philip.16 Regardless, Philip’s pro-oligarchic policy was followed by Alexander. In the early years of his reign Alexander faced numerous revolts in Greece: on his accession in late 336, with the rumours of his death in late 335, and with the revolt of the Spartan king Agis in 331. While it can be difficult to determine the date and sequence of revolts, it is clear that in their suppression Alexander followed Philip’s policy of ensuring loyalty by imposing or restoring proMacedonian oligarchies.17 earlier been made a citizen, presumably after Chaeronea: Plut. Dem. 22.4). Exiles: IG II3 1 316; Hyp. Athen. 29–35. 13 Thebes: see n. 5. Acarnania: D.S. 17.3.3; IG II3 1 316. Troezen: Lyc. 1.42; Hyp. Athen. 29–35. Ambracia: D.S. 17.3.3. Messene: nn. 11 and 23. Sicyon: IG II3 1 378 with II2 1 448 (cf. IG II3 1 377). On Polybius’ defence of the leaders of these small Peloponnesian poleis see Canevaro, Chapter 4 in this volume. 14 Elis: Paus. 4.28.4; Dem. 9.27, 19.260, 294. Megara: Dem. 19.295; Plut. Phoc. 15. Euboia: Dem. 9.57–58, 19.87–89. 15 Thebes: Din. 1.19; D.S. 16.87.3, 17.8.3; Plut. Alex. 11.5; Arr. Anab. 1.7.1; Paus. 9.1.8, 6.5. Corinth: Plb. 18.14.6, 38.3.3; Plut. Aratos 23.4. Ambracia: D.S. 17.3.3. Chalcis: Plb. 38.3.3; Strabo 10.1.8; cf. Hammond and Griffith 1979: 612 n. 3. For the possibility of a Macedonian garrison at Naupactus, see Rzepka 2004. 16 Hammond and Griffith 1979: 614. 17 Ziesmann 2005: 62–3 with n. 45, for tyrannies supported by Alexander.

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On Alexander’s accession a number of pro-Macedonian regimes were overthrown or threatened. A democratic revolution in Ambracia expelled the Macedonian garrison and overthrew the oligarchy installed by Philip (D.S. 17.3.3, 4.3), while the Aetolians sheltered those exiled from Acarnania by Philip and his partisans (D.S. 17.3.3). Thebes was on the brink of revolution (D.S. 17.3.4, 4.4) and Athens was openly agitating against Alexander.18 A year later, in autumn 335, a democratic revolution erupted in Thebes, motivated by hatred for the Macedonian-backed oligarchy and garrison and inspired by rumours of Alexander’s death.19 Athens, Elis, and Arcadia were all supportive, while Argos and Aetolia were likely also seditious.20 However, once Thebes’ destruction became known, oligarchic, pro-Macedonian regimes gained the ascendency: Elis restored its pro-Macedonian exiles, Arcadia condemned to death those who had called for military intervention, and Aetolia likely dissolved the federal structures it had instituted on Philip’s death.21 Macedonian control was again ensured through loyal oligarchies, which were not always imposed by Macedon itself. Athens, however, withstood Alexander’s demands to hand over its leading orators, including Lycurgus, for prosecution in the synedrion of the League of Corinth.22 Alexander actively supported oligarchy in Greece. Pseudo-Demosthenes’ On the Treaty with Alexander records a number of instances of Macedonianinstalled oligarchies/tyrannies in the Peloponnese, which are most probably dated to the aftermath of Agis’ revolt in 331/0. In Messene, Neon and Thrasylochus, the sons of Philiades and friends of Philip, were restored to power after a democratic revolution, implying that an oligarchy had earlier been supported by Philip.23 Pellene had installed at its head the philosopher, wrestler, and pro-Macedonian tyrant Chaeron.24 At Sicyon an anonymous paidotribes, identified by Poddighe as Aristratus, was restored by Alexander, again suggesting an earlier oligarchy supported by Philip.25 The League of 18

Aeschin. 3.160; Plut. Dem. 22.2, 23.2; D.S. 17.3.1–2, 5.1. Arr. Anab. 7–9; D.S. 17.8–14; Plut. Alex. 11–12; Just. Epit. 11.3.6–7. 20 Athens: D.S. 17.8.5–6; Just. Epit. 11.2.7–9; Plut. Dem. 23.1. Elis: D.S. 17.8.5. Arcadia: D.S. 17.8.5; Din. 1.18–19; Plut. Mor. 851b. Argos: D.S. 17.8.5. Aetolia: Arr. Anab. 1.7.4. 21 Elis: Arr. Anab. 1.10.1. Arcadia: Arr. Anab. 1.10.1. Aetolia: Bosworth 1980: 92. 22 Arr. Anab. 1.10.4–6; Plut. Dem. 23.4; Phoc. 17.2; D.S. 17.15.1; cf. Suda s.v. Ἀντίπατρος [A2704]; Bosworth 1980: 93–5; see below p. 59. See also Luraghi, Chapter 2 in this volume, pp. 27–30. 23 [Dem.] 17.4, 7 with Culasso Gastaldi 1984: 37–8; cf. Dem. 18.295 with Plb. 18.14.3. On their friendship with Philip, see Suda s.v. Νέων [Ν231]; Theopompus FGrH 115 F41. Fröhlich 2008: 204–8 discusses the prominence of the family in third-century Messene. SEG 41.362 records a third-century dedication of a herm to Heracles by Philliadas son of Neon. 24 [Dem.] 17.10 with Culasso Gastaldi 1984: 54–61; P.Herc. 1012 coll. 10.40–12.41 with Phainias of Eresos FGrH 1012 F6; Paus. 7.27.7; Ath. 11.509a–b; Aeschin. 3.165; Marasco 1985; Bollansée 2002. 25 [Dem.] 17.16 with Culasso Gastaldi 1984: 75–6; cf. Dem. 18.295; Poddighe 2004. His imposition was probably accompanied by a series of exiles, such as that of the democrat Euphron: IG II2 448, ll. 46–8; Wallace 2014. 19

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Corinth protected these oligarchic regimes because members were required to retain the governments in place when they joined the League; Philip and Alexander made sure that they were pro-Macedonian.26

3.3 P HILIP, ALEXANDER, AND THE CITIES OF WESTERN ASIA MINOR By supporting and imposing pro-Macedonian regimes throughout Greece, Philip and Alexander earned highly divisive reputations, unpopular in cities such as Athens but warmly remembered in cities such as Plataea and Thespiae. In Asia Minor the situation was different and Alexander enjoyed a long and popular afterlife as a defender of democracy. The reason lies in his different treatment of the Greek cities. The cities of western Asia Minor had long been controlled by Persia which, like Philip and Alexander in Greece, maintained control through loyal oligarchies. In contrast, democracy came to be seen to be as a political expression of anti-Persian, pro-Macedonian sentiment. Alexander supported the regime most likely to remain loyal to Macedon: in Greece it was oligarchy, in Asia it was democracy. Alexander’s support of democracy in Asia Minor marks a development on Philip’s earlier position. Philip, acting through his generals Parmenion and Attalus, did not install democracies in Asia Minor in 336 but seems to have supported them where they arose spontaneously. At Ephesus in 336, Philip supported a democratic uprising led, most likely, by one Heropythes, which expelled the pro-Persian oligarchy and brought the city to the Macedonian side.27 In thanks, a statue of Philip was erected in the temple of Artemis (Arr. Anab. 1.17.11).28 Ephesus was, however, the exception. In Eresus a pro-Macedonian oligarchy was supported and enrolled into the League of Corinth; an altar of Zeus Philippios was erected in response. Grynium and Pitane were besieged, with the former being captured by force and having its population sold into slavery. Cyzicus, Magnesia (on-the-Sipylus?), and Lampsacus perhaps also sided with Philip, but we do not know the nature of the regimes in place at the time.29 Alexander’s support of democracy in Asia Minor contrasts with both his and Philip’s actions in Greece and arose from his first-hand experience of civil 26

Kondratyuk 1977; Poddighe 2009: 112–13. An opponent of Mausollus (Polyaen. Strat. 7.23.2), Heropythes ‘the liberator’ (Arr. Anab. 1.17.11) was buried in the agora. An inscription, perhaps from his funerary monument, shows that he was awarded heroic honours, see Foucart 1918: Ἡρῶι Ἡροπίθω. 28 Where it joined an earlier statue of Lysander, see Paus. 6.3.14–15; Bommelaer 1981: 13. 29 Eresus: [Dem.] 17.7; GHI 83; Ellis-Evans 2012; Wallace 2017. Grynium and Pitane: D.S. 17.7.9–10. Cyzicus: D.S. 17.7.2–7; Polyaen. Strat. 5.44.5. Magnesia: Polyaen. Strat. 5.44.4; Badian 1966: 63 n. 20. Lampsacus: Paus. 6.18.2 (Anaximenes FGrH 72 T6); Badian 1966: 43–4. 27

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stasis between pro-Macedonian democrats and pro-Persian oligarchs in Ephesus in summer 334;30 this is the earliest evidence of Alexander supporting democracy.31 When Alexander arrived at Ephesus in early summer 334 the city had experienced an extended period of civil war.32 After Heropythes’ expulsion of the pro-Persian tyrant in 336 the newly installed democracy was itself overthrown in 335 by Memnon who installed Syrphax as tyrant. Heropythes’ tomb was dug up and the statue of Philip in the temple of Artemis was torn down. Alexander’s arrival in 334 inspired a second democratic uprising that brought the city back to the Macedonian side. Alexander restored the pro-Macedonian democrats exiled in 335 while the tyrant Syrphax, his son Pelagon, and his brothers were lynched by the Ephesians (Arr. Anab. 1.17.10–12). When ambassadors from Magnesia and Tralles came to hand over their cities (Arr. Anab. 1.18.1), presumably after similar democratic uprisings, Alexander recognized that by supporting democracy he could motivate the Greek cities to ally with Macedon and overthrow their proPersian oligarchies. Alcimachus was dispatched to the cities of Ionia and Aeolis still under Persian control with orders to overthrow the oligarchies, establish democracies, remit the tribute, and restore their laws (Arr. Anab. 1.18.2). The results were immediate. Chios, Tenedos, Cos, Mytilene, Eresus, and the cities of Lesbos all sided with Macedon and probably joined the League of Corinth.33 Although pro-Persian tyrants were re-installed by Memnon in 333 (Arr. Anab. 2.2.1–3; D.S. 17.29.2), further democratic uprisings in 332 ensured their expulsion (Arr. Anab. 3.2.3, 6–7; Curt. 4.5.14–28). Events on the Asian mainland followed a similar pattern. Colophon (Mauerbauinschriften 69, ll. 6–7), Priene (GHI 86b = I.Priene2 1; Thonemann 2013a), and perhaps Halicarnassus (SEG 42.1019; Plin. HN 5.107) were granted their freedom by Alexander, while democratic revolutions may also have taken 30

Badian 1966: 45–6; Stylianou 1994: 25. A democratic revolution might have taken place at Zeleia after the battle of Granicus (Arr. Anab. 1.17.1; cf. Dem. 9.41–5). See the texts published in MDAI (A) 6 (1881), p. 229 with Beilage, and MDAI (A) 9 (1884), 59–60, no. 6, which refer to the demos seizing control of the acropolis and redistributing the exiles’ land. Rhodes with Lewis 1997: 421 connects this with events in 334; Badian 1966: 63 n. 20 does not. Schorn 2014 argues that both inscriptions could be dated anytime in the late fourth century and that the nature of the regime in place after the battle of Granicus is unknown. 32 On events in Ephesus between 337–334, see Arr. Anab. 1.17.10–18.2; Badian 1966: 40–5; Dreyer 2009: 225–6. 33 Chios: GHI 84a–b; Theopompus FGrH 115 T2; Arr. Anab. 2.1.1, 3.2.3–7; Bosworth 1980: 178, 266–9; Hammond and Walbank 1988: 73–4. Tenedos: Arr. Anab. 2.2.1–3; Bosworth 1980: 183–4 suggests that it had originally joined the League in 338/7. Cos: Arr. Anab. 3.2.6–7. Mytilene: GHI 85a–b; Arr. Anab. 2.1.1–5, 3.2.6; Curt. 4.8.13; cf. IG XII 2 6 and 8 with Heisserer and Hodot 1986: 115 n. 9. Eresus: GHI 83 §1–3; Dem. 17.7; D.S. 17.29.2; Bosworth 1980: 178–80; Culasso Gastaldi 1984: 41–7; Hammond and Walbank 1988: 74–5; Lott 1996: 26–40; Koch 2001; Ellis-Evans 2012; Wallace 2017. For the cities of Lesbos, see Labarre 1996: 23–42. For debates concerning Mytilene’s membership of the League of Corinth, see Badian 1966: 50; Brunt 1976: 124 n. 2; Bosworth 1980: 181; Hammond and Walbank 1988: 73. 31

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place in Erythrae34 and Telos.35 Alexander’s support of democracy in Ionia and Aeolis can be traced epigraphically through the increased number of civic decrees published in the region.36 It appears, however, that Alexander’s support of democracy was a regional phenomenon focused on Ionia and Aeolis as no comparable increase in civic decrees is seen in Caria, despite Diodorus’ claim that Alexander granted the region its autonomy (17.24.1).37 Alexander’s support of oligarchy in Greece and democracy in western Asia Minor was motivated by political pragmatism and ensured that he was remembered as an opponent of democracy in Athens but a guarantor of democracy and liberator from Persian control in Asia Minor. However, a closer focus on the uses of Alexander’s memory in early Hellenistic Athens nuances this picture and shows that the Athenian democracy was well able to present Alexander as a patron of freedom and democracy should the situation require it. The reappearance of references to Alexander under Polyperchon in 319/8, Demetrius in 307/6, and an independent Athens in 281/0 shows how the rhetoric and ideology of Hellenistic Athenian democracy, as well as its engagement with its Classical past, were highly adaptable during extended periods of conflict and change. It also reveals how important ‘remembering Alexander’ was within the relationship between king and city in the early Hellenistic period. Cities had to accommodate themselves to the realities of Macedonian power and Alexander-imitatio while kings had to tailor their power to fit civic ideals. Alexander’s reputation, pulled between city and king, was open to continual reinterpretation, royal and civic, monarchic and democratic.

3.4 ALE XANDER IN ATHENS

3.4.1 Polyperchon and Athens, 319/8–318/7 Shortly before his death in autumn 319 Antipater passed control of the regency of the kings Philip Arrhidaeus and Alexander IV to Polyperchon. 34 I.Erythrai 503 = Syll.3 284 records renovations to the statue of the tyrannicide Philistes after the statue’s sword was removed by the oligarchy. Dittenberger (Syll.3 284), followed by Ober (2003), dates the events to the 330s; Heisserer 1979: places them in the early third century. For discussion of the statue and its significance, see Ober 2003: 227–8; Teegarden 2014: 142–72. Also associated may be I.Erythrai 10 and 21, which refer to the return of exiles and the expulsion of a garrison. 35 If a series of bronzes bearing the legend ΔΑΜΟΚΡΑΤΙΑΣ on the obverse and a club on the reverse can be dated to the 330s: Leschhorn 2002: 87 s.v. Δημοκρατία; Ziesmann 2005: 131–3 with n. 128. 36 Nawotka 2003; Mileta 2008: 21–40. 37 This is perhaps connected with Alexander’s confirmation of Ada as ruler of Caria, on whom see Heckel 2006: 3 s.v. Ada [1].

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Overlooked and angered, Antipater’s son Cassander sought support from the garrison-commanders and oligarchs that his father had installed throughout Greece.38 Polyperchon countered this by promising to remove the garrisons installed—and restore the democrats disenfranchised—by Antipater. He emphasized his regency of the kings and drew upon their legitimacy as Argeads and heirs to Alexander the Great. In autumn 319 Polyperchon issued an Edict in Philip Arrhidaeus’ name restoring to the Greek cities the constitutions they had held under Philip and Alexander. The Edict sought to destabilize Cassander’s position by presenting Philip Arrhidaeus, not Antipater or Cassander, as Alexander’s legitimate successor in Europe. Greece had suffered under Antipater (Plut. Phoc. 29.1), so the Edict motivated the Greek cities against Cassander by promising to restore them to the position they had held under Philip and Alexander. It claimed that Antipater’s position and actions after Alexander left for Asia in 334 were an aberration, an assumption of royal authority unsupported by Alexander or Philip Arrhidaeus (D.S. 18.56).39 Those exiled and disenfranchised by Antipater after the Revolt of Agis in 331 and the Hellenic War in 323/2 were to return and the Greeks were to side with Polyperchon against Cassander (D.S. 18.56.3): But whereas it happened that, while we [Philip Arrhidaeus] were far away, certain of the Greeks, being ill advised, waged war against the Macedonians and were defeated by our generals, and many bitter things befell the cities, know ye that the generals have been responsible for these hardships, but that we, holding fast to our original policy, are preparing peace for you and such governments as you enjoyed under Philip and Alexander, and that we permit you to act in all other matters according to the decrees formerly issued by them. Trans. Geer (1947)

The Edict marks a return to the recent Classical past and restores GrecoMacedonian relations to their position under Philip and Alexander from 337 to 334, when the Greeks were, as members of the League of Corinth, ‘free and autonomous’ (Dem. 17.8). However, Athens’ acceptance of the Edict had interesting political ramifications.40 Antipater had installed an oligarchy and garrison in Athens after the Hellenic War in 322;41 Polyperchon reinstated a radical democracy in 319/8 and attempted to remove the garrison 38 On the events of the years 319–317, see Bengtson 1964: 81–8; É. Will 1979: 45–52; 1984: 40–5; Hammond and Walbank 1988: 130–44; Errington 2008: 21–8; Wallace 2014: esp. 607–18. 39 Rosen 1967: 64–8; Landucci Gattinoni 2008: 231–3. 40 On Athens’ engagement with the Edict of Polyperchon, see in more detail Wallace 2014. Also important are Poddighe 1998; 2001; 2013; Paschidis 2008b; Grieb 2008: 56–60; Dixon 2007: 156–70. 41 On Boedromion 20th, 322/1: Plut. Cam. 19.10; Phoc. 28.1; Dem. 28.1. On Antipater’s settlement with Athens, see SV 415; Schmitt 1992: 147–51; Oliver 2003a; Landucci Gattinoni 2008: 100–8. Poddighe 1997, Baynham 2003, and Grieb 2008; 51–5 analyse the organization of the oligarchy. Poddighe 2002 offers a detailed study of Athens under Antipater.

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from Piraeus. He was, in real terms, restoring Athens’ freedom and democracy. Since the Edict presented this as a return to the situation under Philip and Alexander, when many Greek states had been members of the League of Corinth, the implication was that Athens and Greece had been free and democratic under the League and under Macedonian rule. Athens accepted this reinterpretation of events when it acknowledged the Edict and was forced to revise its recent history, in particular the reasons for its revolt from Macedon during the Hellenic War of 323/2. Why had Athens fought against those who had ensured its freedom and democracy? Athens’ reception of Polyperchon’s Edict, and its reinterpretation of the causes of the Hellenic War, can be traced within the second honorary decree for Euphron of Sicyon (IG II2 448: dating to Prytany IV, 318/7). One of the main causes of the war was Athens’ conflict with Alexander over Samos.42 As part of the Exiles Decree of 324, Alexander announced that he would return Samos to the Samians,43 ensuring that war with Athens would soon follow.44 Poddighe has shown how Athens argued that Alexander was acting the tyrant and undermining its freedom by returning Samos to the Samians, while Alexander argued that Athens was acting the tyrant by denying the Samians their freedom.45 The second honorary decree for Euphron, proposed by Hagnonides of Pergase, redefined the origins and goals of the Hellenic War of 323/2 in light of Athens’ concerns in 319/8–318/7, namely the removal of Antipater’s (now Cassander’s) garrison and the preservation of the newly restored democracy (IG II2 448, ll. 41–57):46 [Since Euphron] son of Adeas of Sicyon has [previously on every occasion] continued to show himself a good man towards the people of Athens, both himself and his ancestors; [and during] the Hellenic [war] which [the people of Athens began] on behalf of the Greeks, Euphron, returning [from exile] expelled [the] garrison from the [Acropolis with the support of the] Sicyonians and [after freeing] the city (Sicyon) made it a [friend and] ally of the people [of Athens the first of the] cities [in] the Peloponnese; and during all the [time] that the people were [fighting the war], he collaborated with the people and [gave assistance] to the troops and all others involved in [the war]; and when it happened that Greece suffered [misfortune and garrisons] were sent into the cities which had [expelled

42 D.S. 18.8.2–7; Shipley 1987: 165–8; Schmitt 1992: 48–9; Landucci Gattinoni 2008: 62–4; contra Dmitriev 2004: 372–9. 43 IG XII 6 1 17, ll. 11–14 = GHI 90b; Ephipp. FGrH 126 F5 = Gadaleta 2001: F1. On the date of the announcement, see Landucci Gattinoni 2008: 63–4, without knowledge of Dmitriev 2004: 366–70. 44 Hostilities broke out either in the months before (so Errington 1975: 55; Rosen 1978: 26; Bosworth 1988: 226) or after (so Habicht 1957: 156–69; Bielman 1994: 28–30) Alexander’s death. For the evidence, see IG XII 6 1 25 with Shipley 1987: 167 n. 66. 45 Plut. Alex. 28.1–2; Just. 13.5.5–7; Poddighe 2007; cf. Landucci Gattinoni 2008: 64. 46 Wallace 2014, building on Oliver 2003b. On Hagnonides, see Berve 1926: no. 176; Heckel 2006: 128–9 s.v. Hagnonides.

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them], he preferred death at the hand of his enemies, [fighting] for the democracy, rather than to see his [own native city] or the rest of Greece enslaved. Trans. Austin 2006: no. 32 [adapted]

The restored Athenian democracy depended on Polyperchon and in the second honorary decree for Euphron it followed the positive image of Alexander’s reign presented in the Edict. In doing so, the goals of the Hellenic War were reinterpreted in light of its consequences. The enemy became Antipater, not Alexander, and the war was presented as a revolt against a wayward, illegitimate governor on behalf of democracy and freedom from garrisons, rather than a revolt from an oppressive and over-bearing king demanding the return of Samos.47 Alexander was rehabilitated and recognized, along with his father Philip, as a patron of Athenian freedom and democracy, a process that was not all that difficult as Antipater’s harsh treatment of Athens had left the city longing for Philip and Alexander (Plut. Phoc. 29.1). The decree also harks back to the deeper Classical past of the Thirty Tyrants and the revolution of 404/3. Euphron had first been honoured in Prytany V, 323/2, during the Hellenic War, but the honours were invalidated and the stele on which they were recorded demolished by the oligarchy installed by Antipater.48 When democracy was restored and Athens passed the second honorary decree for Euphron in Prytany IV, 318/7, it described the restoration of the demos in terms that echoed its earlier overthrow and restoration in 404/3 (IG II2 448, ll. 57–65): [and] when the people of Athens honoured him with [citizenship] and the other honours which are fitting for [benefactors], both himself and his descendants, because of his [merits and] because of the benefactions of his ancestors, the government of the oligarchy deprived [him] of his privileges [and] destroyed the stelae; but now since the people has [come back] and has [recovered] its laws and the democracy, with good fortune . . . etc. Trans. Austin 2006: no. 32

The decree appears to parallel the overthrow and restoration of the democracy between 323/2 and 319/8 with the imposition of the Thirty Tyrants and the return of the democracy in 404/3. Indeed, it is natural that the restored democracy of 319/8–318/7 would turn to the events of 404/3, the closest previous occasion at which the democracy was overthrown and restored. The historical events parallel nicely: democracy is overthrown after defeat by Sparta/Macedon, an oligarchy is installed, democrats are disenfranchised and expelled, the fortress of Munychia in the Piraeus is garrisoned, but a short time 47 The Edict returned Samos to Athenian control (D.S. 18.56.7), thus resolving a major cause of the Hellenic War, and Athenian military action on the island is perhaps attested for 318–317 (IG XII 6 1 51–2, 75). 48 The decree of 323/2 was re-inscribed on the same stele as the new honours in 318/7, see Oliver 2003b, and has recently been re-edited by Stephen Tracy as IG II3 1 378.

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later democracy is restored, and the democratic exiles return. However, in contrast with the events of 404/3, the Athenian democracy of 319/8–318/7 was unable to remove the garrison in Munychia and so was forced to capitulate and agree to the imposition of a second oligarchy under Cassander in spring 317. The language used to describe the return of democracy in 319/8–318/7 deliberately echoes that of 404/3. Variations on the phrase ‘return of the demos’ (ὅ τε δῆμος [κατελ]|ήλυθε) appear in both literary and epigraphic sources relating to the events of 404/3 and suggest that the restored democracy of 319/8–318/7 turned to the events of 404/3 as a historical and ideological parallel.49 There is further evidence for Alexander’s rehabilitation under the restored democracy of 319/8. Again, we can see how Polyperchon drew legitimacy from his connection with Alexander and the Argeads while the democracy drew on Polyperchon’s support by remembering Alexander and honouring those who had been his associates. Shortly after the publication of the Edict, and one year before the second honorary decree for Euphron, the Athenian demos passed a decree in honour of Aenetus of Rhodes (Prytany IV, 319/8) in which he is commended for having served the best interests of the Athenians and for having fought well with Alexander in Asia (Agora XVI 101, ll. 13–18):50 Since Aenetus son of Daemon of Rhodes earlier made sure to act in the best interest of the Athenians, and while being abroad with King Alexander in Asia he fought the war in a fine and glorious manner, and through benefactions . . .

Aenetus of Rhodes was likely an associate of Polyperchon who fought with him on Alexander’s campaigns in the east and held a prominent position in his entourage in 319/8. By stressing Aenetus’ connection with Alexander, Athens reflected Alexander’s importance to Polyperchon, who justified his position in Macedon and Greece via his connection with Alexander and the Argeads. With Athens’ freedom and democracy dependent upon individuals such as Polyperchon and Aenetus, both ex-officers of Alexander, it was natural that the city would promote a positive image of the Macedonian king. The inventories of Athena Polias may also reveal Alexander’s positive image in Athens in these years. The inventories of the year 304/3 record the gift of a panoply to Athena by Polyperchon’s son Alexandros—‘a magnificent corslet 49 IG II2 10, ll. 4–5 = GHI 4 (401/0): τοῖς κατελ[θο ̑σι τῶν πολιτ||ῶν]; SEG 28.45.1–2 (403/2): [οἵδε καταλαβόντες Φυλ]ὴν | [τὸν δῆμον κατήγαγον]; Aeschin. 3.187–90: τῶν καταγαγόντων τὸν δῆμον; ἡ τῶν καταγαγόντων δωρεά; κατεληλύθει ὁ δῆμος; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 41.1: τὴν κάθοδον . . . τὸν δῆμον. The juxtaposition of oligarchy and democracy is also seen in SEG 28.46, ll. 4–6 (403/ 2): ὁπόσοι Ἀθηναίω[ν] ἀ[πέθαν]ον [β]ιαί||ωι θανάτωι ἐν τῆι ὀλιγ[αρχίαι β]ο[ηθ]ο̑ντ|ες τῆι δημοκρατίαι. On the Thirty Tyrants and the restoration of democracy, see in general [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 34–40 with Rhodes 1981: 415–82; 2010: 293–6; Tritle 2010: 223–33. Shear 2011 explores democratic responses to the revolutions of 411 and 404/3. 50 Naturalization no. 27; 1981–3: 97; Poddighe 1998: 41; Kralli 2000: 115; Brun 2005: 206–8 no. 111. Aenetus is not included in Heckel’s (2006) prosopography.

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and gold-plated shield, both in good condition, and bronze greaves with silver work’—which Habicht plausibly assigns to the Great Panathenaea of 318/7.51 Alexandros’ dedications, which must have been authorized by Polyperchon, emulated Alexander’s earlier dedication of three hundred Persian shields to Athena after the Battle of Granicus in late 334 (Arr. Anab. 1.16.7; Plu. Alex. 16.8), which also perhaps took place during the Panathenaea of 334/3.52 The inventories of the year 305/4 show that Alexander’s wife Rhoxane dedicated a gold rhyton and gold necklaces to Athena, but again the date of these dedications is uncertain.53 Elisabetta Kosmetatou rightly argues that Rhoxane could have made these dedications in person or by proxy any time between 327 and 316,54 but both Diane Harris and Petros Themelis suggest that the most plausible and likely context is 319/8, when we know that Rhoxane was present in Greece with Polyperchon, Alexandros, and the Macedonian royal court.55 If so, then it is likely that these dedications also took place during the Great Panathenaea of 318/7 and reflect again Polyperchon’s attempts to legitimize and enhance his position in Athens and Greece by emphasizing his connection with Alexander and the Argead court. Rhoxane’s dedications in particular, made by Alexander’s Bactrian wife at the city’s most important festival, reveal further the rehabilitation of Alexander’s memory in Athens at this time. As Alexandros’ dedication emulated Alexander’s, so Rhoxane’s perhaps echoed Olympias’ contentious dedication of a phiale to Hygeia in 333 (Hyp. Eux. 19–24).56 In Lycurgan Athens, Alexander, like Philip before him, was widely regarded as a threat to Athenian democracy. However, when Polyperchon restored the Athenian democracy in 319/8 and claimed that the Greek cities had been free and democratic under Alexander, the Athenian demos presented a positive image of its relationship with Alexander. The Edict of Philip Arrhidaeus and the second honorary decree for Euphron reveal how the Hellenic War was redefined as a struggle against Antipater on behalf of democracy and freedom from garrisons. In the honorary decree for Aenetus,

51 IG II2 1473, ll. 6–11 (Schenkungen no. 4): πανο|[πλία, ἣν Ἀ]λέξαδρος ὁ Πολυπ|[έρχοντ]ος ἀνέθηκεν· θώραξ π|[ομπικό]ς; ἐντελής, πέλτη ἐπί||[χρυσος] ἐντελής, κνημῖδες χα|[λκαῖ ἀρ]γυ[ρ]ωταί; Habicht (1997) 49. Shear 2001: 577 n. 287 argues that Alexandros was not in Athens at the time of the Panathenaea and his dedication must belong to another occasion. However, Diodorus records that Alexandros was in Attica in summer 318 (D.S. 18.68.3); he next appears in the Peloponnese in spring 316 (D.S. 19.53.1). 52 Habicht 1997: 18–19 with n. 23; Shear 2001: 570–2. Note also Demetrius’ dedication of 1,200 panoplies to Athens after the Battle of Salamis in early 306 (Plut. Demetr. 17.1; Holton 2014: 4–8). On the military significance of panoply dedications by non-Athenians, see Shear 2001: 187–95. 53 IG II2 1492, ll. 45–57 with new readings in SEG 53.172 (Schenkungen no. 3). 54 55 Kosmetatou 2004. Harris 1995: 233–5; Themelis 2003: 164–8. 56 Olympias also dedicated spoils, likely from the Battle of Issus, at Delphi in 331 (FD III 5 58.4–8; cf. Plut. Alex. 25.4).

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the Athenian democracy presented a positive image of Alexander, reflecting his importance for Polyperchon. Rhoxane’s dedications show Polyperchon furthering this image of royal-civic consensus by using Alexander’s wife, the mother of Alexander IV, to express Argead patronage of the now democratic city at its biggest and most important festival. Alexander, though not a patron of democracy himself, was rehabilitated by the restored democracy in Athens due to political necessity. However, a very different image of Alexander appears in 307/6 when democracy is restored for a second time by Demetrius.

3.4.2 Demetrius and Athens, 307/6 In summer 307 (26th Thargelion, 308/7, one month and five days before the end of the Athenian year) Demetrius arrived in Piraeus and announced that Athens was free and could govern itself according to its ancestral constitution.57 With a second restoration by one of Alexander’s successors, Athens’ fragile democracy again sought solace in its past. As it had turned to the example of Euphron of Sicyon in 318, so now it turned to Lycurgus, drawing again on its Classical past. With the return of democracy we find a return of Alexander to the democratic consciousness, but one very different from that of 319/8. Six months (Prytany VI, 307/6) after the restoration of the democracy, Stratocles of Diomeia proposed an honorary decree for Lycurgus of Boutadae. The decree, preserved on stone and in Plutarch’s Lives of the Ten Orators,58 offers a posthumous account of Lycurgus’ actions on behalf of Athens. It praises his building programme, fiscal management, and defence of the ideals of freedom, autonomy, and democracy. Lycurgus and Alexander are carefully constructed as opposites. Lycurgus champions civic ideals while Alexander personifies the authoritarian, universal monarch who threatens the free and democratic city (IG II2 457, ll. 9–21):

57 D.S. 20.45.5, 46.1; Polyaen. Strat. 4.7.6; Plut. Demetr. 8.5, 10.1; Suda s.v. Δημήτριος [Δ431]. On Demetrius’ liberation of Athens, see most recently Oliver 2007: 116–19; Grieb 2008: 68–73; Paschidis 2008a: 78–90; Bayliss 2011: 102–6, 159–67. 58 IG II2 457 = Syll.3 326; Plut. Mor. 851f–852e; Roisman and Worthington 2015: 275–7. For the relationship between literary and epigraphic texts, see Oikonomides 1986; Prauscello 1999. Osborne’s (1981) argument that IG II2 513 is a second copy of IG II2 457 has been refuted by Tracy 2003: 70–2 and Prauscello. Lambert 2015 explores the relationship between IG II2 457 and IG II2 3207, which he argues records honorary decrees for Lycurgus passed during his lifetime. Gauthier 1985: 89–92 explores Stratocles’ role in proposing Lycurgus’ honours; see now Luraghi 2014.

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When fear and great danger threatened the Greeks because Alexander had conquered the Thebans and had become master of Asia and the other parts of the world, Lycurgus continued to oppose him on behalf of the demos without corruption or blame, providing himself throughout all his life on behalf of the fatherland and the safety of all the Greeks, and contesting with all skill for the city’s freedom and autonomy. And so, when Alexander demanded his surrender the demos resolved not to hand him over nor to call for his punishment, knowing that in all cases it partook with Lycurgus in a just cause.

The focus is on Alexander’s demand for the ten orators in late 335. Alexander is incorrectly said to have demanded Lycurgus once he had destroyed Thebes and conquered Asia, thus giving a global scale to the threat he posed to the Greeks and the opposition offered by Lycurgus and Athens. Lycurgus is also incorrectly presented as the only orator demanded by Alexander and the only individual who stood against him. The nine other orators are forgotten, subsumed within the person and example of Lycurgus who is said to have fought Alexander with every skill he had to keep the city free and autonomous.59 A reciprocal relationship between city and citizen is on display here. It is only because Lycurgus protected Athens’ freedom and autonomy that the demos had the strength to stand up to Alexander and refuse to hand Lycurgus over. The moral is, as Bertrand pointed out, that freedom and democracy are no longer a natural and perennial reality.60 Rather, each citizen must do his best to defend the city so that the free and democratic city can in turn protect its citizens. The decree contrasts Alexander and Lycurgus as destroyer and defender of democracy, but by over-stating Alexander’s power and Lycurgus’ defiance it presents an exaggerated promotion of democratic authority, both for Lycurgus himself and for the demos that protected him. The decree recounts through the example of Lycurgus the strength of Athenian democratic ideology and the demos’ ability to stand against the totalitarian hybris of the king of the world. In both 319/8–318/7 and 307/6, Athens turned to its Classical past for solace. Focusing on the persons of Euphron and Lycurgus, Enrica Culasso Gastaldi has pointed out that in both instances Athens offered posthumous honours to individuals who had previously supported the city’s freedom and democracy.61 The decrees were restatements of the validity and authority of the democracy after periods of oligarchy and they imagined their subjects as heroic ideals whose lives provided inspirational models for citizens and benefactors. For Grieb, Lycurgus personified the restored democracy of 307/6.62 59 Sources are inconsistent regarding both the number and identity of those demanded by Alexander. There may have been some confusion with those later demanded by Antipater in 322, see Bosworth 1980: 92–5; Yardley and Heckel 1997: 102–3. 60 61 Bertrand 2001: 19. Culasso Gastaldi 2003. 62 Grieb 2008: 70. Kralli 1999–2000: 149 emphasizes Lycurgus’ building programme as another model for the restored democracy, on which see now Meier 2012: 28–38. On Lycurgus as an Athenian historical paradigm, see Brun 2003.

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The negative depiction of Alexander in 307/6 differs from his relatively positive depiction in 319/8–318/7. Alexander’s successors emulated him and associated themselves with his memory, but they did so in different ways.63 Polyperchon ruled as regent for the kings Philip Arrhidaeus and Alexander IV, hence his focus on Philip, Alexander, and Argead legitimacy;64 the restored Athenian democracy in its turn rehabilitated Alexander’s memory and honoured his associates and family. Demetrius, however, ruled by his own right. While he emulated Alexander he did not legitimize his position via reference to Alexander and the Argead dynasty, the last male member of which had been executed in 311/10; in 307/6 Demetrius was on the cusp of being declared king himself, the first of the new Hellenistic dynasties. Alexander was an important role model, but he was not the basis of Demetrius’ claim to rule. As a result, Athens had much greater freedom in its depiction of Alexander and could, in this instance, present a highly negative image of the king as a warning against over-intrusive monarchy. The decreased importance of Alexander in 307/6 can also be seen in the honours for Demetrius’ courtiers. Whereas Athens stressed Aenetus of Rhodes’ connection with Alexander it did not refer to Demetrius’ courtiers’ connection with Alexander. Aristonicus of Carystus,65 Medius of Larissa,66 an unnamed son of Menelaus,67 and perhaps also Philip and Iolaus,68 all served under Alexander, were part of Demetrius’ entourage in Greece, and were honoured by Athens, but their decrees make no mention of their service under Alexander. (Philip and Iolaus, however, are said to have been bodyguards of Alexander IV.) Athens did not need to emphasize their Argead past because Antigonus and Demetrius did not draw legitimacy from Alexander and the Argeads; they were honoured for their connection with the Antigonids alone.

63 On Alexander-imitatio in general, see Heuß 1954; Bohm 1989; Müller 2009; Wallace forthcoming. On Demetrius and Alexander, see Plut. Demetr. 41. On the use of Alexander’s memory by his successors, see Stewart 1993; Meeus 2009a; 2009b. 64 Wallace 2016. 65 IG II2 385b = Naturalization D49 (307–301); Ath. 1.19a–b; O’Sullivan 2012. On Aristonicus, see Billows 1990: 445 no. 130; Heckel 2006: 49 s.v. Aristonicus [2]; Paschidis 2008a: 457–8, D96. 66 IG II2 498 (Prytany XII, 303/2); Hauben 1975: 60–9, no. 23; Billows 1990: 400–1 no. 68; Heckel 2006: 158 s.v. Medius; Paschidis 2008a: 110–12. 67 IG II2 559 + 568 (c.303/2). Kirchner in IG II2 and J. and L. Robert BE (1982) no. 156 restored the honorand as Philip son of Menelaos of Macedon, who had served under Alexander the Great, but the identification is not certain, see Billows 1990: 443–4 no. 127; Heckel 2006: 212 s.v. Philip [4]. 68 IG II2 561 (307–301). The decree probably dates from 307–301 as it was proposed by Stratocles of Diomeia, but a case has been made for 323/2 (SEG 36.161; Plut. Mor. 849f). Philip and Iolaus are described as σωματοφ[ύλακες Ἀλεξάνδρου | το]ῦ βασιλέ[ως] (ll. 7–8). Billows 1990: 394–5 no. 57, 421–3 no. 93 argues that this is Alexander III, but it is probably Alexander IV, see Heckel 1980; 1981; 2006: 143 s.v. Iolaus [3], 213 s.v. Philip [6]; Habicht 1973: 373 with n. 35; Burstein 1977; Wheatley 1997.

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The decree for Lycurgus had multiple audiences. On one level, it was directed at the Athenian demos. By claiming that the democracy is only as strong as its citizens the decree argues that both city and citizen must work together to ensure their mutual stability. However, the decree is also a didactic example to Demetrius of the strength and resilience of a free and autonomous Athens—a status he had just granted the city—against royal interference. It shows Demetrius that royal authority, even that of a world-conquering, Thebes-destroying tyrant such as Alexander, cannot compete with civic independence once citizen and city work together in the interests of the democracy.69 However, because Alexander is the subject of this claim the lesson of civic independence over royal authority is writ large and Alexander, the personification of Hellenistic kingship, is outdone by Lycurgus, the personification of civic democracy. How could Demetrius or any other successor hope to overpower the Athenian democracy when the great Alexander had tried and failed? The focus on Alexander is not an attempt to please a ruler, as it had been under Polyperchon; it is both a warning to Demetrius and a call-out to Athenian citizens. Athens’ lesson is that the democratic polis is stronger than the greatest of all kings, but only when city and citizen work together to defend democracy.

3.4.3 Demochares and Athens, 281/0 Demosthenes and Athens’ opposition to Philip and Alexander was well remembered throughout the Hellenistic period and rhetorical exercises from Hellenistic Egypt reveal the lasting influencing it had on rhetorical education.70 However, there are few if any literary or epigraphic references to Alexander and democracy in Hellenistic Athens.71 Some sources record that Alexander returned the statues of Harmodius and Aristogeiton to Athens (Pliny NH 34.70; Arr. Anab. 3.16.7-8; 7.19.2), though others claim that it was Antiochus I (Paus. 1.8.5) or Seleucus I who did so (Valerius Maximus 2.10, ext.1). Bosworth has plausibly suggested that the statues were returned during the joint reign of Seleucus and Antiochus, when they also returned to Miletus a statue of Apollo taken by Darius I (Paus. 1.16.3, 69 On the role played by comedy in neutralizing royal power in the polis, see Lape 2004: 59–67. 70 Kremmydas 2013; Canevaro, Chapter 4 in this volume. 71 I am not aware of any references to Alexander and Athenian democracy after the honorary decree for Demosthenes of 281/0. In the early first century Mithridates, who emulated Alexander (Bohm 1989: 153–91; Trofimova 2012: 72–3), made veiled promises to restore Athens’ democracy (Posidonius FGrH 87 F36: ἀλλὰ καὶ τὴν δημοκρατίαν ἀνακτησαμένους ἐν ὁμονοίαι ζῆν) (compare Chapter 8, this volume) but there is no evidence explicitly linking Alexander and democracy in Athens at this time. Sulla, however, restored its libertas in 87/6 (Liv. Per. 81).

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8.46.3), but that Alexander had perhaps promised their return while at Susa. More recently, Jennifer Finn has argued that Alexander did indeed return the statues but did so according to Mesopotamian royal traditions.72 For his Greek audience, this was a powerful gesture. As leader and liberator of the Greeks Alexander righted Xerxes’ wrongs and took revenge for the destruction of Athens during the Persian Wars. The gesture may also have paralleled Alexander with the tyrannicides. As they were seen to have liberated Athens, so was Alexander widely seen to have liberated the Greeks. The honorary decree for Demosthenes, proposed by his nephew Demochares and passed in 281/0 is another example—Plutarch (Mor. 850f–851c) preserves Demochares’ request for honours, not the honorary decree itself—but Alexander is only mentioned in passing.73 The actions Demochares cites relate, unsurprisingly, to Demosthenes’ opposition to Philip, but Alexander briefly appears when Demochares notes that Demosthenes ‘prevented the Peloponnesians from helping Alexander against Thebes’.74 The decree presents a clear antiMacedonian narrative whereby Demosthenes ‘devoted his public life towards freedom and democracy, but was exiled by the oligarchy, when the demos was in abeyance’.75 Although neither Philip nor Alexander interfered with or undermined the Athenian democracy, the decree conflates pre- and postHellenic War events to present the Argead kings as the figureheads of later Macedonian-backed oligarchies in Athens. Antipater, who installed the oligarchy and garrisoned Piraeus, appears only as the man who sent soldiers to Demosthenes at Calauria.76 Forty-three years after his death, despite the oligarchies of Antipater, Cassander, and Demetrius, not to mention the tyranny of Lachares, Alexander could still be presented as an enemy of Athenian democracy, even if he had never really been one. It is no coincidence that Alexander reappeared as an opponent of democracy in honorary decrees for Lycurgus (Prytany VI, 307/6) and Demosthenes (281/0); both honorands had been leading lights of the anti-Macedonian movement from the 350s to the 320s and both of their decrees were moved shortly after the restoration of democracy in summer 307 and spring 287. Democratic regimes honouring democratic figureheads naturally presented their opponents as pro-oligarchic tyrants. A similar image reappears in the 72

Bosworth 1980: 317; Finn 2014; Müller 2016, who doubts the story altogether. On the decree, see von den Hoff 2009; Roisman and Worthington 2015: 269–71; Canevaro, Chapter 4, pp. 73–6 and Luraghi, Chapter 2 in this volume, pp. 32–4; Shear (forthcoming). On its date, see Byrne 2006/7: 172–3. The dedicatory epigram—‘if only you had strength equal to your reason, Demosthenes, Macedonian Ares would never have ruled the Greeks’ (εἴπερ ἴσην ῥώμην γνώμῃ, Δημόσθενες, ἔσχες, οὔποτ’ ἂν Ἑλλήνων ἦρξεν Ἄρης Μακεδών)—is recorded by multiple sources: Plut. Dem. 30.5; Mor. 847a; Suda s.v. Δημοσθένης [Δ455]; P.Oxy. XV 1800 Fr. 3 Col. III ll. 36–9. 74 Plut. Mor. 851b: καὶ ὡς ἐκώλυσε Πελοποννησίους ἐπὶ Θήβας Ἀλεξάνδρῳ. 75 Plut. Mor. 851c: πεπολιτευμένῳ τῶν καθ’ ἑαυτὸν πρὸς ἐλευθερίαν καὶ δημοκρατίαν ἄριστα· φυγόντι δὲ δι’ ὀλιγαρχίαν, καταλυθέντος τοῦ δήμου. 76 Plut. Mor. 851c: πεμφθέντων στρατιωτῶν ἐπ’ αὐτὸν ὑπὸ Ἀντιπάτρου. 73

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next generation when honorary decrees for Philippides of Kephale (IG II3 1 877— Prytany III, 283/2), Demochares of Leuconoe (Plut. Mor. 851d–f, 271/0), Callias of Sphettus (IG II3 1 911 = SEG 28.60, Prytany VI, 270/69), and perhaps Olympiodorus (Paus. 1.26.1–3) all focused on the honorand’s democratic credentials (see also Luraghi, Chapter 2 in this volume, pp. 30–6).77 However, in each of these decrees the honorand defends Athenian democracy against Demetrius, who liberated Athens in 307 and 295 but on both occasions soon oversaw regimes that were remembered as oligarchies. The ideology and formulae of commemoration and damnation remained the same, but the subject of democratic bile shifted. Alexander’s changing reputation under the democracies of 319/8–318/7, 307–301, and 287–262 shows the malleability of democratic memory and how the events and concerns of the late Classical democracy could be adopted and adapted in different contexts and for different ends by early Hellenistic democracies.

3.5 ALEXANDER IN ASIA MINOR Alexander’s democratic Nachleben in Asia Minor offers an informative parallel to events in Athens. For the Greek cities of western Asia Minor, long under Persian control, Alexander was a liberator who brought freedom and democracy, both of which were seen to be royal benefactions, awarded first by Alexander and confirmed thereafter by his successors. While the ‘great convergence’ saw both Athens and the cities of Asia Minor draw upon the memory of Alexander the Great, they did so in different ways and for different ends. Athens saw democracy as an ancestral, self-affirmed right and drew strength from its opposition to Alexander. The cities of Asia Minor, however, saw democracy as a royal gift, and drew legitimacy from Alexander’s actions. Alexander’s grant of freedom and democracy in 334 was a watershed moment in the history of the Greek cities of Asia Minor and was cited as late as the first century. However, not all cities were treated the same (Arr. Anab. 1.18.1–2):78 Alexander also sent Alcimachus son of Agathocles, with at least an equal force, to the Aeolian cities and to any Ionian towns still subject to the barbarians. He ordered the oligarchies everywhere to be overthrown and democracies to be established; he restored its own laws to each city and remitted the tribute they used to pay to the barbarians. Trans. Brunt 1976 77 Luraghi 2010; Wallace 2011: 163–72; Shear 2012a. On the question of whether or not Pausanias records an honorary decree for Olympiodorus, see Habicht 1985: 90–2, 101; Oliver 2007: 55–63; Paschidis 2008a: 133–9, A44. 78 On Alexander’s political arrangements with the Greek cities, see Dmitriev 2011: 427–32.

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The freedom that Alexander granted the cities of Ionia and Aeolis was not rigorously defined; the only thing it actually entailed was independence from Persian control. It was a ‘negative’ freedom: freedom from something, such as Persian control; not a ‘positive’ freedom: freedom to do something.79 Some Greek cities were relieved of the tax (phoros) they had earlier paid to the Persians—another ‘negative’ freedom—but they had to pay a contribution (syntaxis) to the war effort.80 As Schorn has recently emphasized, Alexander did not promote democracy as a general principle, indeed there is evidence that he supported tyrants as late as the 320s, such as Hegesias of Ephesus and Hecataeus of Cardia.81 Democracy appears to have been granted en masse to the Greek cities of Ionia and Aeolis alone. Krzysztof Nawotka has shown that the introduction of democracy can be traced epigraphically in the increased number of decrees published on stone by Ephesus, Erythrae, Colophon, Priene, Miletus, and Iasus in the last quarter of the fourth century. Alexander’s order to Alcimachus did not include Caria and, accordingly, the Greek cities of Caria show little to no increase in the number of decrees published on stone.82 A notable exception, however, is the Cilician city of Soli which had a democracy imposed by Alexander (see nn. 1–3). The Greek cities of Asia Minor had been liberated by Athens and Sparta after the Persian and Peloponnesian Wars respectively,83 but it was Alexander’s comprehensive destruction of Persian power and his explicit grant of freedom and democracy together that was immediately significant in the Hellenistic Period. For centuries after his death Alexander was associated with democracy and cited by both kings and cities in their diplomatic negotiations. A number of his letters guaranteeing freedom or democracy were (re-) inscribed in the early Hellenistic Period, at times when his precedent was 79 Erich Fromm (1942) first distinguished between ‘freedom to’ and ‘freedom from’, but Isaiah Berlin popularized the distinction in his 1959 essay Two Concepts of Liberty: Berlin (2002) 166–217. Quentin Skinner (2002) has argued for the addition of a third form of freedom characterized as the active partaking of government so as to prevent enslavement from another power. ‘Positive’ freedom—‘freedom to’—informs much of the work of the Copenhagen Polis Centre, see Hansen 1998: 78–83; 2006: 48–50; Beck 2003. ‘Negative’ freedom—‘freedom from’— informs Ostwald 1982: 41–6 and Jehne 1994: 272. Liddel 2007: 9–14, esp. 10 n. 42, criticizes the use of the distinctions ‘positive’ and ‘negative’. 80 Sardis (Arr. Anab. 1.17.4, 17.7; 3.6.4), Aspendus (Arr. Anan. 1.26.2–3, 27.2–4), and the cities of Hellespontine Phrygia (Arr. Anab. 1.17.1–2) continued to pay the phoros. Ilium (Strabo 13.1.26), Erythrae (I.Erythrai 31.21–8), and the cities of Caria (D.S. 17.24.2) were absolved. Ephesus paid its phoros to the temple of Artemis (Arr. Anab. 1.17.10, 18.1–2; Stylianou 1994: 28–9). Priene was released from the syntaxis, thus implying its universality (GHI 86b = I.Priene2 1; Nawotka 2003: 26–9; Mileta 2008: 36–40). 81 Schorn 2014: esp. 81–7. Hegesias: Polyaen. Strat. 6.49 (Ἡγησίαν τύραννον Ἐφεσίων). Bosworth 1980: 132 plausibly suggests that he was a pro-Macedonian democrat who was called a tyrant by his opponents. See also Berve 1926: 166 no. 343; Badian 1966: 64; Stylianou 1994: 37; Heckel 2006: 132 s.v. Hegesias. Hecataeus: Plut. Eum. 3; Heckel 2006: 131 s.v. Hecataeus [2]; Berve 1926: 148–9 nos. 292 and 294. 82 83 Nawotka 2003. Seager and Tuplin 1980; Seager 1981.

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important for ensuring renewed guarantees of such statuses from his successors. At Eresos, sometime between 306 and 301, the city re-inscribed his decision permitting the city to judge its tyrants itself.84 At Priene, in the early third century, Alexander’s letter granting the city its freedom was re-inscribed on the ante walls of the temple of Athena along with others from Lysimachus.85 At Chios too Alexander’s letter granting the city its freedom and democracy was probably (re)inscribed posthumously.86 His judgements were repeated during the Rhodian arbitration between Priene and Samos between 196 and 191.87 In other instances cities referred to Alexander’s grant of freedom or democracy as a form of moral force, compelling his successors to follow his example and reconfirm his benefactions.88 An early example comes from Colophon, where an inscription of the late fourth century speaks of Alexander and Antigonus granting the city its freedom (Mauerbauinschriften 69.6–8): Since King Alexander and Antigonus granted the demos its freedom, striving in every way to guard the reputation of its ancestors . . .

A similar situation can be seen in a letter of Antiochus II to Erythrae dating shortly after the 260s, which specifies the methods of persuasion employed by the Erythraean ambassadors (I.Erythrai 31.21–8):89 Since Tharsynon, Pythes, and Bottas declared that under Alexander and Antigonus your city was autonomous and free from tribute, and our ancestors were constantly zealous on its behalf, and since we see that their decision was just and we ourselves wish not to fall short in (our) benefactions, we shall help to preserve your autonomy and we grant you exemption from tribute, including all the other taxes and [the] contributions [to] the Gallic fund. Trans: Austin 2006: no. 170

Alexander was well remembered in Erythrae and his cult lasted until the third century CE at least (IGRR IV 1543; OGIS 2 n. 2). The Erythraean ambassadors remind Antiochus, as they must have earlier reminded Antigonus, of Alexander’s benefactions and challenge the king to live up to his famous predecessor by reconfirming his grant of autonomy and tax-exemption. Evidently, the king’s name still carried weight. 84

GHI 83; Ellis-Evans 2012; Wallace 2017. GHI 86b; IK Priene 1; Sherwin-White 1985; Vacante 2010. 86 GHI 84a. The text refers to Alexander in the first and third person singular and in the first plural. He also appears both with and without the royal title. Heisserer 1980: 89–92 tried to explain away these problems, but it is possible that a royal letter and a civic decree were edited together and inscribed as one document in the late fourth or early third centuries. 87 I.Priene2 132, ll. 168–9: [Ἀλεξά]νδρου διαβάντος εἰς τὴν Ἀσίαν ἐνέμον|[το]. 88 For Alexander as precedent, see Bickerman 1938: 136; Orth 1977: 14–15. 89 RC 15; Habicht 1970: 95–9; Ma 2002: 267–8. 85

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At Cilician Soli we can see how the memory of Alexander’s actions was modified to promote a favourable royal policy regarding the city. Alexander arrived at Soli in September-October 333 and treated the hitherto pro-Persian city harshly. He garrisoned the acropolis, extorted two hundred talents (later remitting fifty), took hostages, imposed a democracy, and forced Soli and Mallus to contribute three triremes to his fleet.90 Alexander’s actions are remembered in a letter from a Ptolemaic or Seleucid king to a local official of late third- or early second-century date chastising him for the disorderly way in which troops were billeted inside and outside the city (RC 30, ll. 3–10):91 For [the ambassadors from Soli claimed that] in addition the soldiers camping in disorder were occupying not only the outer but the inner city as well, which even under King Alexander was never subjected to billeting, and that they were especially pressurised by the supernumeraries, for they are the men who occupy the greater part of the houses. Trans: Austin 2006: no. 279

The letter is evidence that by the late third century Alexander’s regulations for Soli had become proverbial within the city and offered a model against which later impositions could be measured.92 But there is also a degree of judicious reinterpretation going on here. Alexander had garrisoned Soli and the army stayed in the vicinity long enough for him to stage a procession of the entire army with athletic and musical competitions. Billeting, or something similar to it, is likely. Soli had undoubtedly been poorly treated but by making an unfavourable comparison with Alexander’s proverbially harsh impositions, the city hoped to shame its current rulers into reforming the billeting system by showing that it was better treated as Alexander’s enemy than as the current king’s ally. Cunningly, the city turned Argead oppression into Ptolemaic/ Seleucid benefaction. An intriguing example from first-century Amisus reveals further how a city might use a liberal interpretation of Alexander’s actions to gain added benefactions from a later ruler, in this case democracy. It shows how important Alexander’s example was even in the late Hellenistic period and how his benefactions could later be employed within status negotiations (App. Mith. 12.83 [373–4]): After Sinope, Lucullus settled the people of Amisus, who had likewise fled by sea. He learned that they had been settled there by the Athenians when they had ruled the sea, had been a democracy for a long time, but had to submit to the Persian

90

Arr. Anab. 2.5.5–8, 12.2, 20.2; Curt. 3.7.1–4; for his sacrifice to Argive Amphilochus, see Strabo 14.7 (C676). 91 Welles 1934: 137–9 and Ma 2002: 271 argue for a Ptolemaic origin and a date in the late third century. Virgilio 2007, 2008, 2011: 179–266 ascribes it to Antiochus III and dates it to 197. 92 Bosworth 1980: 195.

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kings; that they regained democracy by the order of Alexander, but were again enslaved by the kings of Pontus. For these reasons Lucullus sympathised with them and, eager to rival Alexander’s favour of the Attic race, he too left the city autonomous and recalled the Amisians with all haste.

The context is the aftermath of Lucullus’ siege and destruction of the city of Amisus in 71.93 His benefactions to Amisus after the event are part of a wider programme of philhellenism undertaken in spite of his soldiers’ wish to loot and pillage Greek cities; Sinope was left free after its capture by Lucullus.94 Appian shifts from demokratia, which Alexander granted, to autonomia, which Lucullus restored, but he is probably using both terms synonymously to denote local self-government; the variation is nothing more than stylistic. The historical context of Alexander’s decision to restore democracy to Amisus is difficult to determine. Stanley Burstein connects it with Memnon’s claim that a group of democratic exiles expelled from Heracleia Pontica by Dionysius I asked Alexander to remove Dionysius, reinstate them, and restore the city’s ancestral democracy (Memn. FGrH 434 F4.1):95 Later he [Dionysius] withstood manifold adverse circumstances especially when the exiles from Heraclea sent embassies to Alexander, who was already evidently lord of Asia, asking for themselves not only their return from exile but also the ancestral democracy of the city. For this reason he came close to being deprived of his rule and would have been deprived, had he not escaped from the wars which threatened him by much sagacity, shrewdness, the goodwill of his subjects and the services of Cleopatra. Trans. Keaveney and Madden

The exact date of the embassy to Alexander is unknown. Keaveney-Madden and Davaze argue that the description of Alexander as ‘lord of Asia’ suggests a date after the Battle of Gaugamela in 331, when he assumed that or a similar title, while the reference to his sister Cleopatra implies that the actual recall occurred in the context of the Exiles Decree of 324/3.96 Burstein argues for two separate attempts at restoration, after the Battle of Gaugamela in 331, when Alexander wrote to the Greek cities ‘that all their tyrannies were abolished and they might live under their own laws’ (Plut. Alex. 34.1), and later as part of the Exiles Decree of 324, when Dionysius enjoyed Cleopatra’s support.97 The 93

Plut. Luc. 19; Memn. FGrH 434 F30.3–4; Keaveney 1992: 87–94. App. Mith. 12.83: Λεύκολλος δὲ τὴν πόλιν εὐθὺς ἐλευθέραν ἠφίει. 95 On this passage, see the recent commentaries of Heinemann 2010: 44–8; Davaze 2013: 200–9; Keaveney and Madden 2014. On Heracleia under Dionysius, see Apel 1910; Lenk 1927; Janke 1963; Berve 1967: 320–3; Burstein 1976: 72–80; Bittner 1998: 40–5. By the fourth century there was a tradition that Heracleia had originally been a democracy (Arist. Pol. 5.5.3 [1304b 31–4]; Aen. Tact. 11.10). 96 Plut. Alex. 34.1: βασιλεὺς δὲ τῆς Ἀσίας; I.Lindos 2.105 = Schenkungen no. 194: κύριος γε[ν]όμενος τᾶς Ἀσίας; Keaveney and Madden 2014; Davaze 2013: 205–6. 97 Burstein 1976: 72–4; Davaze 2013: 207–9; cf. Bittner 1998: 41. 94

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years 334–331 and 324/3 are both plausible contexts for Alexander’s order to restore democracy, as on both occasions Alexander attempted or oversaw the restoration of democracies and democratic exiles elsewhere.98 It is also difficult to determine the historicity of Amisus’ claim. Burstein follows Appian who states that democracy was returned by a prostagma of Alexander, but it is possible that Amisus was exaggerating events in order to persuade Lucullus to follow a particular line of action. Alexander had been unable to ensure the restoration of democracy in Heracleia and after the Battle of Granicus local dynasts such as Dionysius took advantage of the destruction of the Persian Empire to expand their own kingdoms.99 Alexander’s authority did not extend as far north as the Black Sea and his claims after the Battle of Gaugamela to hold authority over the whole of Asia were little more than rhetoric (Plut. Alex. 34). By the time of his death in June 323, Paphlagonia, Cappadocia, and Bithynia had slipped from Macedonian control, if indeed they had ever really been under it.100 Success at Amisus should not be assumed; it was, after all, a more remote and less important city than Heracleia. Since Lucullus was keen to support Amisus it would not have been difficult for the city to claim that Alexander’s declaration after Gaugamela that tyrannies were to be overthrown and democracies restored amounted to a restoration, in principle, of Amisus’ democracy. Lucullus seems to have sought precedents for his benefactions and he had left Sinope free because it had been ruled by Autolycus, who supposedly appeared to him in a dream (App. Mith. 12.83). A liberal interpretation of Alexander’s declaration in 331, what we might term an ‘invented tradition’ of benefaction, would have been in the interests of both Amisus, which sought confirmation of its freedom and democracy, and Lucullus, who sought to reward the city and emulate Alexander. The situation was perhaps replicated at Ilium when Caesar, in apparent emulation of Alexander, granted the city its freedom and tax-exemption.101 The trend to invent visits or benefactions from Alexander was not unknown in the Hellenistic and Roman periods. Jean and Louis Robert have suggested that the dedication by ‘King Alexander’ to Xanthus (SEG 30.1533) might have 98

Between 334–331 at Zeleia (n. 31), Ephesus (section 3.3), Chios (n. 33), Lesbos (n. 33), Erythrae (n. 34), and Telos (n. 35). In 324/3 at Samos (section 3.4 with nn. 42–5), Tegea (GHI 101; Bencivenni 2003: 79–104), and Oeniadae (D.S. 17.11.3, 18.8.6–7; Plut. Alex. 49). 99 Memn. FGrH 434 F4.1; Burstein 1976: 73–4; Briant 2002: 699, 768; Davaze 2013: 201–4. 100 D.S. 18.3.1; Arr. FGrH 156 F1.5; Plut. Eum. 3.2; Curt. 10.10.3. Paphlagonia was annexed to Hellespontine Phrygia under Calas (Arr. Anab. 2.4.2; Curt. 3.1.24). Alexander had installed Sabictas as governor of Cappadocia in 333 (Arr. Anab. 2.4.2; Curt. 3.4.1; Heckel 2006: 243 s.v. Sabictas), but what became of him is unknown. Persian survivors fled into Cappadocia after their defeat at the Battle of Issus (Curt. 4.1.34–5). Bas of Bithynia extended his power after Issus, defeating Calas in battle in the late 330s or early 320s (Memn. FGrH 434 F12.4; Vitucci 1953: 13). 101 Str. 13.1.27: τὴν ἐλευθερίαν καὶ τὴν ἀλειτουργησίαν; RDGE 53, ll. 4–5: [τὴν πόλιν ὑμῶν εἶν]αι ἐλευθέραν | [ . . . . . καὶ ἀλειτ]ούργητον. For Alexander’s similar benefactions, see Str. 13.1.26: ἐλευθέραν τε κρῖναι καὶ ἄφορον. The tax-exemption was reconfirmed by Claudius (Suet. Cl. 25.3).

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been invented by the Xanthians at a later date to recall the king’s passage.102 Similarly, Jewish tradition recorded a certainly fictitious visit by Alexander to the city and his obeisance before the High Priest, in whose office Alexander apparently saw manifest the greatness of the Jewish god.103 Later, in the Senatorial review of 22 CE, Sardis claimed asylia through ‘a grant by the victorious Alexander’ (Tac. Ann. 3.63). Whatever Alexander granted in 334— Arrian (Anab. 1.17.4) refers to eleutheria and ancestral laws of the Lydians—it was likely not asylia, though by 22 CE such a status could be claimed.104 Tacitus’ detailed account of the claims made by the Greek cities of Asia to the Senate in 22 CE offer a vivid picture of how status negotiations operated in the Roman Empire and how important earlier grants of a status were in ensuring its continuation. In particular, it shows us how the people of Amisus would have negotiated their status with Lucullus. Alexander’s confirmation of democracy to Amisus, whether authentic or not, was a powerful tradition and seems have informed much of the city’s later relations with Rome since Amisus remained free until at least the second century CE.105 Lucullus rebuilt Amisus after its capture in 71 and left the city autonomous/democratic, in accordance with Alexander’s precedent. Thereafter, Amisus was besieged and enslaved by Pharnakes, only to be liberated by Caesar after the Battle of Zela in 47.106 Coins from the mid-first century bear the legend Ἀμισοῦ ἐλευθέρας.107 Mark Antony placed Amisus under royal control before the tyrant Straton mistreated it; it was thereafter liberated by Augustus after the Battle of Actium, from which point the city began dating by a new era.108 Amisus remained a ‘free city’ under the Flavians and Nerva-Antonines.109 Alexander’s grant of freedom and democracy in 334 marked a new phase in the history of the Greek cities of Asia Minor, a ‘constitutional New Deal’ that established democracy as the standard form of civic self-government throughout the Hellenistic period.110 Alexander was favourably remembered and both Andrew Erskine and Boris Dreyer have plausibly suggested that cults of Alexander found at Bargylia, Ephesus, Erythrae, Ilium, the Ionian

102 BE (1980) no. 487. On invented visits, see the comprehensive discussion in Wallace forthcoming. 103 Joseph. AJ 11.8.4–7 (398); Bickerman 1988: 3–7; Schäfer 2003: 1–7; Schwartz 2014: 29–31. Josephus’ claim, however, that Alexander allowed the Jews to ‘employ their own laws and pay no tax from the seventh year’ (χρήσασθαι τοῖς πατρίοις νόμοις καὶ τὸ ἕβδομον ἔτος ἀνείσφορον εἶναι) might be authentic; it is at least in keeping with Alexander’s benefactions to other Greek and non-Greek communities (see 3.3). 104 Rigsby 1996: 434. Caesar had confirmed Sardis’ asylia eleven days before his death in March 44 (SEG 39.1290; Rigsby 1996: 433–7). 105 On the history of Amisus, see Hirscheld 1894: coll. 1839–1840; Hansen and Nielsen 2004: 954–5 no. 712. 106 107 App. BC 2.91; Strabo 12.3.14 (C547). Head 1887: 424–5. 108 Strabo 12.3.14 [C547]; Dio Cass. 42.46.48; Ramsay 1890: 441; Leschhorn 1993: 106–15. 109 110 Plin. HN 6.7; Plin. Ep. 10.92. Davies 2002: 2.

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League, Cos, Magnesia-on-the-Maeander, Miletus, Mytilene, Priene, Rhodes, Teos, and Thasus, some of which lasted into the third century CE, might have been founded during his lifetime in thanks for his guarantees of freedom and democracy.111 Alexander provided a precedent that cities could use to exert moral force over their rulers, compelling them to live up to his example and reconfirm his benefactions. Cities such as Erythrae, Colophon, and Amisus invoked Alexander’s precedent when seeking guarantees of freedom, autonomy, and/or democracy from Antigonus, Antiochus II, and Lucullus.

3.6 ALEXANDER BETWEEN CITY AND KING In the early Hellenistic period democracy became the standard form of civic self-government, a situation that Alexander stimulated by supporting oligarchy in Greece and democracy in Asia Minor. Hellenistic democracies in Athens and Asia Minor later referred to Alexander’s actions when seeking selfjustification or requesting royal confirmation of democracy. Both engaged with Alexander’s actions, but in different ways. Athens drew on a tradition of democratic opposition to Alexander while the cities of Asia Minor referred to him as the progenitor of their democracy. In each case the city responded to his actions within fundamentally different conceptions of democracy, as a selfasserted right in Athens, incompatible with royal power, and as a royal benefaction in Asia Minor, guaranteed and revocable by royal order. It is tempting to think that, by representing democracy as a royal gift, the Greek cities of Asia Minor were somehow contrasting themselves with Athens, but a deeper tradition is at play here, one that goes back to the late Archaic and early Classical period. Ever since the rise of the Lydian empire the Greek cities of western Asia Minor had been forced to develop strategies for balancing their desire for civic self-government with the necessity of obedience to a foreign, autocratic power. Alexander’s expulsion of tyrannies and installation of democracies in the Greek cities of Ionia and Aeolis in 334 was not unique; Mardonius had done precisely the same after the Ionian Revolt in 492.112 By the time of Alexander’s arrival the Greek cities of western Asia Minor had had 111 Dreyer 2009; Erskine 2014; cf. Habicht 1970: 17–28, 245–6, 251–2. Dreyer speculates that cults in honour of Alexander arose in the context of the liberation programme of 334–332 and the deification decree of 324/3. Both Erskine and Dreyer miss the cult of Alexander on Cos (SEG 53.847). Cults of Alexander are attested in second-century CE Ephesus (SEG 4.521) and thirdcentury CE Erythrae (IGRR 4 1543; I.Erythrai 64) as well as third-century CE Beroia in Macedon (I.Beroia 68/69; SEG 49.815–817). 112 Hdt. 6.43.3: τοὺς γὰρ τυράννους τῶν Ἰώνων καταπαύσας πάντας ὁ Μαρδόνιος δημοκρατίας κατίστα ἐς τὰς πόλις; cf. 4.137; 5.37. Or he had at least promoted some form of self-government that could be represented as the expulsion of tyranny and institution of democracy.

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centuries of experience in negotiating the boundaries between foreign power, be it Lydian, Persian, Athenian, or Spartan, and civic self-government. Even the cities of the Aegean and mainland Greece had centuries of experience accommodating the wish for and practice of self-government with the necessities of subordination to Athenian, Spartan, or Theban power. Athenian democracy, on the other hand, was an organic development of the late sixth and early fifth centuries. It was not a royal gift and had never had to accommodate itself to foreign, monarchic rule. The Athenian democracy was accustomed to ruling others, not being ruled, and it had neither the ideological nor practical experience of subordination to foreign or royal power. After the Hellenic War, Athens was forced to engage with Macedonian monarchy in a way that the Greek cities of western Asia Minor had been doing for centuries. Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius shows us how Athens struggled to balance the wishes of democracy with the requirements of royal power, a challenge that most Greek cities had faced centuries earlier. The honorary decrees for Lycurgus and Demosthenes, as well as those for Philippides, Demochares, Callias, and Olympiodorus, show that the Athenian tradition of democratic opposition to monarchy remained strong throughout the third century and provided a rich source of self-justification for successive democratic regimes. Evidence of Alexander’s posthumous connection with democracy is plentiful for Hellenistic Athens and the cities of Asia Minor but, barring Polybius’ criticisms of Demosthenes’ Athenocentrism in terming those who sided with Philip over Athens ‘traitors of Greece’, we do not have comparable evidence from the democratic regimes of Hellenistic Boeotia or the Peloponnese. Statues of Philip and Alexander in Elis and Thespiae (Paus. 6.11.1; Dio Chrys. Or. 37.42; Plin. HN 34.66), as well as a stoa of Philip in Megalopolis (Paus. 8.30.6; cf. IG V 2 469, l. 6), suggest that both kings remained popular, but events at Plataea, which sided with Macedon during the Hellenic War (323/2) but was a centre of anti-Macedonianism during and after the Chremonidean War (269/ 8–263/2), suggest a more complicated afterlife for Macedonian power in the Peloponnese with the shift from Argead to Antigonid rule.113 The vicissitudes of Macedonian power in the Peloponnese under Antigonos Gonatas and Philip V may also have stimulated a shifting, political engagement with Alexander’s democratic Nachleben, but in the absence of evidence comparable to that from Athens and Asia Minor we are forced to speculate. In addition to promoting democracy, Alexander also played an important role in negotiating the balance of power between Greek democracies and Macedonian monarchies in the Hellenistic period. Alexander influenced how successive rulers expressed monarchic power and engaged with subject peoples, just as he influenced how Greek cities conceived of and represented 113

D.S. 18.11.3–5; BCH 99 (1975) 51–75 (SEG 61.352); SEG 52.447; Wallace 2011: 157–64. For the dates of the Chremonidean War, see Osborne 2009; SEG 59.18.

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monarchy. His example defined the limits of and offered a paradigm for the relationship between autocratic ruler and democratic city.114 Alexander’s successors justified their control over the Greek cities via reference to his example, compelling the city to ascribe to this pro-monarchic depiction of Alexander. The city, however, was not powerless and by referring to Alexander’s benefactions it promoted a civic model of Hellenistic kingship, one that the king’s successors were obliged to follow. In doing so the city exerted ‘moral force’ over the king, allowing ambassadors from Erythrae, Colophon, Soli, and Amisus to compel their rulers to act in the city’s interests and reconfirm Alexander’s earlier benefactions. Alexander also, however, offered a negative model of behaviour and in Athens in 307/6 he was presented to Demetrius as an example of how a ruler should not act. However, by referencing Alexander’s example the city acknowledged Demetrius’ authority over it and his ability to award and define civic statuses. In this way the relationship was mutually beneficial, with the city achieving privileged status and the king ensuring civic loyalty, royal honours, and recognition as a worthy successor to Alexander. In both Greece and Asia Minor Alexander provided a model for successful, sustainable engagement between Greek democracy and Macedonian monarchy.

114 For Alexander’s influence on Greek and Roman ideas of rulership, see Heuß 1954; Errington 1976; Goukowsky 1978; Bohm 1989; Stewart 1993; Meeus 2009a; Müller 2009; Wallace 2016.

4 Demosthenic Influences in Early Rhetorical Education Hellenistic Rhetores and Athenian Imagination Mirko Canevaro

4.1 DEMOSTHENES ’ (UN)POPULARITY I N T H E HE L L E N I STI C P E R I O D When Demochares of Leuconoe, the nephew and political heir of Demosthenes of Peania, proposed in 281/01 a decree granting the highest honours (megistai timai) to his uncle, forty years after his death, he was very much praising the politician.2 A version of the request for this honorary decree is preserved in the documentary dossier at the end of the Pseudo-Plutarchean Lives of the Ten Orators (850f–851c). These documents are likely to be mostly reliable, as one of these, the request by Stratocles for an honorary decree for Lycurgus, matched by fragments of an Attic stele preserving the actual decree, although with slight differences. Demosthenes was awarded a permanent seat in the Prytaneion, 1 [Plut.] Vit. X Or. 847d sets the honours to Demosthenes in the year of the archon Gorgias, which has been usually dated to 280/79 because the passage states that he was archon ten years before Pytharatos (securely dated to 271/0). Because the identity of the archon of 281/0, Ourias, is clear from various sources (cf. Osborne 2009: 87), Gorgias has been dated to 280/79 and restored in IG II2 670A. Yet Agora XIX P52 shows clearly that the archon after Ourias was Telokles, not Gorgias (cf. Osborne 2009: 87 n. 21), and in IG II2 670A the archon should be restored as Lykeas, of the late 240s. The best solution to the problem is that offered by Byrne 2006/7: Gorgias in Pseudo-Plutarch is only a corruption of the very uncommon name Ourias, the archon of 281/0, who was succeeded by Telokles. The honours to Demosthenes were therefore proposed by Demochares in 281/0, not in 280/79 as usually assumed. 2 About Demochares’ political career, see Marasco 1984 and Kralli 1999–2000: 153–6. For the political context of his activity, see Habicht 1997: 67–97, 124–49, Dreyer 1999: passim, and Bayliss 2011: 94–128 and passim. For the honours and the statue of Demosthenes see von den Hoff 2009. In general, for the honorary decrees of early-Hellenistic Athens see Culasso Gastaldi 2007 and Luraghi 2010.

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which, nicely for Demochares, was to be inherited by the eldest of his descendants. He and his descendants were also awarded the proedria in the theatre and a bronze statue was to be erected in the agora to commemorate the great politician.3 The reasons for the grant were the expected ones: Demosthenes had been a benefactor of the city, had given on many occasions excellent advice to the people, and had used his own private goods for public services. The decree went on to list a series of financial contributions of Demosthenes to the welfare of the city, and then moved on to his political activity: he convinced ‘Thebans, Euboeans, Corinthians, Megarians, Achaeans, Locrians, Byzantines, and Messenians’ to make an alliance with the Athenians. Following this alliance, he raised an army of ten thousand foot soldiers and a thousand knights. As an ambassador, he had persuaded the allies to contribute to the expedition five hundred talents, and convinced the Peloponnesians not to side with Alexander against the Thebans, ‘and he advised the people to adopt many other excellent measures and of all his contemporaries he performed the best public actions in the cause of liberty and democracy’. The document ends with the mention of his brave death after the Lamian War, pursued in Calauria by the agents of Antipater. Apart from the usual focus on the generosity and the financial benefactions of Demosthenes, the honorary decree enacted for him by the Athenians was very much concerned with his policies, with his brave resistance against the Macedonians, and with his good advice and coherent defence of the freedom and democracy of the Athenians. This focus was stressed also in the epigram inscribed on the base of the statue (Plut. Dem. 30.5): ‘If you had had strength equal to your advice, Macedonian Ares would never have ruled Greece.’4 This was functional within the context in which the honours were enacted, a few years after the expulsion of Demetrius Poliorcetes from Athens and the renewed freedom and democracy of the city.5 But it also echoed a particular representation of Demosthenes’ political activity which could be found in his own speeches, and in particular the narrative and vindication in the speech On the Crown of the policies that led to Chaeronea, with the focus on the brave defence of democracy through his activity as an honest and public-spirited advisor who had the ability to foresee the growth of Macedonian power. Some of the bad press that Demosthenes received in the last years of his life or in the years following his death was likewise focused on his policies, and 3 See Faraguna 2003 for a comprehensive discussion of the documentary dossier at the end of the Pseudo-Plutarchean Lives. For the comparison between the inscription and the document in the Lives preserving the honours to Lycurgus see Culasso Gastaldi 2003, 69–73 and Faraguna 2003, 487–91. See Culasso Gastaldi 2003, 68 n. 13 for the various editions of the fragments of the inscription. 4 Cf. also [Plut.] Vit. X Or. 847a and Suda s.v. Δημοσθένης for the epigram. Pseudo-Plutarch claims that the epigram had been written by Demosthenes himself shortly before committing suicide, but Plutarch denies it. 5 See Shear (forthcoming) and, on the events of these years, Habicht 1997: 124–35.

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strove to provide an interpretation of these policies which was the opposite of the Demosthenic one. A significant example is that of Theopompus, who, in the words of Plutarch (Dem. 13.1–2 = FGrH 115 F326), claimed that Demosthenes ‘was of fickle and unstable disposition and incapable of remaining faithful for any length of time either to the same policies or the same men’. This is an interpretation in marked contrast with the coherent account of Demosthenes’ choices and policies provided by the orator himself in the speech On the Crown, and one which closely resembles criticism of Demosthenes advanced in the same years by Aeschines and Dinarchus.6 But even where the focus was not on Demosthenes’ policies, but rather on his rhetorical art, it is impossible not to find in much of this criticism a political undertone. Cooper has convincingly shown that many of the stories about Demosthenes’ lack of natural rhetorical talent, about his training, his attempts to overcome natural deficiencies, and ultimately about his lack of skills at extemporization, and his reliance on extensive preparation, had a Peripatetic origin.7 According to Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Dem. 53 = Demetrius of Phalerum fr. 165 Wehrli) Demetrius of Phalerum reported that Demosthenes put a lot of effort into perfecting his intonation and gestures, despite being naturally unsuited for the task. He also claimed that Demosthenes stuttered (Plut. Dem. 11.1 = Demetrius, fr. 167 Wehrli) and could not pronounce the letter rho (Cic. De div. 2.46.96 = Demetrius, fr. 168 Wehrli).8 Critolaus, another Peripatetic philosopher, in the second century BCE claimed that Aeschines and Demades were naturally talented orators and did not require any training, while Demosthenes’ skills depended exclusively on his training (Phil. Rhet. 2.97). Similar views had been previously expressed by another head of the Peripatetic school, Theophrastus, who claimed that Demades was far superior to Demosthenes at extemporizing (Plut. Dem. 10). He is also reported to have stated that Demosthenes was an orator ‘worthy of the city’, while Demades was one ‘too good for the city’. It is not incidental, then, that Theophrastus had a very high opinion of the rhetorical ability of Phocion (Plut. Phoc. 5.2–3). Hermippus, a third-century Alexandrian scholar and biographer, according to Suda (s.v. Δημοσθένης) described Demosthenes as a ‘practiced rather than natural orator’.9 Bollansee has shown that Hermippus was in no way a Peripatetic,10 yet because he wrote 6

E.g. Aeschin. 2.45–50, 121, Aeschin. 3 passim and Din. 1 passim. Cooper 2000, and 2009 on Demetrius’ rewriting of Demosthenes’ history. On the Hellenistic biographical and Peripatetic tradition on Demosthenes, cf. also Drerup 1923: 35–48 and 49–81. 8 The stories about Demosthenes’ natural deficiencies are common in the biographical tradition, cf. Lib. 295.62, Zos. 299.60, Anonymous Vita 305.66, Suda s.v. Δημοσθένης, [Plut.] Mor. 844d–e. Worthington 2012: 16–20 uncritically takes these stories at face value. 9 FGrH 4A F29, 31 also attest the use of Hermippus’ work on Demosthenes by Didymus. 10 Bollansee 1999: 9–14 shows that the nickname peripateticus attributed to him by Jerome (Vir. Ill. praef.) has the general meaning of someone erudite in literary and biographical matters and does not refer specifically to the Peripatetic school (pace e.g. Le Bonniec 1982: 353). 7

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biographies of many Peripatetic philosophers he must have had access to plenty of information provided by them. It is likely that his statement about Demosthenes comes therefore from the same tradition. Peripatetics seem to have portrayed a Demosthenes that was in all aspects inferior as an orator to Aeschines, Demades, and Phocion. It is significant that the original sources of this portrait were all friends and allies of the Macedonians, and the positive examples against whom the deficiencies of Demosthenes are set are invariably orators and politicians that advocated throughout their career pro-Macedonian policies.11 What seems to emerge from these roughly contemporary sources, the honorary decree for Demosthenes as well as Theopompus, Theophrastus, and Demetrius of Phalerum, is a debate on Demosthenes that is in a wider sense a debate on Athens, its relationship with Macedon, its democracy and liberty, its role and its history.12 The pro-Demosthenic position, which is a position in defence of Demosthenes’ reputation as much as in defence of his policies, with their focus on the freedom, democracy, and even the international standing of Athens as a major power, is the position reflected in Demochares, which is found in his honorary decree for his uncle as well as in his own writings.13 Demochares was author of Histories that encompassed the events from the time of Demosthenes’ political life down presumably to Athens’ liberation in 289 (or beyond). We have only a few fragments of these histories, yet, as Asmonti has shown, the themes touched upon have a remarkable Demosthenic tone, and even the ethical drive behind Demochares’ writing seems to have been guided by Demosthenes’ own rhetoric. In fact, Cicero, in assessing these Histories, stated that they were written non tam historico quam oratorio genere (Cic. Brut. 83.286).14 I shall give only two examples, which have been discussed by Asmonti. Plb. 12.13.9–10 reports Demochares’ assessment of Demetrius of Phalerum’s policies.15 Demochares wrote that ‘his conduct as a prince, and the political 11

The authors listed are mostly Peripatetic, and all sympathetic to Macedon; their statements are recognizably similar. This is not to say that they belonged to an organic ‘pro-Macedonian’ party. For the problems with such labels see Luraghi 2014, and already Harris 1995: 149–54. 12 The political and cultural milieu of these debates is the same explored by Luraghi in Chapter 2, and was hugely influential in the formation of what was to become Hellenic culture. (On the influence of the cultural production of early Hellenistic Athens in the formation of Hellenistic culture, see now Luraghi 2017.) The fortune of Demosthenic (and more generally Attic) oratory in the Hellenistic period that I explore in this chapter is part of this wider phenomenon. 13 It is also reflected in the request, by Laches, of honours for Demochares himself, of a few years later ([Plut.] Vit. X Or. 851d–f), and in other contemporary decrees, such as that in honour of Callias of Sphettos (SEG 28.60). For the politics of these texts, cf. Luraghi, Chapter 2 in this volume and Shear 2012a. On Demochares’ rewriting of Demosthenes’ history see Cooper 2009. 14 On Demochares’ Histories, see Marasco 1984: 85–110 and Asmonti 2004. 15 Asmonti 2004: 27–8. On this passage, see also Momigliano 1966: 32–3 and Marasco 1984: 181–90.

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measures on which he prided himself, were such as a petty tax-gatherer might be proud of; for he boasted that in his city things were abundant and cheap, and everyone had plenty to live upon’. Demetrius, as the prostates tes patridos, was supposed to advance the power and hegemony of Athens. He was supposed to prepare the city against external interference and defend its freedom and democracy. Instead, he subjected the city to Cassander’s power and contented himself with cautious policies focused on keeping the state treasury full, and securing the financial and economical soundness of Attica.16 It is difficult not to see here a parallel with Demosthenes’ own criticism, in the first years of his political career, after the Social War, of what he considered short-sighted policies aimed exclusively at assuring more income for the city. In his speeches Against Androtion, Against Leptines, Against Timocrates, and On the Symmories Demosthenes consistently points out how various laws and measures sponsored by important politicians such as Aristophon, Leptines, Androtion, and Eubulus, while trying to rebuild the city’s finances after the war and the loss of the empire, actually destroy its means for incisive action in foreign policy, and its prospects of renewed hegemony, with the result that in the long run they will be cause of further problems and humiliations for Athens and ultimately of the loss of its freedom and democracy.17 A long passage of Athenaeus (6.252f–253d) is also interesting for our purposes. Athenaeus reports that Demochares in the twentieth book of his Histories described the flattery of the Athenians towards Demetrius Poliorcetes—the Athenians voted honours and poured libations for his flatterers Burichus, Adeimantus, and Oxythemis, created cults and temples for his prostitutes Leena and Lamia, and sang songs in their honour—and points out that such flattery annoyed Demetrius greatly, he was astonished and observed that in his time there were no Athenians of great and vigorous mind. In the twenty-first book of his Histories Demochares described the excessive honours the Athenians reserved for Demetrius himself.18 As Asmonti has pointed out, in describing the excesses of the flattery towards Demetrius, and of the honours to Demetrius’ kolakes and prostitutes, Demochares echoes Demosthenes’ descriptions of the drunken parties of Philip’s court, dominated by thieves and kolakes (e.g. Dem. 2.19, 48.56).19 Demochares’ focus is not much

16 On Demochares’ influence in the formation of the negative tradition on Demetrius of Phalerum, see Bardelli 1999. 17 For discussions of Demosthenes’ opposition to this political ‘consensus’ after the Social War, see Harris 2006: 121–40; Canevaro 2009; Canevaro, review of Worthington 2012, Klio 97/1 (2015) 333–8 and Canevaro 2016a: 64–97. It is significant that Colombini 1965: 182 describes Demetrius as a ‘novello Eubulo’, and the comparison is advanced also by Mossé 1992: 88 and O’Sullivan 2009: 165–6. 18 For the events of these years and the Athenian flattery towards Demetrius, see in general Habicht 1997: 67–97. 19 Cf. Asmonti 2004: 36–40.

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on Demetrius himself, who is actually annoyed by these excesses.20 Demetrius is like Demosthenes’ Philip, a formidable enemy (Dem. 2.22) who lives in the middle of extreme akrasia yet manages to be seduced not by vice but only by ambition (cf. Dem. 4.49). Demochares’ focus is on the excess of flattery and honours which are inappropriate for the Athenians. This theme was already prominent in Demosthenes, who reproached his fellow citizens for exceeding in honouring individuals, and compared them to their (allegedly) more austere ancestors that did not allow individuals to take any formal credit for the victories of the polis (e.g. Dem. 23.196–210, Dem. 3.23–32, Dem. 13.21–31; cf. also Aeschin. 3.177–88).21 Moreover the portrait of the Athenian shameless kolakes of Demetrius, who are corrupted by the king’s power and gold and indulge in immoral and lascivious behaviour, with the focus on the libations, the excessive flattery, and the drinking, finds considerable similarities in the Aeschines of Demosthenes’ On the False Embassy and On the Crown (cf. also Dem. 3.25–6), whose behaviour in his youth was, according to Demosthenes, as shameless (e.g. Dem. 18.258–9) and who, as an envoy at Philip’s court, could hardly be distinguished from Philip’s own courtiers (Dem. 19.196–8). Whatever the efforts of Demochares, scholars have usually agreed that Demosthenes’ fame and fortune were very limited and controversial during the Hellenistic period, because of changing stylistic predilections and the Peripatetics’ incisive criticism. A striking silence on Demosthenes in our literary sources in the centuries following his (and Demochares’) death seems to suggest that the orator simply went out of fashion. Drerup in particular fostered this view, which sees a reversal of Demosthenes’ fortune only in the first century BCE, when he becomes the model of the orator, and is considered as such throughout the Imperial age.22 Yet a Demosthenic take on the history of Athens and Greece in the late fourth century, completely opposite to the views advocated by Theopompus as well as by the Peripatetic school (and perpetuated in the biographical tradition by the first life written by Hermippus), is not limited to the writings of his nephew or to the Athenian attempts in the late fourth and early third century to overcome Macedonian domination and overlordship and restore Athenian democracy and international standing. This is the attitude against which

20 Cf. Marasco 1984: 191–2, who observes that Demochares is not very harsh with Demetrius, but very harsh with his fellow citizens. Cf. also Kralli 2000: 117–18. 21 See Canevaro (forthcoming) for a discussion of these passages. 22 Drerup 1923 is the source of this reconstruction and the very subtitle of his work, Von Theopomp bis Tzetzes, stresses his view of an evolution from widespread criticism to widespread acclaim (cf. Pernot 2002: 215 n. 1). Despite some partial criticism of this reconstruction, in particular by Pernot 2002, who stresses that criticism of Demosthenes can still be found in the Imperial age, Drerup’s view of the evolution of Demosthenes’ fortune has been upheld by later scholars. See e.g. Adams 1927; Mathieu 1948: 179–82; Lossau 1964; Anastassiou 1966; Bompaire 1984; Carlier 1990: 277–86; Kennedy 1994: 96; Cooper 2000.

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Polybius (18.14) in the second century still feels the need to defend the fourthcentury leaders of many Peloponnesian poleis, who chose the alliance with Philip to secure the freedom of their cities against the Lacedemonians.23 These men had been portrayed by Demosthenes (Dem. 18.294–6) as traitors, men who ‘were sacrificing the common good to their own base pursuit of greed, eventually reducing their own fellow citizens to slavery through deception and subversion’. Polybius counters, from an Achaean and Peloponnesian perspective, that with their choice they secured the freedom of their poleis from the Spartans.24 And yet Polybius’ attempt to disqualify Demosthenes’ version is unsuccessful and Demosthenes’ account of Greece betrayed by base men corrupted by Philip’s gifts is still to be found e.g. in Cicero (Att. 1.16.12), in Horace (Odes 3.16), in Juvenal (12.47). This suggests that Demosthenes was still read and commented upon, and his views were widespread enough that Polybius felt the need to counter them in an extensive discussion.

4.2 THE INFLUENCE OF DEMOSTH ENIC ORATORY AND THE I MPORTANCE OF ATHENIAN IMAGINATION Of course, the source of the popularity of Demosthenes’ attitude about the years of Philip and Alexander is not Demochares, a writer who is very rarely mentioned in Hellenistic and Roman sources and whose importance must have been connected chiefly with his political standing, declining dramatically after his death.25 The source of Demosthenes’ popularity, it goes without saying, are his speeches. There is no evidence that Demosthenes ever published his own speeches, with the possible exception of On the Crown, and the case for this view has been made eloquently by Trevett and MacDowell.26 The evidence of some spurious speeches by Apollodorus and Hegesippus in 23 On the tension in Polybius’ representations of Athens, see Champion, Chapter 7 in this volume. 24 For the widespread popularity in the Hellenistic period, across the Greek world, of Demosthenes’ view of the history of the late fourth century and on the ‘traitors’ see also P.Lit. Lond. 130 = Brit. Libr. inv. 133, dated to the late second century BCE or to the early first. This papyrus reports two short sections of text, one, Dem. Ep. 3.29–31, with a list of patriotic politicians who have advised the Athenians for the best, the other, Hyp. Phil. Fr. 15a, with a list of traitors very similar to the famous list of Dem. 18.294–5, to the extent that it has been read as a ‘preliminary sketch’ for that ‘traitors’ blacklist’, see Colin 1946: 95; Whitehead 2000: 43–4. I thank my student, Guo Zilong, for drawing my attention to this papyrus fragment. 25 On the polemics surrounding Demochares’ historical work in the Hellenistic age, see Marasco 1984: 99–110. 26 Trevett 1996; 2011: 18–22; and MacDowell 2009: 7–9; pace Canfora 1974–2000: i. 66–7, 69, Worthington 1991a; 1991b: 425, Tuplin 1998.

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the manuscript tradition, together with the stichometric evidence and the preservation of some ‘stichometric’ documents in Dem. 23 and 24, strongly suggests that the origin of the first published Demosthenic corpus, the Urexemplar of the collection, was in Athens, after Demosthenes’ death but early enough to allow Callimachus to record the corpus, and the stichometry of the speeches, in his Pinakes in the 260s. The strongest candidate for the undertaking is once again Demochares, who, as the heir of the orator, had access to his files and could retrieve working tools such as the Prooemia, and had a strong political interest in spreading his uncle’s speeches and ideas.27 By the 260s at the latest the corpus was available in Alexandria (Callimachus frs. 443–6 Pfeiffer). A little more than a century later Polybius is witness not only to the influence of Demosthenes’ ideas, but also to the influence of his style of oratory. Cecil Wooten has shown that he relied extensively on Demosthenes in his own orations composed for his Histories.28 He did this in the general structure of his deliberative speeches, which focused on only one main point (usually to sympheron), in making extensive use of facts and documents, in not indulging in excessive exploitation of generalities and commonplaces, and in using vivid metaphors. Wooten has also pointed to several passages in Polybius’ speeches that clearly imitate directly Demosthenic examples, and to speeches and orators that project a veritable Demosthenic persona, such as Lyciscus the Acarnanian, who in 211/10 addresses the Spartans about the perils the Greeks face in associating with the Romans, the danger of general enslavement (in a Panhellenic vein that strikingly resembles that of Demosthenes’ Third Philippic), and the responsibility the Spartans have because they have often in the past been the defenders of Greek liberty (Plb. 9.32–9). In Polybius’ speeches a Demosthenic style, ethos, and persona are used because they are very relevant to the situation various poleis were facing in the context of the Hellenistic kingdoms and of growing Roman domination.29 Polybius reflects in his speeches widespread oratorical practices in the lively world of the Hellenistic poleis. As Laurence Pernot, building on the work of Louis Robert, has eloquently stated, just as the Greek polis did not die at Chaeronea, so oratory did not die at Chaeronea either.30 Demosthenic influence therefore is likely not to reflect exclusively a personal preference of Polybius:31

27 I have argued extensively for this reconstruction of the origin of the Demosthenic corpus in Canevaro 2013: 319–29, where the case is made with reference to the relevant secondary literature. 28 29 Wooten 1974. See Wooten 1974: 248–51 and Thornton 2010. 30 Pernot 2005: 73–82. Cf. also Erskine 2007 and Wooten 1973 on the rhetoric of the ambassadors. 31 Wooten suggests that the reason for this unity in style is that such a Demosthenic approach to oratory was typical of the age. Marincola 2007: 125 thinks, on the other hand, in order to explain the unity of style in speeches set in geographically and chronologically distant contexts,

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Demosthenes’ oratory is imitated not because of stylistic considerations (pace the criticism of the Peripatetics), but because of its relevance to the world of the Hellenistic poleis, which makes him and the values and policies he advocates a suitable model for orators and politicians. However reasonable (or not) this hypothesis may sound, the problem with it is that the evidence for Hellenistic oratory is almost non-existent, and therefore this hypothesis is very hard to prove. There are however some materials that can help us to understand whether Demosthenes was as central as I am proposing, and at the same time to isolate the background of his influence in the actual oratorical performances and political life in the Hellenistic poleis. A few papyri from Egypt attest that the practice, usually ascribed to the Second Sophistic,32 of composing fictitious speeches in the style of Demosthenes and the Attic orators, and setting them in a Classical Athenian context, was already common as early as the third century BCE.33 In a recent overview Kremmydas has identified twenty-three oratorical papyri that can be dated between the third century BCE and the first century CE.34 Many of these papyri are too fragmentary to provide any information about oratorical practices in the Hellenistic age, but two of them are of particular interest to us: they can both be dated safely (on paleographical and archaeological grounds) to the mid-third century BCE, and they are both extensive enough to offer important insights into Hellenistic oratorical practices. They have both been identified as school excercises, possibly however composed as model speeches by teachers rather than the work of some pupil, due to the remarkably high quality of their prose and contents.35

that this may be typical of Polybius’ oratorical style in particular, rather than of the age. Neither interpretation excludes the other: Polybius’ speeches are evidence of the influence Demosthenes had on his oratorical style (on Polybius the orator, see now Thornton 2013a: 29–33), but Polybius’ own preferences are symptomatic of the wider rhetorical trends of the age. Notice the similarities Rubinstein 2013: 193–4 finds between inscriptions relating to embassies in the Hellenistic age, which reflect oratorical habits of the time, and Attic oratory. 32 The first extant complete meletai are by Lesboanax of Mytilene, Polemon of Laodicea, Adrian of Tyrus, and Lucian, followed by Aristides. Cf. Russell 1983: 3–9. 33 The most popular settings were the Persian Wars, the Peloponnesian War, and the age of Demosthenes; see Kohl 1915; Russell 1983: 106–28; Gibson 2004: 126–8. On Greek meletai, see Russell 1983: passim and esp. 1–20 on their origin between the fourth and the third century BCE; Marrou 1956: 277; Cribiore 2001: 232. See also Kennedy 1994: 27–8 and Morgan 1998. Cf. also Berry and Heath 1997 for a discussion of the relationship between rhetorical theory and actual rhetorical practice. See Kremmydas 2013: 144–5 for a survey of previous work on Hellenistic meletai. On the specificity of Greek meletai—both deliberative and judicial speeches could be set either in a fantastical Greek city that resembled Athens (cleverly named by Russell ‘Sophistopolis’) or in some specific time and place from the historical past of Greece—see Russell 1983: 9–10; Cribiore 2001: 232–3. 34 Cf. Kremmydas 2013. The only previous discussion of six of these fragments of Hellenistic rhetorical exercises is Wooten 1972. Kremmydas 2007 is the first work after Wooten 1972 to discuss the evidence for Hellenistic meletai. 35 Cf. Kremmydas 2007: 28; 2013: 416.

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The first of these papyri, Mertens-Pack3 2511 (= P.Berol. 9781), found in Hermoupolis, in middle Egypt,36 contains the final part of what appears to be a response to Demosthenes’ Against Leptines by Leptines himself. Kremmydas discusses this papyrus extensively.37 That the speech is not authentic is clear from a few slips, and in particular from the fact that Demosthenes’ position as accuser in the public charge to repeal the law of Leptines is attacked as inconsistent with his own trierarchic reform (Dem. 18.102–6). The trial of Leptines happened in 355/4, and Demosthenes’ trierarchic reform was not enacted until 340.38 Of course, the topic of the speech is by itself evidence of the popularity of Demosthenes’ speeches as early as the mid-third century and as far afield as Hermoupolis in middle Egypt. But a more careful look at the text can provide us with more substantial insights in the interests of rhetoric teachers and students, and in the scope of the teaching of Demosthenes’ orations. The most remarkable feature of this melete is that it follows very closely, as far as we can tell, Demosthenes’ own arguments.39 Lines 1–102 of the melete respond extensively to Demosthenes’ accusations against the syndikoi of the law of Leptines, both in terms of law—Demosthenes claims that no one can serve as syndikos twice and Ps.-Leptines counters that this is explicitly allowed by the law in cases of graphe nomon me epitedeion theinai—and as to the individual syndikoi’s character and merits. Lines 179–95 respond to Demosthenes’ claim (Dem. 20.120–4) that once ateleia is taken away, no other honour will be safe for benefactors, by using some of Demosthenes’ own arguments in this speech (Dem. 20.18–19, 102) and elsewhere (Dem. 24.74–6, 116): the poor will not have to pay anything anyway, while the rich will not be wronged, and moreover the law is not retroactive. Lines 195–213 use a slippery slope argument about the decline of public-spiritedness in Athens which mirrors Demosthenes’ own argument at §§163–6. At lines 213–14 Ps.-Leptines starts the peroration with the very formula used by Demosthenes at §154, and later at lines 232–49 he uses against Demosthenes (somewhat clumsily) some of the key ethical concepts exploited extensively by the orator in his speech: homonoia (Dem. 20.12, 110) and philotimia (Dem. 20.6, 10, 41, 69, 82, 103, 155).40 The refutation speech by Ps.-Leptines is then, as one might expect, exceedingly Demosthenic in its choice of arguments, in

36 This is the same place where the first-century BCE papryrus containing Didymus’ commentary on Demosthenes’ 9–11 and 13, P.Berol. 9780, has also been found. 37 Kremmydas 2007. 38 See Kremmydas 2007: 27, with these and other points against the authenticity of this text. 39 Cf. Kremmydas 2007: 37 and passim. 40 See Canevaro 2016a: 77–97 and passim on the use of these concepts in the speech. On the role of philotimia in the Athenian public economy and honour system, see Whitehead 1983; Liddel 2007: 166–70 and passim; and Ferrucci 2013. On the role of homonoia, see Cobetto Ghiggia 2011 for the fifth and fourth century and now Gray 2015.

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their arrangement, in the key ethical concepts employed, and in the very nature of the legal argumentation. Yet this is not due simply to the fact that the melete is replying to Demosthenes’ speech. The speech shows a deeper level of enagement with Demosthenic style and ideas. We have mentioned the topic of the retroactivity of the law, which is found e.g. at Dem. 24.74–6 and 116. Another salient aspect of this deeper engagement is the use towards the end of the melete (ll. 195–213) of medical terminology, a well-known feature of Demosthenes’ prose (cf. e.g. Dem. 18.243), one even mocked by Aeschines (3.225).41 But the most interesting section of the melete in this respect is lines 118–79.42 In these lines Ps.Leptines develops a thorough critique of Demosthenes, and the tone and themes are particularly interesting. The first ground for criticism is that Demosthenes’ attack against the law of Leptines, which abolishes exemptions from liturgies and therefore allegedly damages the very rich and powerful, is inconsistent with Demosthenes’ own trierarchic law, whose aim was to force the richest three hundred Athenians to bear the largest share of the trierarchic expenditure. Ps.-Leptines here follows closely Dem. 18.103–9, and shows a deep understanding, or at least a very careful consideration, of the nature and implications of Demosthenes’ reforms and of Leptines’ law. He is even capable of realizing, from the fact that Demosthenes states that it was a decree of his that was indicted by the three hundred, that the charge brought must have been a graphe paranomon (ll. 137–8).43 Such a careful consideration shows that the interest of this teacher or rhetorician was not exclusively or even primarily stylistical and rhetorical, but rather antiquarian and to a significant extent political. He was interested in the laws and reforms themselves. He was also very interested in the character of the good politician, the good advisor of the people, and had understood very clearly from careful reading of Demosthenes’ On the Crown and perhaps of some Assembly speeches that the orator’s claim to excellence relied on the demonstration that his policies were coherent and consistently beneficial to the people. This had after all been stressed even in the honorary decree passed by Demochares ([Plut.] Vit. X Or. 850f), and it was a key aspect of Demosthenes’ self-representation. Therefore his attack on the character of Demosthenes at lines 141–60 is marked repeatedly by the antithesis τότε/νῦν (ll. 141 and 144, 148 and 151, 153 and 156), to stress the inconsistency of his policies and therefore to undermine his claim to excellence. Ps.-Leptines seems to know the reason of Demosthenes’ success and political reputation (and of the criticism of opponents such as Aeschines and Dinarchus) as well as Theopompus, who 41 Cf. Kremmydas 2007: 47. On Demosthenes’ use of medical terminology, see Wooten 1979 and Brock 2013: 181 n. 96. 42 Cf. Kremmydas 2007: 41–4. 43 On the specifics of that decree, see Canevaro 2013: 267–71.

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accused the orator of being fickle, unstable, and incapable of sticking coherently to a policy. The other key theme of Ps.-Leptines’ attack on Demosthenes is as revealing as the focus on his incoherence: at lines 165–79 Demosthenes is accused of having undertaken the prosecution of the law of Leptines in exchange for bribes, and therefore of having betrayed τὸ δίκαιον and τὸ λυσιτελοῦν, what is right and beneficial for the city, because of his πλεονεξία. Similar accusations against Demosthenes are found in Aeschines and Dinarchus (Aeschin. 2.3, 165, 166, 3.82; Din. 1.42), but there is no sign in the melete that Ps.-Leptines was aware of their speeches. What he is doing here is rather turning once again a key theme of Demosthenes’ rhetoric and persona against him.44 We have already seen how in many Assembly speeches, and even more notably in Dem. 18.294–6, the orator had isolated pleonexia and Philip’s bribes as the reason for the actions of many important Greek politicians, who due to their greed had betrayed Greece to the barbarian and caused its enslavement.45 This is also a key theme of Demosthenes’ portrayal of Aeschines. Ps.-Leptines is an engaged and attentive reader of Demosthenes, he pays careful attention to his statements, his persona, and his arguments, and his attack on Demosthenes is very Demosthenic. If this was how Demosthenes’ speeches were read and studied around the Greek world, as far as Hermoupolis and as early as the mid-third century, with such attention and engagement with the political circumstances, the arguments, and even the institutional background, we can then understand why Polybius felt the need a century later to refute Demosthenes’ arguments. The issues discussed in this speech—the role of benefactions and benefactors in the running of the polis, the duty of the demos to show charis towards them, and the links between honours, reciprocity, and democracy—are all themes of key importance in the life of the Hellenistic poleis and Greek communities more widely, and it is not surprising that Demosthenes’ speech Against Leptines would enjoy such popularity.46 The second papyrus I want to discuss, Mertens-Pack3 2496 (= P.Hib. 1.15), from Hibeh, has also been dated on paleographical grounds to the third century BCE, and more precisely to the period 280–240.47 It contains what appears to be a speech by an Athenian general exhorting the Athenians to take arms and be at his side in his fight against an unspecified enemy.48 Scholars 44

Kremmydas 2007: 44. On pleonexia as a key anti-democratic value, see Balot 2001: 22–57 and passim. 46 The bibliography on euergetism in the Hellenistic world is enormous, and it will suffice here to cite what is probably the most influential study of the topic, Gauthier 1985, as well as a volume that promises to be very influential, Ma 2013, and the recent study by Domingo Gygax 2016 of the origins of these phenomena. For more bibliography on the subject, see Canevaro 2016a: 77–97. 47 Jacoby (FGrH 105 F6) believes that this is from a historical work. 48 In Canevaro 2013: 338 I incorrectly follow Russell 1983: 4 in assuming that the enemy must be Alexander, which would be impossible if we identify the speaker with Leosthenes. 45

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have usually identified the speaker with Leosthenes, the leader of the Athenian forces during the Lamian war, because he mentions that he has been strategos before, and that he afterwards retired to Tainaron.49 That this is not an authentic speech by Leosthenes is clear first because there is no evidence whatsoever that there ever existed in antiquity a Leosthenic corpus, or that Leosthenes’ speeches were among those preserved from Classical Athens. Second, the speech very much reads like a list of commonplaces from the Attic orators. Kremmydas in a recent discussion of the melete has in fact pointed out that some of the features that have been in the past considered prominently Demosthenic50 are in fact common also to other orators, and that one expression is a hapax (εὐαρεστοτέρους συμμάχους at the beginning of the fragment), while another is found only in one of Aeschines’ letters (ὑπερβολὴν τῆς φιλανθρωπίας; Ps.-Aeschin. Ep. 5.1).51 Yet nobody would argue that whoever composed the melete limited his work to composing a patchwork of expressions from Demosthenes (and the Attic orators) lacking any hapax or independent turn of phrase and idea. Nor does one want to argue that Ps.-Leosthenes could not have access to any other orators (although Ps.-Aeschin. Ep. 5.1, the parallel for the expression ὑπερβολὴν τῆς φιλανθρω|πίας, is universally recognized not to be by Aeschines, but a pseudo epigraph composed at a later date).52 In any case, Ps.-Leosthenes was very steeped in the orators, and although some phrases and vocabulary are found elsewhere in Attic oratory, there is hardly anything in this melete that cannot find a Demosthenic parallel. Moreover, the imagery and arguments are completely typical of Attic oratory, and the persona of the speaker is indeed very Demosthenic. This rhetorical exercise, once again, shows a remarkable level of engagement with Athenian democracy and ideology, as they are represented in Attic oratory, and also a shrewd and careful understanding of Demosthenes’ political persona, which Ps.-Leosthenes attempts to reproduce. The fragment starts with a reference to Athens’ ethos, its philanthropia, and its role as the defender of the weaker and of the common freedom of the Greeks. The focus on the ethos of the city, which should guide the actions and decisions of the citizens, is typical of Athenian ideology and once again the closest parallel for the expression

49 This papyrus was originally edited by Grenfell and Hunt 1906: 55–61. Blass, in Grenfell and Hunt 1906: 55, is the first to interpret it as a fictitious speech by Leosthenes. Körte 1913: 237 and Mathieu 1929: 162 believe it on the other hand to be a speech from the historical work of Anaximenes of Lampsacus or of Theopompus. The first interpretation is the most likely; cf. Braccesi 1970: 284–5 and Petruzziello 2009: 45–9. Petruzziello suggests, but does not argue, that the speech may be evidence of Leosthenes’ policies, but it must be a melete; see the rest of my argument and Kremmydas 2013: 156–9. 50 51 In particular by Wooten 1972: 100. Kremmydas 2013: 156–9. 52 On the spuriousness of the letters of Aeschines, see Blass 1887–98: III.2.185–6; Schwegler 1913: 73–9. See more recently Goldstein 1968: 7, 78; Gallé Cejudo 1996: 35–6; Hodkinson 2013.

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πόλεως ἦθος is Demosthenes’ Against Leptines (20.10–14), where the orator summarizes with this expression the refusal of the Athenians to break their pistis even when the matter is repaying a loan that the Spartans gave to the Thirty in order to help them fight the democrats.53 In the melete the ethos is instead the philanthropia of the Athenians, which sometimes, because of their excess of humanity, damages their own interests. This is a very common theme, one of the salient features of the Athenian character, which is often linked to their democratic ethos. To give only one example, in Demosthenes’ Against Timocrates the speaker claims that a law which forbids atimoi from addressing the Assembly or the Council and make a supplication was created with this rationale: ‘the man who enacted this law, men of Athens, understood your generosity and mild nature (τὴν φιλανθρωπίαν καὶ τὴν πραότητα τὴν ὑμετέραν). He also saw that many times you had willingly caused yourselves serious harm because of these qualities’ (Dem. 24.51; cf. Dem. 21.148, 25.76, 81; Hyp. 5 fr. 6).54 The same theme is key also in early Hellenistic Athenian interpretations of its own past, as shown by Luraghi in this volume in relation to the decrees for the Chremonidean War, and reappears in later authors’ treatments of Athens, as shown in this volume by Holton in relation to Diodorus.55 Ps.-Leosthenes makes then a quick change of argument, without any explanation of the transition, which again reinforces the impression that this is a rhetorical exercise. At lines 35–45 the argument that being slow is a disadvantage for the city is typically (and gratuitously, given the quick transition and the lack of explanation) Demosthenic, and shows that Ps.-Leosthenes was interested not only in language and formulas but also and more prominently in Demosthenes’ persona as the advisor of the Athenians and in his policies. Demosthenes repeatedly criticizes the Athenian slowness and compares it with Philip’s speed in acting when necessary, in particular in connection with the fall of Olynthus, to such an extent that this becomes one of the most recurring themes of his deliberative oratory (cf. Dem. 9.29, 4.36–8). Ps.-Leosthenes reproduces the same themes, but innovates in the language, as the expression τοῖς τὴν ῥαιθυμίαν ἀσφάλειαν ἀποκαλοῦσιν has no parallels in the orators.

53 See Canevaro 2016a: 86–92, 204–9 and Hesk 2000: 41–53, for thorough discussions of this passage of the Against Leptines. On the portrait of the national character of the Athenians in Thucydides, see e.g. Luginbill 1999; in the orators, Steinbock 2013: 147–9, 276–81, and passim. 54 For the Athenians’ philanthropia and their vocation to defend the weak, cf. Thuc. 6.18.2; 6.87.2; Andoc. 3.28; Isoc. 4.52–65; Dem. 15.22. On the stereotypical characterization of Athens as the protector of the weak in tragedy and in funeral speeches, see Loraux 1981: 67–8; Tzanetou 2012: 1–30 and passim, Christ 2013; cf. in particular Aesch. Suppl.; Soph. OC; Eur. Suppl., Heracl.; Lys. 2.11–15; Isoc. 4.56; Dem. 60.8.32. Cf. Dover 1974: 201–5 for philanthropia in the Classical age; Gray 2013c for its Hellenistic development. 55 Cf. Luraghi and Holton, Chapters 2 and 9 in this volume.

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The next few lines are too fragmentary to allow us to understand what exactly is going on, but we can read well enough the imperative μέμνησθε τῶν προγόνων, a typical appeal to the ancestors.56 At lines 70ff. the focus is once again on the construction of the persona of the excellent advisor. Ps.-Leosthenes claims that no one will be able to accuse him of not having predicted what is going to happen, as he has warned in the past and is still right now warning the Athenians about what will happen in the future if they do not do what is expedient. Foresight is one of the key features of political leadership as constructed in Athenian sources, and the high-minded advisor had to be capable of foreseeing the future, advising about what was expedient, and warning against actions that would have evil consequences (Thuc. 2.62–3, 2.65.6).57 One could just mention Thucydides’ portrait of Themistocles as one who ‘could foresee with equal clearness the good or evil event which was hidden in the future’ (Thuc. 1.138), as well as his portrait of Pericles’ analytical skills that allowed him to predict future events.58 But, once again, the most excellent example of the construction of such a persona, with a continuous focus on the ability to foresee the future and consistently advise for the best, is Demosthenes’ On the Crown, where the orator goes through his career and repeatedly points out all the times when he had predicted what was going to happen (and the Athenians did not listen). At Dem. 18.246 he even ventures to provide a dense definition of what can be expected of a statesman: ‘Undertake, Athenians, a thorough inquiry into whatever a politician is accountable for; I don’t ask to be excused. What are those activities? To notice things when they first take shape, to anticipate developments, and to alert others. That is what I did.’ In this very passage, Demosthenes also touches upon the topic of slowness and procrastination, as he proceeds to state: ‘further: to minimize ever-present procrastination, vacillation, ignorance, rivalry—problems that inevitably plague all political communities…’ Towards the end of the melete Ps.-Leosthenes again exploits themes typical of Attic oratory and shows a deep understanding of Athenian democratic ideology: the mention of Marathon and Salamis, as well as the reference to the hegemonia of the city that should not be given up lightly (cf. e.g. Dem. 10.6, 15.17, 18.65) are very significant.59 56 For this topos, see e.g. Din. 1.109; Aeschin. 1.182; Dem. 18.98, 23.204. See Jost 1936: 162–243 for a collection of examples, and cf. Thomas 1994 for the use of this topos; Steinbock 2013: 33 and passim; and Canevaro (forthcoming). 57 At Thuc. 2.89.2 Phormio also mentions this ability, and at 6.13.1 Nicias does. At Plat. Resp. 564c Socrates singles out this ability as the mark of a good doctor, lawgiver, and beekeeper. This ability is for example key for the character of Odysseus as he is represented in Sophocles’ Ajax (cf. Scodel 2005: 137–8), and the lack of the ability to foresee the consequences of particular actions is the reason for Creon’s ruin in Sophocles’ Antigone (cf. Cairns 2013: 11–40; 2014: 23). It appears already at Il. 1.343–4. 58 See e.g. Kallet-Marx 1993: 117–20. 59 On the use of the past in the orators, see Nouhaud 1982, and now Steinbock 2013 and Canevaro (forthcoming).

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Overall then these meletai appropriate very thoroughly Athenian democratic ideology and reproduce convincingly a Demosthenic persona. They are witnesses of a deep engagement with the Athenian material, in which the reproduction of particular ideological and political traits does not depend chiefly on an attempt to imitate the language and style of the Attic orators. The appropriation works at a deeper level: it is the ideas, the institutions, and the political context that the authors of the meletai are interested in. And further evidence that this level of attention to Athenian institutions and ideas is not exceptional is provided by Didymus’ work on Demosthenes, of which we have an example in P.Berol. 9780, which comments on Dem. 9–11 and 13.60 This work reflects a flourishing tradition of commentators in the previous centuries (to whom he sometimes refers). The teachers and students of rhetoric were the public for which the first commentaries on Demosthenes were produced, and were probably commentators themselves.61 Didymus’ work, like all the preserved ancient commentaries on Demosthenes, is evidence of widespread interests in historical, constitutional, and legal matters rather than in narrow stylistical and rhetorical analysis: the fragments of Didymus in Harpocration discuss ‘the layout of the theatre, tithing, imprisonment, the requirement for advance deposits in court cases, guardianship and attainment of the majority and clan-sponsored wedding feasts’.62 P.Stras. 84, a papyrus commentary on Dem. 22 that certainly relies on Hellenistic materials, deals with ‘the chairmanship of governmental committees, the Periclean building programme, fifth-century Athenian finance, treasury officials, the jurisdiction of the thesmothetai, and the names and duties of archons and other officials’.63 The spurious documents found in the speeches of the Attic orators are also evidence of this flourishing interest in Classical Athenian institutions and public life. They were composed by teachers and rhetoricians to fill gaps in the preserved speeches, and should be interpreted as rudimentary attempts at reconstructing the actual laws and decrees quoted in the speeches.64 Outside of Egypt, a catalogue of books of the library of the gymnasium of Rhodes from the late second century BCE is also evidence of the spread and popularity of texts from late fourth-century Athens and about Athenian politics and institutions.65 The catalogue includes titles by Demetrius of Phalerum such as Περὶ τῆς Ἀθήνησι νομοθεσίας and Περὶ τῶν Ἀθήνησι πολιτειῶν, the otherwise unknown works of Hegesias of Magnesia οἱ 60

See now Gibson 2002: 51–136 and Harding 2006. Gibson 2002 collects and discusses all the evidence for commentaries of Demosthenes; at 42–50 he discusses their readership. 62 See the excellent discussion in Gibson 2002: 26–35, from which the quotation is drawn. 63 Gibson 2002: 40. 64 See on these documents Canevaro 2013: passim, and 329–42 for the milieu of their origin. 65 Maiuri 1925, no. 11. See De Sanctis 1976: 199–208 and Staab 2004 for discussions of the contents of this list. 61

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Φιλαθηναῖοι, Ἀσπασία, and Ἀλκιβιάδης, and several speeches by Theopompus including a Παναθηναϊκός. What then teachers and rhetoricians in the third and second centuries BCE are interested in, are reflecting upon, and try to reproduce or challenge is a political paradigm of public life and political action. This paradigm must have been, as soon as the third century and as far as Rhodes, Hibeh, and Hermoupolis, the main attraction of the Athenian material in general and of Demosthenes and the Attic orators in particular, which made them the key items of study and imitation in rhetorical education and preparation for political life. They, and the Athenian world they mirrored, were relevant to the Hellenistic cities in which they were taught and studied and they must have figured prominently in the ideas and debates of the time, imitated but also challenged through engaging with other points of view from and about Athens, such as the Peripatetic criticism of Demosthenes and of the image of Athens that he represented. Hence, for example, the attempt of Polybius to counter Demosthenes’ assessment of the Peloponnesian leaders surrendering to Philip. Scholarly and polemical attacks on Demosthenes in Hellenistic texts are not evidence of a decline in interest in the orator, but are rather attacks on the popularity of his speeches, and on the world and ideas they represent, which were paradigmatic for the citizens of the Hellenistic poleis.

4.3 CO NCLUSIONS I bring now this chapter to a close with two considerations, on the two main topics to which a new understanding of the role of Demosthenes and the Attic orators in Hellenistic rhetorical education should contribute. The first is on the topic of Hellenistic oratory: a careful analysis of the few fragments of Hellenistic meletai shows that practitioners and teachers, as early as the third century BCE, were very capable of producing sophisticated and convincing speeches which could potentially be mistaken for Athenian speeches.66 Scholars often lament the lack of evidence for Hellenistic rhetorical practices (except, of course, for these few fragments).67 Yet one should keep in mind that at this very point in time the corpora of the Attic orators were becoming progressively consolidated, yet were still permeable to intrusions. When scholars find problems, chronological difficulties, inconsistencies, and errors in a speech of the Attic orators, they usually either defend the speech as authentic at all costs, or try to argue that it is a fourth-century pamphlet, 66 67

See the discussion of the style of these exercises in Kremmydas 2013. E.g. Pernot 2005: 57 n. 1; Erskine 2007: 273; Vanderspoel 2007: 124–5.

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pseudo-epigraph and yet still contemporary, because no later forger could compose something so sophisticated.68 Perhaps we should not be so sure, and one wonders whether it is really so unlikely that someone with the skills of our Ps.-Leptines and Ps.-Leosthenes could write some of the most controversial speeches, such as Andocides’ De pace, Against Alcibiades, or Demosthenes’ two speeches Against Aristogeiton.69 We should consider the possibility that more evidence for speeches and rhetorical exercises composed in the Hellenistic age may be hidden in the corpora of the Attic orators. My second consideration is about Hellenistic democracy and political life. The battle about the decadence or vitality of the Hellenistic polis has eventually ended, and no scholar (hopefully) would subscribe today to the claim that the Greek polis died at Chaeronea.70 Yet the battleground is now, and has been for some time, on whether these poleis were actual democracies, as they called themselves, or were democracies only in name and in fact were dominated by social elites that controlled all political institutions.71 Recent studies have tried to find an answer to this question, yet the two most recent monographs on the topic, by Susanne Carlsson and Volker Grieb, as well as several other studies, have struggled at a basic methodological level: what is a democracy? What is the term of comparison?72 Carlsson’s and others’ solution has been to look for definitions in modern political theory, yet such an approach has proven problematic for Classical Athens, for which the evidence is much more extensive, and is even more problematic for the Hellenistic poleis.73 Grieb and Mann have instead advocated a more practical approach: since Classical Athens is the paradigmatic ancient democracy, Hellenistic poleis should be

68

A relevant example of this tendency is the scholarship on Andocides’ Against Alcibiades, on which see the extensive literature review in Cobetto Ghiggia 1995: 11–22. Cf. e.g. Treves 1938, Dover 1968: 191–2, and Furley 1989 who believe in the authenticity of the speech and in its attribution to Andocides, and Gernet 1933, Siewert 1989, Edwards 1995: 131–6, and Heftner 2001 who believe that the author is not Andocides but that the speech should be dated to the early fourth century. One exception is Gribble (1997), who finds models typical of later declamations, as well as mistakes and signs of antiquarian interest typical of the Hellenistic material, in Ps.-Andocides’ Against Alcibiades. Schmidt and Stählin 1940: 137–8 already thought it a rhetorical exercise, either Hellenistic or of the Second Sophistic. 69 The authenticity of Andocides’ De pace has been questioned with strong arguments by Harris 2000. That of the two speeches Against Aristogeiton by Sealey 1993: 237–9 and Harris 2017. Sealey also deals at 235–7 with the authenticity of Dem. 13, and deems it the work of a later rhetorician. 70 A famous statement of the previous position is Glotz 1928: 448. This paradigm has been overturned: see now e.g. Robert 1969b: 42; Gauthier 1993; Ma 2000a; 2002; 2003; 2013; Chaniotis 2005. See on this historiographical turn the introduction pp. 11–16 and Ma, Chapter 13 in this volume. 71 This second position is that e.g. of Quaß 1992; 1993; Chaniotis 2010. 72 Carlsson 2010; Grieb 2008. Cf. Hamon 2009 for a thoughtful discussion of these works. 73 Carlsson 2010: 47–9, 291–3 adopts this approach, as did Robinson 1997: 13–16, who has abandoned it however in Robinson 2011: 2–5. Both refer to the work of Dahl 1989: 106–31.

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compared with Classical Athens and deemed democracies if they present the key features of that model.74 This second solution has in turn been attacked as inadequate and prejudicially Athenocentric. Naïve Athenocentrism should indeed be abandoned and accounts of the ‘great convergence’, as Ma calls it,75—the spreading of democratic institutions in the Greek poleis—that describe it as the progressive adoption of Athenian political forms by most Greek poleis76 are unsatisfactory and contradicted by the evidence.77 Yet there is another more nuanced form of Athenocentrism that we should not dismiss so easily: if one looks at the evidence I have discussed in this chapter, at the level of engagement that teachers, rhetoricians, and presumably politicians and orators from all over the Greek world showed with Demosthenic oratory and with Athenian ideology, institutions, and political life, it is clear that the solution advocated by Grieb and Mann is not entirely arbitrary. If students of oratory and public speakers were educated to pretend to be Classical Athenians, fighting Philip or trying to defend Leptines’ law, defending the Athenian ethos, the Athenian constitution, and the values and institutions of Athenian democracy, then it stands to reason that Athens would not be a completely alien comparative model for the Hellenistic poleis, one artificially imposed by Athenocentric modern historians. It is possible that Classical Athens as it is represented in the speeches of the orators was already in the Hellenistic poleis a well-established model for comparison, by which Hellenistic politai could assess the democratic credentials of their own constitutions, of the policies proposed and advocated, of their own public life.78

74

75 Grieb 2008; Mann 2012. Cf. Ma, Chapter 13 in this volume. This is what has been suggested from different angles in two recent monographs, Allen 2010 and Teegarden 2014. 77 See the attack on such accounts of the spreading of democracy in the Classical age in Robinson 2011. 78 I would like to thank Nino Luraghi and Julia Shear, as well as the anonymous referees, for reading through a draft of this chapter and offering several suggestions. Thanks are due also to audiences in Edinburgh, Chicago, and Reading for very valuable discussions. 76

5 Sophists, Epicureans, and Stoics A. G. Long

Stoics and Epicureans discussed ‘sophisms’ and called opponents inside and outside their schools ‘sophists’.1 How important for their philosophy was the genuine article—that is, the teachers and intellectuals of the fifth century such as Protagoras, Antiphon, and Thrasymachus? Given the themes of this volume, I will be more specific: how important were the sophists for Epicurean and Stoic political philosophy? Plato’s dialogues, especially the Republic, are standardly treated as a key target for both Stoics and Epicureans. By contrast, the sophists are not often thought to throw light on what Hellenistic philosophers were trying to achieve, and it has been suggested that Stoics and Epicureans were too preoccupied with ‘individual’ or ‘naturalistic’ morality to regard differences between laws and customs—a major theme of sophistic thought—as of very much interest.2 The main exception is the Epicurean theory of justice as a contract: ‘justice was not anything in itself, but a contract about not harming or being harmed, arising in people’s dealings with one another in individual regions large or small’ (Epicurus, KD 33).3 Already in the scholarship4 this has been compared with fifth- and fourth-century precedents, above all the contractual theory outlined by Glaucon in Plato’s Republic. The theory Glaucon offers is not his own but belongs to the vast number of people (Republic 358c7–d1) who would side with Thrasymachus and against Socrates, some of whom, it has been argued, are sophists.5 According to this theory, justice arises when people form 1 See for example D.L. 7.198 (Chrysippus’ On Sophisms), 10.26 (some Epicureans call other Epicureans ‘sophists’); Epicurus On Nature 28, fr. 13 col. X 3–12 sup. (contemporaries advancing ‘sophisms’ are called ‘sophists’). For the last text, see Sedley 1973. 2 Dihle 1981: 59. Throughout the chapter I use ‘sophistic’ to mean, without disparagement, ‘belonging to or otherwise relating to the sophists’. 3 For discussion of this doctrine, see section 5.4. 4 See especially Kahn 1981. Mitsis argues against the view that Epicurus had a ‘sophistic’ contractual theory of justice (1988: 68–9). 5 So Denyer 1983.

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‘laws and contracts’ (359a3) in order to protect themselves from harm. Antiphon’s On Truth is arguably a more significant antecedent of the Epicurean theory, for in Antiphon the notion of a contract, or at least of an agreement, does rather more work: given that laws derive from an agreement, Antiphon argues, transgressing the laws results in harm only if it is noticed by other parties to the agreement (fr. 44(a) I.27–II.23).6 (There is a contrast with the demands of ‘nature’, which do not depend on an agreement, and so retain their power over us even in the absence of witnesses.) When scholars compare Epicurus’ theory of justice with Glaucon’s, usually their aim is not to show the enduring importance of sophistic thought but to highlight what is distinctive in Epicurus’ conception of benefit and harm. In Glaucon’s theory harming or wronging someone else provides benefits that each party to the contract willingly forgoes (believing it to be more important to protect oneself from others), whereas in Epicurus’ view the contract is not a compromise, for, independently of the contract, people’s interests are not served by harming others.7 Were contractual theories of justice the sophists’ only legacy to Hellenistic political philosophy? In this paper I compare the evidence for Stoic and Epicurean responses to sophists. On the Stoic side we find, surprisingly, greater interest in the sophists’ profession than in their theories. Stoics seem not to have related, for polemical or other purposes, their own discussions of education and the good city to sophistic discussions. Instead Stoics focused on apparently superior alternatives to Greek, or at least Athenian, practice: Plato’s cities and Sparta. Epicurus, on the other hand, produced an unflattering intellectual biography of Protagoras, and in doing so he apparently points to errors or unacknowledged debts in Protagoras’ theories. (Finding the connection between personal criticism of Protagoras and criticism of his ideas is unavoidably speculative.) Epicurean political philosophy, and in particular early Epicurean discussion of differences between laws and conventions, is designed to improve on that of the sophists, and in one passage an Epicurean argues explicitly against relativism. Before I turn to the texts I should address the following objection. How could engagement with fifth-century sophistic thought advance a Hellenistic philosopher’s interests in the contemporary scene? It is tempting to assume that Hellenistic discussion of ‘sophists’ becomes intelligible only if it is shown to contribute to some contemporary debate or polemical exchange, and a good way to show that is to relate the discussion to Plato. If the discussion of sophistry points to an error on Plato’s part, it will embarrass Plato’s followers 6 Glaucon famously considers what would happen if someone could escape detection (359b6–360d7), but unlike Antiphon he does not relate this to the ‘contract’ or ‘agreement’. 7 See Long and Sedley 1987, vol. 1: 135; Vander Waerdt 1987: 418; Mitsis 1988: 83; Brown 2009: 193–4.

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in the Academy; a discussion about Plato can thus function as a response or challenge to Hellenistic contemporaries. If, however, the discussion of sophists really is about the sophists themselves, it is hard to see how it could speak to, or against, the Stoics’ and Epicureans’ contemporaries. That objection can be countered as follows. Not every discussion of philosophical (or, to be more neutral, intellectual) predecessors has a contemporary application in the sense of taking aim at contemporary opponents. For example, philosophers may discuss a dead predecessor not because the predecessor has a contemporary following but because he has, the philosophers believe, thrown down a challenge that has not yet been properly appreciated or countered. (That is one plausible explanation for Plato’s discussion of Parmenides in the Sophist.) The ‘contemporary’ stimulus for the discussion is in this case not a contemporary opponent but rather neglect or inactivity (or, alternatively, inadequate responses) on the part of contemporaries. All that I intend to show at this introductory stage is that our study of the texts should not be controlled by the expectation that the target will be a contemporary of the first kind—that is, contemporary opponents of the Stoics and Epicureans. To this one might object that the sophists were not regarded as ‘predecessors’ at all. Fairly or unfairly, Plato thought that the right response to sophists was merely to show them not to be real philosophers: this is what a philosopher is, we are philosophers, you sophists were not. That Platonic response then made unnecessary further engagement with the historical sophists, even in the Garden and Stoa. But this objection relies on a grossly one-sided view of Plato’s response to sophists, particularly to Protagoras’ political thought, and in any case it is not true to all the evidence for Hellenistic philosophy. As we will see, Plato’s Republic contains a far more nuanced response to Protagoras, and Epicureans—or at least one Epicurean—felt it necessary to distinguish between their theory and ‘Protagorean’ relativism. One further preliminary remark. Even though I direct attention to sophists I do not attempt to marginalize Plato. We are simply too reliant on Plato for our understanding of sophists, and there is no reason to suppose that the Stoics and Epicureans, if they saw a need to discuss sophists, would have confined themselves to texts written by sophists themselves and ignored the representation of sophists in Plato’s dialogues.

5.1 S TOICS ON S OPHISTRY AND E DUCATION The most direct discussion of sophists to have survived from the early Stoa concerns the sophists’ profession. According to Plutarch (Stoic. Rep. 1043e) Chrysippus in his Ways of Life treated ‘sophistry’ or σοφιστεία as one of three

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sources of income particularly appropriate to the wise man or ‘sage’.8 (The other two were ‘a kingdom’, which stands for either being a king or associating with a king,9 and ‘friends’.) Cleanthes had addressed the same subject in his On the Wise Man Turning Sophist (D.L. 7.175), but unfortunately we know only the work’s title. Is there polemic in Chrysippus’ rehabilitation of sophistry— and, if so, who is its target? Plato in his dialogues apparently disapproves of sophists for charging fees. At the very least Plato draws attention to the contrast between sophists, who charged fees, and the teachers and intellectuals who had not, including the prestigious figures to whom sophists wished to connect themselves, such as Orpheus and Homer.10 So perhaps when Chrysippus allows the sage to draw an income from teaching, his primary intention is to challenge Plato, and thus to challenge or embarrass Plato’s followers. In Stoic ethics there is nothing problematic in deriving money from one’s ‘wisdom’. As an ‘indifferent’, wealth makes no difference to happiness, but as a ‘promoted’ indifferent wealth should be pursued with the same attitude, roughly speaking, as bodily health; the sage’s ‘wisdom’ includes his appreciation of the value and utility of wealth, as well as his knowledge of how, and from which sources, he should make money.11 From this Stoic perspective any suggestion that the ‘sage’ should refrain from earning money looks like irrational squeamishness. Possibly Chrysippus’ own writing contained an anti-Platonic message on these or similar lines.12 But Chrysippus’ remarks, as outlined by Plutarch, do not show that historical sophists, such as Protagoras, were right to charge fees. They show that genuinely wise people may charge fees for teaching, and the historical sophists (like nearly everyone else) were not wise.13 Furthermore, Chrysippus did not merely discuss the appropriateness of charging fees: he also discussed when to collect the money and what should be promised at the start of the lessons (1043e–1044a). (Fortunately for us, it suits Plutarch’s own polemic to illustrate this with quotations.) When earning money from ‘sophistry’ the wise man should not have a fixed procedure: in some cases he should 8 For the sources of income, see also Stoic. Rep. 1047f, D.L. 7.189 (and the crucial comments on the passage at Schofield 1991: 18–20), and Stob. 2.109.10–110.8. The passage of Stobaeus shows that some Stoics were uncomfortable with the word ‘sophistry’, as it sounded disparaging; compare Stob. 2.94.8–20. Epicureans preferred to speak of ‘making money from wisdom’ (D.L. 10.120). 9 Compare Stoic. Rep. 1043b–c and Stob. 2.109.13–14. 10 See Protagoras 349a, Hippias Major 282e–283b, and Long 2013a: 41, 61. For a different view on the sophists and their fees in Plato, see Lane 2011. 11 See Stob. 2.95.21–3. For wealth as a promoted indifferent, see D.L. 7.102–6, Stob. 2.83.10–84.2 and 84.18–85.11, and for the relevance of the doctrine to ‘sophistry’, see Schofield 1991: 19 n. 28. At 7.107 Diogenes is more specific: wealth is ‘promoted’ not because it is intrinsically valuable but because of its utility. 12 So Schofield 2005: 448. 13 Compare Lane 2011: 256, according to which Socrates may approve of charging money for genuine teaching. For the scarceness of sages, see now Brouwer 2014: 92–135.

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avoid risks by getting all the money at the start, but in the interests of goodwill other pupils can be granted some time before they are required to pay up. Nor will the wise man—or rather, to echo Chrysippus’ startling wording, the wise sophist—promise a specific outcome: making pupils virtuous, or (even less realistically) making pupils virtuous within a year. Instead the wise sophist and pupil should agree on a period of time during which the sophist will do what he can. These comments cannot be construed as objections to Plato; on the contrary, any criticism of previous sophists for promising ‘virtue’ puts Chrysippus on the same side as Plato. The challenge is addressed to the historical figures who, despite their lack of wisdom, have practised sophistry already. What Plato provides is historical information about previous sophists’ promises and practice. In particular Chrysippus is targeting sophists’ claims to provide virtue, as for example in Euthydemus 273d–e, and to have found ‘the’ correct procedure for payment. For an example of the latter, see Protagoras’ boast about his policy in Protagoras 328b–c: Protagoras postpones payment until after the lessons, at which point the pupils either pay in full the amount Protagoras charges or, making an oath, deposit in a temple the amount they think appropriate.14 Chrysippus, then, did not merely allow the wise man to turn sophist, but considered how the wise man would apply his wisdom to the thoroughly worldly business of collecting fees and making realistic promises. In his view, historical sophists failed to recognize (a) the difficulty of becoming virtuous and (b) the need to adapt to the circumstances in our moral and social lives. The fact that Chrysippus had in mind the sophists themselves—not merely Plato’s criticism of sophists—makes his talk of ‘sophistry’ all the more remarkable. The term would be easier to explain if Chrysippus intended simply to criticize or make fun of Plato, but evidently Chrysippus thought through how a wise sophist would actually operate. All the same, Plutarch’s testimony does not show that Chrysippus took much interest in the historical sophists’ theories and arguments, political or otherwise. The Stoics seem not to have addressed the relationship between their political thought and that of the sophists, even in the specific areas where they contradicted sophists. Consider for example Zeno’s verdict on education in his Republic: ‘general education’ (ἡ ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία) is useless (D.L. 7.32).15 Useless for what? Zeno’s own city is designed to attain political 14

For discussion, see Denyer 2013. Diogenes the Cynic said that music, geometry, astronomy, and similar subjects should be ignored as ‘useless and unnecessary’ (D.L. 6.73; compare 6.103–4). Probably Zeno himself said ‘general education’ or something similarly unspecific, and so gave room for manoeuvre to later Stoics, such as Diogenes of Babylon and (perhaps) Posidonius, who thought that musical education, at least, was not useless. See Woodward 2010 and Posidonius fr. 168 EdelsteinKidd (= Galen PHP 5.6.20–22), fr. 90 (Sen. Ep. 88.21–8). (It is far from certain that Galen is restricting himself to what Posidonius actually wrote.) Long and Sedley (1987, vol. 2: 423) 15

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or interpersonal ideals, most notably concord and friendship (and perhaps freedom),16 and no doubt he thought general education incapable of providing these. But he also intended each individual citizen to be virtuous. This does not straightforwardly distinguish the good city from other cities, for Zeno suggested that those who are not virtuous do not really deserve the name of citizen or even freeman at all (D.L. 7.32–3). Even in Athens or other non-ideal cities the ‘citizens’ are exclusively the virtuous, although it may be more accurate to say that the virtuous people in Athens, should there be any, are fellow-citizens in relation to one another than that they are citizens of Athens. (At some point the Stoics took this to imply that the virtuous people in, say, Athens, Crete, and Persia are all fellow-citizens in relation to one another, and so they must belong to a ‘city’ much larger than any city or nation in the conventional sense; perhaps even non-virtuous people are in some sense the citizens of this larger city. But it is not agreed how far Zeno himself went in this direction, and I avoid that controversy here.)17 If general education really is ‘useless’, it must be unable to deliver virtue in individual citizens, as well as the political goals of concord and friendship. In the scholarship Zeno’s comment on education has been treated as criticism of Plato’s Republic—rightly, in my own view.18 But, one might think, it is Plato’s Protagoras who is contradicted most directly. When challenged in the Protagoras to show that virtue19 is teachable, Protagoras uses general education— early lessons in letters, poetry, music, and physical fitness—to show that virtue is not only teachable but actually taught throughout the citizen body, and for much of the time. Parents may say that teachers should pay more attention to their children’s good conduct than to literacy and music (325d7–e1), but the contrast they draw is rather misleading, for, according to Protagoras, literacy and music themselves contribute to children’s moral education. When children can read, teachers get them to read poetry that encourages them to emulate virtuous men of old (325e2–326a4). (Later Protagoras claims to believe that the ‘greatest part’ of education is the ability to speak well about poetry.)20 As children are immersed in the modes and rhythms of lyric song, contrast Zeno’s comment on education with Stob. 2.67.5–12: ‘the wise man alone is a lover of music and literature.’ For the phrase ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία, see, for example, D.S. 33.7.7; Strab. 14.5.13; Athen. 4.184b; [Plut.] On Music 1135d. Two of the more important discussions of ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία are in Latin literature: Quint. 1.10.1 and Sen. Ep. 88.23. 16 See Plut. Lyc. 31 (and the important clarification in Baldry 1959: 8) and Athen. 13.561c. Schofield argues that ‘freedom’ was added by Athenaeus (1991: 48–56). 17 Contrast Schofield 1991 and Vogt 2008: 65–110. 18 See Baldry 1959: 5 n. 4; Schofield 1991: 22–56; Long 2013b: 116–22. 19 At first Socrates’ challenge concerns expertise in politics (319a3–b1), but later (320b5) Socrates speaks of ‘virtue’ or (in another common translation) ‘excellence’, and Protagoras suggests that the subject is ‘justice and the rest of political virtue’ (323a6–7, b2). 20 Protagoras 338e6–339a3. It is quite possible that he intends merely to take the discussion to an area where he expects to perform better than Socrates.

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they become more ‘gentle’ and, as Protagoras puts it, can exhibit the musicality that life itself demands (326a4–b6). Physical education then protects children from the bodily weakness that might cause them to become cowardly in war and other activities (326b6–c3). Moral education continues after childhood, for laws and punishment by the state educate, or ‘straighten out’, adult citizens (326c6–e5). Protagoras does not take a wholly uncritical attitude to contemporary education—he says that some people, such as himself, are better educators than others (328a8–b2)21—but he suggests that it encourages at least the beginnings of moral development. Zeno, by contrast, denies that ‘general education’ has any moral application.22 In the part of his Republic concerning education he presumably saw himself as writing against Greek education itself, a subject to which he devoted an entire work (D.L. 7.4), as much as against any specific individual. Insofar as he was writing against specific philosophers or intellectuals, we might expect them to be advocates of education as currently practised, such as Plato’s Protagoras. Instead, so far as we can tell, he wrote against the attempt to change education in Plato’s Republic.23 In Plato’s dialogue Socrates expects the philosopher-guards to undertake a new programme of specialist mathematical and philosophical education, but this comes after an intellectually less arduous education in music24 and poetry, as well as physical training (376e–412b). All these parts of early education—music, poetry, and even gymnastics (410b–412a)—contribute to the moral development of the guards, as Protagoras had suggested, but notoriously in Socrates’ city musical modes and poetry are screened and censored before they are offered to future guards. Zeno’s Republic, unlike Plato’s,25 is simply opposed to Protagoras, and yet it is from Plato, not Protagoras, that Zeno distinguishes himself.

21 Protagoras also criticizes the mathematical, musical, and literary education provided by other sophists. He has in mind not ‘general education’ but advanced, technical pursuit of these subjects (318d5–319a2). 22 He then argued that cities should not build gymnasia and law-courts (D.L. 7.33), and so must have believed that these institutions too should not have the educational role that Plato’s Protagoras attributes to them. 23 The evidence is at Plut. Stoic. Rep. 1034e. Compare Asmis’ comment on the Epicurean rejection of both traditional education and the Platonic alternative (1995: 19). 24 See now Schofield 2010. 25 ‘[Plato’s] Republic works out in monumental breadth and penetrating detail the Protagorean insight that human individuals are shaped through and through by the institutions of their society’ (Broadie 2003: 83–4). Compare also Plato’s discussion of education in the Ship of State, where the interfering ‘sailors’ (i.e. democratic politicians) deny that ‘navigation’ (expertise in politics) can be taught (488b6–7). Protagoras and Plato’s Socrates have different conceptions of that expertise, but they have a common enemy in the sailors. Later Socrates belittles the teaching of salaried sophists (no doubt Protagoras counts as an example), saying that they pass off as ‘wisdom’ the opinions of ordinary people (493a6–9), but he denies that these sophists corrupt the young to any significant extent. The greatest ‘sophists’ are rather those who talk down people like Protagoras (492a5–b4), particularly when they signal approval and disapproval in large numbers

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Zeno’s followers similarly explored the relationship between their political thought and alternatives to Greek education.26 One such alternative was Greek but atypical: Sparta. Another was the Magnesia of Plato’s Laws. Zeno’s junior associate Persaeus wrote both a Spartan Polity and a seven-book critique of Plato’s Laws (D.L. 7.36). Cleanthes wrote On Education (περὶ ἀγωγῆς), which may have addressed the Spartan educational system or ἀγωγή specifically (7.175). Cleanthes’ pupil Sphaerus27 then wrote On the Spartan Polity and a three-book work on Lycurgus and Socrates (7.178). That last work presumably concerned Socrates as ‘founder’ and ‘lawgiver’ of the city in Plato’s Republic (see e.g. Republic 379a1)28 and compared him with his counterpart in Sparta. Persaeus’ attack on Plato’s Laws must have shown the differences between Stoic political thought and Plato’s; it is less certain how Stoics presented the relationship between their thought and Sparta, and whether all Stoics took a similar view of Sparta. But obviously after Zeno’s death it continued to be important to show whether, and how closely, Sparta resembled (or had at one time resembled) what Stoics were proposing. Critique of sophistic teaching seems to have had no such place in Stoic self-definition. That makes it a little less surprising that Chrysippus, and probably Cleanthes before him, could describe their moral exemplar working as a sophist.

5.2 EPICUREANS, PROTA GORAS, AND SOPHISTIC In Epicurean writing there is much stronger evidence for polemic against sophists, especially against Protagoras. Metrodorus wrote a nine-book Against the Sophists (D.L. 10.24). (We do not know the identity of Metrodorus’ targets, although we do know that elsewhere he commented on Thrasymachus.)29 Epicurus sneeringly describes Protagoras as follows: ‘porter, Democritus’ copyist, village teacher of letters’ (D.L. 10.8).30 According to Athenaeus (8.354c) Epicurus’ letter On Ways of Living told a story about Protagoras’ path to sophistry: he was originally a talented porter and then became Democritus’ copyist, before turning his hand to village teaching and then sophistry. The second jibe, ‘Democritus’ copyist’, probably alleges that one or more of Protagoras’ doctrines were not original but derived from his fellow Abderite’s and so impose their views on others (492b6–c9). Protagoras’ corrupting influence on the young is tiny when compared with that of his detractors. 26 See Schofield 1991: 41–2. 27 Plutarch (Cleomenes 11) provides the tantalizing claim that Sphaerus helped Cleomenes restore the Spartan education or ἀγωγή. See Erskine 2011: 123–49. 28 Lane 2013 explores the themes of legislation and founding in Plato’s Republic. 29 30 See n. 37. For discussion, see Warren 2002: 14–16.

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theories.31 Perhaps Epicurus is alleging that all of Protagoras’ philosophy was cribbed from Democritus, except for what Protagoras then learned about language and spelling as a small-town teacher and whatever he already had as a porter—namely the ability to put and hold together other people’s property. (In Epicurus’ story Democritus is said to have been impressed by Protagoras the porter’s ‘own synthesis’ of pieces of wood.)32 The porter’s ability to synthesize was then put to work when Protagoras displayed to his readers and pupils variously acquired ideas—including those plagiarized from Democritus—as his own system. Elsewhere Epicurus is said to have called Protagoras a ‘late-learner’ (fr. 173 Usener). We can only speculate as to what Epicurus had in mind. A guess: Epicurus was targeting Protagoras’ claim (DK B4) that life is too short to establish whether gods are real and what their form is. Epicurus seems to answer both questions decisively: gods are real and anthropomorphic. (In fact it is not certain whether in Epicurus’ theory gods exist independently of human minds.)33 If Protagoras found life too short, he must simply have started philosophy too late. In any case, in the Garden Protagoras was sufficiently significant or provocative in his own right to attract these mocking comments.34 The fullest Epicurean account of sophistry survives in Philodemus’ On Rhetoric, which frequently cites Epicurus and the other ‘great men’ of the Garden. Here the discussion concerns the technical status and benefits of ‘sophistic’. According to Philodemus, the ‘great men’ regarded sophistic as a genuine art, but confined its application to writing speeches and delivering display pieces.35 Political rhetoric, by contrast, is not an art, and competence in politics does not derive from sophistic rhetoric, nor for that matter from any other art, but rather from research and observation.36 Much of this contradicts Plato, particularly the claim about the low epistemic requirements 31 Compare Apul. Florida 18, where Protagoras is said to have got from Democritus the contents of his teaching. 32 Athen. 8.354c. Compare D.L. 9.53 and Gel. NA 5.3. Epicurus seems to be drawing on a tradition at least as old as Aristotle (see D.L. 9.53) according to which Protagoras invented a device to make the job of a porter easier. It does not follow from this that the anecdote is devoid of criticism; Epicurus may have seen in that tradition a neat way to represent, and belittle, the impression of a system in Protagoras’ writing. Contrast Sedley 1976: 126. 33 See for example the powerful case for Epicurean gods being ‘thought-constructs’ in Long and Sedley 1987, vol. 1: 144–9. 34 Plutarch includes Protagoras as one of the philosophers insulted by Epicurus and Metrodorus (That Epicurus Makes a Pleasant Life Impossible 1086e–f). 35 Sophistic an art: P.Herc. 1674 col. XXXIV 32–5, XLIII 26–35, col. LVI 9–LVIII 8; sophistic the art of writing speeches and delivering display pieces: P.Herc. 1674 col. XXIII 33–XXIV 9. I use the text of the second book in Longo Auricchio 1977, but I have also made use of the findings in Blank 2003. 36 P.Herc. 1674 col. XXXVII 1–31 (for the text, see Blank 2003: 73), XLIII 26–35; P.Herc. 1672 col. XXI 10–17.

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of politics: the philosopher-guards of Plato’s Republic may benefit from observing politics during the time spent gaining experience (Republic 539e–540a), but no other part of their marathon training actually prepares them for politics. But it is of course the sophists who have most to lose from the claim that ‘sophistic’ does not prepare one for politics, chief among them being Protagoras, and the claim there is no art of politics directly contradicts Protagoras’ claim (or rather his acceptance of Socrates’ suggestion) that he provides the ‘political art’ (Protagoras 319a3–7).37 Epicureans are giving something to sophists, the possession of an expertise, but are taking away far more with the other hand: do not go to a sophist if you wish to become a successful politician. It is not plausible to suggest that these comments on sophistic can be fully explained in terms of polemic against people other than the sophists themselves.

5.3 MANY BUT ONE: S OPHISTS ON J USTICE What then was the significance for Epicureans of the sophists’ political thought? A prominent theme of sophistic thought is the differences between laws, customs, circumstances, and beliefs. Relativism is a particularly eyecatching response to these differences, but in recent years scholars have argued that relativism was not as central to sophistic thought as Plato’s Theaetetus might suggest.38 (In Theaetetus 151e–179b Protagoras is represented as a relativist and is a particularly formidable and tenacious interlocutor, even though he is not physically present!) An alternative characterization of sophistic thought, suggested by Bett, is attention to ‘ethical variability’.39 One and the same item is good in some circumstances or relations, bad in others; or an item is believed by some people to be good or virtuous, whereas other people take a different view of it. What sophists shared was attention to such differences, not a specifically relativistic way of accommodating opposed beliefs.

37 At least one other individual sophist was a target. According to Philodemus (P.Herc. 1674 col. L 11–29), Metrodorus argued that people succeed in politics without learning Thrasymachus’ art, and that Thrasymachus himself could not achieve what he says his art makes possible. It should be noted that Philodemus is citing Metrodorus’ On Poems, not a work on rhetoric or politics, and so Thrasymachus and politics presumably had only indirect or secondary importance for Metrodorus himself. For discussion of Philodemus’ testimony see Chandler 2006: 117–22. 38 See for example Woodruff 1999: 305. Contrast chapter 9 (‘Sophistic Relativism’) of Kerferd 1981, which uses the theme of relativism to draw together a wide range of sophistic writing. 39 Bett 2002. Bett recognizes the contrasts between different sophists, but is trying to identify a sophistic ‘style of thinking about ethics’ (2002: 236).

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Consider for example two Platonic passages cited by Bett, one from the Meno, the second from the Protagoras. Meno is not a sophist but is supposed to be strongly impressed by the sophist Gorgias, and says that he agrees with what Gorgias says (Meno 71d).40 Socrates then asks him to define virtue, and in his reply Meno makes a rapidly expanding number of distinctions (71e–72a): the virtue of a man is not the same thing as the virtue of a woman, and children have their own virtues, and one must distinguish between the two sexes in childhood—and older men have their own virtue, and one must not forget the difference between a free man and a slave. In the second passage Socrates asks Protagoras whether good things are beneficial to human beings, and Protagoras responds with a bravura list of distinctions (Protagoras 333d, 334a–c). Yes and no, he says: things may be bad in relation to human beings and good in relation to some other creature. Here again the distinctions rapidly accumulate: between different animals, between animals and plants, between a part of animals and a part of human beings, between internal and external parts of a human being. The conclusion is not relativism but that goodness is complex, changeable, and diverse.41 Meno (or Gorgias) and Protagoras both pay close attention to variability and both derive easy fluency in speaking about goodness, or virtue, from the large number of distinctions that can be shown to apply. But they do not share some further conclusion about the significance of these variations. This may suggest a neat contrast between (1) the sophists and (2) Socrates and Plato: when the sophists examined virtue or goodness they found an ever-expanding plurality, whereas Socrates and Plato believed there to be a single object of definition and understanding.42 But when discussing justice sophists themselves sometimes looked for unity, even when they drew attention to contrasts. Perhaps the best example is Plato’s Thrasymachus (Republic 338c2–339a4). To explain what he means when he calls justice ‘the advantage of the stronger’, he contrasts different cities: some are ruled by a tyrant, others by the people, others still by an elite group. The ruling person or group in each city enacts laws with a view to its own advantage and declares that obedience to these laws is just. Laws vary from city to city—in some cities the laws are democratic, elsewhere they are autocratic, and so on. But even though different cities have different laws, aimed to support utterly different regimes, in each city justice promotes the interests of the rulers—or, in Thrasymachus’ original wording, ‘of the stronger’. In this sense throughout all cities ‘the same thing’ (339a1) is just: ‘it turns out, if one reasons correctly, that justice is the same everywhere’ (339a2–3).

40 41 42

Bett 2002: 237 compares the discussion of Gorgias at Arist. Pol. 1260a27–8. For a different interpretation, see Rowett 2013. Compare Arist. Pol. 1260a20–33, which contrasts Gorgias and Socrates.

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Antiphon describes as artificial the distinction between Greeks and barbarians, and probably held that different laws and customs are responsible for alienating people from one another (fr. 44 (b)). (Unfortunately, given the state of the text, we cannot be certain.)43 Nonetheless he thought it possible to generalize about justice. In his comments on justice Antiphon offers a single definition, designed to accommodate the fact that different cities have different laws (‘justice is not to transgress the laws of the city in which one is a citizen’, fr. 44(a) I.6–11),44 and then speaks in general terms about justice, or ‘justice according to the law’, and its bearing on our interests. For example, ‘much of what is just according to law is inimical to nature’ (II.26–30), and ‘justice from the law’ cannot make good the losses people suffer at the hands of those who flout it (VI.3–9). These passages offer something different from the comments on virtue and goodness in the Meno and Protagoras. For Thrasymachus the empirical fact that different cities prescribe different things as ‘just’ is merely the starting point: by ‘reasoning correctly’ he tries to show what the varying prescriptions have in common. Reasoning should take us beyond the diversity shown by an empirical survey. And in the surviving passages of Antiphon’s On Truth the fact that different cities and peoples have different laws does not prevent Antiphon from offering a disquieting message about justice in all cities. Already sophists are trying to find the one throughout the many, if not the one over many.

5.4 ONE AND MANY: EARLY EPICUREANS ON J USTICE In Epicurus’ theory of justice a lot has changed. Epicurus insists that justice requires more than legislation or obedience to law: a just action or law must be genuinely beneficial, and beneficial to the whole community, not only to its rulers or ruler (KD 36, 37). (The reason for saying ‘community’, not ‘city’, will become clear soon.) All the same, a prohibition, say, that is beneficial to the community is not just until its benefits have been recognized and the community has committed itself to the prohibition. Up to that point it is only beneficial, not just (KD 33). That is, justice requires not only benefit but recognition and coordination by the community. Epicurus describes the agreement between members of the community as being neither to harm nor be harmed (KD 31, 32, 33), and it has been argued persuasively that he includes indirect as well as direct harm.45 For example, he would include as 43

See Pendrick 2002: 351–2.

44

See Furley 1981: 83.

45

O’Keefe 2001.

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just a law to ration water in the event of a shortage (if some people drink too much others will be harmed), as well as laws against battery or theft. (It is convenient to use ‘laws’ as examples, but strictly speaking justice relies on a contract, not on laws.) In Epicurus’ view, how was his theory an improvement on the theories of his predecessors? Long and Sedley reasonably see polemic against Plato: according to them, when Epicurus denies (KD 33–4) that justice is something ‘in itself ’, and that injustice is an evil ‘in itself ’, his target is Platonic attempts to isolate justice—from its instantiations, as a Form and object of understanding, and from its consequences, as something good to have (Republic 358b).46 But the most explicitly articulated polemic (if we include the evidence for Hermarchus’ writing as well as Epicurus’ own writing) is against relativists.47 So those who say that in the sphere of legislation all that is admirable and just is so according to individual judgements—they are full of utter stupidity. That is not the case, but rather it is like the other things that benefit, such as what is healthy and countless other kinds.48

Porphyry is reporting the account of justice in Hermarchus’ Against Empedocles.49 Hermarchus goes on to outline the various errors that can be made ‘in the sphere of legislation’: it is possible to think that something beneficial only in certain circumstances is universally beneficial, or to neglect a law that really is universally beneficial. But first he draws a comparison, in the quoted extract, between the just and the healthy (in the sense of ‘health-giving’). This addresses cases where two communities correctly enact opposed laws. All that this shows is that the laws beneficial for one community are not beneficial for the other—just as a diet that is healthy for one person might wreck another person’s health. There is no need to suppose that Hermarchus’ discussion of health and ‘countless other kinds’ of benefit alludes to specialist literature, but it is striking that the kind of differences to which Plato’s Protagoras drew attention—what is beneficial in one relation or context is harmful in another—now reappears in an argument against ‘Protagorean’ relativism.50 46 Long and Sedley 1987, vol. 2: 130. ‘Epicurus’ target is most likely the Platonic notion of an ontologically separate universal that is capable of independent existence’ (Mitsis 1988: 78). See also O’Keefe 2001: 135. 47 Compare Denyer 1983: 147–9, although Denyer does not discuss Hermarchus. Alberti distinguishes between ‘conventionalism’ and the genuinely Epicurean claim that justice is relative to circumstances (1995: 184). 48 Porph. On Abstinence 1.12. 49 For the title of Hermarchus’ work, see Obbink 1988. Porphyry says in advance (1.3.4) that he will omit the material directed against Empedocles. 50 The point that different things are healthy to different people appears in another Epicurean discussion of relativism (Polystr. On Irrational Contempt 24.23–25.2). Polystratus’ opponents, whoever they were (Sedley 1983 suggests the Academy of Arcesilaus), used the relativity of the

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That communities can correctly enact opposed laws as ‘just’ is no more surprising or mysterious than a doctor correctly prescribing different diets for two different patients—or, to use an example more in keeping with Protagoras 334a–c, correctly using one drug to treat an external part of the body and a different drug to treat an internal part. Hermarchus’ text may have said little more than this about relativism (we should not forget that his principal opponent was Empedocles).51 What about the other (and, I have suggested, more central) features of sophistic thought, such as the attention to ‘ethical variability’? If we put Epicurus’ account next to those of the sophists, it becomes clear that in the Epicurean account regions have displaced regimes. Thrasymachus showed that different political regimes, democratic, tyrannical, or oligarchic, prescribe different things as just. Epicurus, by contrast, speaks of different kinds of territory. With respect to what is common justice is the same for everyone—something advantageous in their association with one another. But with respect to the particular features of the territory (κατὰ δὲ τὸ ἴδιον χώρας) and however many other factors there may be, the same thing does not turn out to be just for all. (KD 36)

We find similar wording elsewhere. Epicurus describes justice arising in different ‘regions’ (τόποι, KD 33), and Hermarchus suggests that laws that are not universally beneficial, such as those concerned with the killing and eating of animals, depend on the ‘particular features of the territory’ (τὸ τῆς χώρας ἴδιον), and so do not constrain us, as we do not live in the same ‘region’ (Porph. 1.12). Why does Epicurus speak in terms of regions and territories rather than regimes? In part this reflects the limited power of rulers and the limited importance of their interests. As justice must be genuinely beneficial, the rulers cannot by stipulation make anything just; they can merely make the beneficial just, by enforcing compliance to it throughout the community. (By allowing for the possibility of error on the rulers’ part, Epicurus avoids a difficulty that Thrasymachus fails to foresee: Thrasymachus presents justice both as advantageous to the rulers and as obedience to the rulers, but there are cases where the rulers make an error and, in effect, command their subjects to damage the rulers’ own interests. This is the first objection put by Socrates to Thrasymachus in Plato’s dialogue.)52 And, as we have seen, Epicurus requires admirable and the shameful to undermine the reality of these supposed properties; according to Polystratus, the opponents’ conclusion was not relativism as such but that people are wrong when they believe things to have moral properties. 51 This is controversial: not surprisingly, scholars have suggested that contemporary rivals, not Empedocles, must be the main target. See Obbink 1988: 432 and Vander Waerdt 1988 (the latter finds polemic against Stoics). 52 Republic 339b–e.

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the benefits of justice to be spread across the entire community, not confined to its rulers. If two cities have different, but just, laws, we must explain the differences in terms of the cities’ interests, not the rulers’ interests. This suggests that Epicurus should have spoken about justice in different ‘cities’, but instead he and Hermarchus favour ‘regions’ and ‘territory’. But Epicurus evidently sees reason to be vague about the size of the communities where justice arises, for in KD 33 he says that justice arises ‘in individual regions large or small’:53 in the Epicurean theory it does not matter whether the community is spread over a small or large area, as long as there are sufficient levels of communication and coordination to make a contract possible. And sometimes the Epicureans considered alternatives to the Greek polis.54 According to Porphyry Hermarchus spoke of the legislation now present in ‘cities and peoples’ (κατὰ πόλεις τε καὶ ἔθνη, 1.11), and described the laws concerned with eating and killing animals ‘in most of the peoples’ (1.12). Taking this passage together with Epicurus’ provision for different sizes, we can say that Epicurean theory accommodates (1) the peoples spread over a larger area than a polis but who can nonetheless agree on prohibitions and requirements, but also (2) communities too small to be regarded conventionally as a polis but where the advantages of coordination are already seen. Justice can exist even in such simple communities. From this point of view there is something parochial in sophistic contrasts between different Greek cities. Group (1) cannot fail to put us in mind of the larger political units of the Hellenistic world, but group (2) points in a quite different direction: to Epicurus’ interest in the distant past and the emergence of the first communities.55 Epicurus does not indicate whether group (1) or (2) was more significant for KD 33; on the contrary, he seems to be using the most general wording available to him. Epicurus also aims to speak in suitably general terms when outlining the factors that account for variation. (Contrast Thrasymachus, who includes only the forms of government in his explanation of variety.) First among these are the ‘particular features of the territory’, which Epicurus perhaps regarded as the most basic or far-reaching explanation. Among the ‘features of the territory’ he may have included local threats or constraints, such as predators 53 The importance of this expression has not been recognized. Long and Sedley 1987 translate ‘at some place or other’, and Inwood and Gerson 1997 translate ‘in whatever places’, but compare the use of ὁπηλίκος in Letter to Herodotus 56 and 57, where Epicurus is clearly speaking about size. In KD 33 δή ποτε emphasizes that the size of the individual or respective (ἀεί) region does not matter. (Compare ὅσων δή ποτε in KD 36.) 54 But notice συμπολιτευομένων in KD 38. It is widely recognized that Epicurus’ theory must accommodate a community consisting exclusively of Epicureans (see for example O’Keefe 2001); less attention is paid to the fact that he aims to accommodate different kinds of non-Epicurean community. 55 See KD 40, Letter to Herodotus 75–6 and (for discussion of On Nature 12) Sedley 1998: 121–2.

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and scarcity of water or food.56 But he nonetheless wished to allow for the full range of other factors—‘however many other factors there may be’, to quote from KD 36. We might speculate that he would include cases where a community’s past affects what is now in its interests—for example, if previous generations squandered stocks of an important commodity it would now be in the interests of the community (and so just, once agreement has been reached) to restrict use of the commodity. Elsewhere Epicurus explicitly includes variations over time as well as variations between regions. A law becomes just and then ceases to be just if it is beneficial only for a certain period—and yet during the beneficial period it really was just (KD 37 and 38). In KD 37 Epicurus indicates that some people may object to this (or, in his wording, make themselves confused), but the objection he anticipates is that the law was not really just if it is not always just. If he has in mind specific opponents, they are not relativists: they seek to deny not merely the objectivity of moral properties but their reality.57 This does not sound like sophists. In conclusion, the sophists’ theories were a far more significant point of reference in the Garden than in the early Stoa. As we have seen, in political philosophy relativism is the theory to which early Epicureans most directly oppose themselves, in Hermarchus’ comment on the admirable and the just. As for sophistic accounts of variability, even if Epicureans did not openly criticize them, the comparison with sophists helps us appreciate what Epicurus must have seen as key advantages of his own account of justice. Epicurus tries to improve on the sophists when describing the variability of justice, and specifically tries to avoid any narrowness of outlook, by recognizing different sizes of community, different causes of variation, and changes over time as well as between places. He also avoids presenting the variations as merely a preliminary object of study. For Thrasymachus the political theorist should go beyond the empirical recognition of diversity and recognize, by ‘reasoning correctly’, what just laws have in common. Epicurus, by contrast, aims in KD 36 for a balance between ‘what is common’ and what is not. After all, it is only when we recognize the need for the just to be genuinely beneficial—something that everything just has in common—that we understand why justice is multiform. The same laws could not be beneficial everywhere or at all times.58

56 Gretchen Reydams-Schils suggests to me that he may also have had in mind the effects of the environment on the character of the local people, as discussed in e.g. Plb. 4.21. 57 Compare Polystratus’ target in On Irrational Contempt (n. 50). 58 My thanks to the participants at the events at Edinburgh and Notre Dame where I presented versions of this paper, and especially to Mirko Canevaro, Ben Gray, Gretchen Reydams-Schils and Nicolas Wiater.

6 Comedy and the Athenian Ideal David Konstan

‘Over a relatively short period of time, the various cultures and institutions that differentiated the several polities in the earlier period seem to have lost many of their particular characteristics and were adapted to a more or less standardised pattern, strongly influenced by a single model of moderate democracy.’ This is a description (slightly modified) of what John Ma calls the ‘great convergence’ of civic practice, institutions, and discourse that took place in Greece after the conquests of Alexander the Great, when the diverse city-state cultures that characterized the Classical period (fifth century) gave way to what appears to be a far more uniform configuration.1 But it would be possible to apply the same description to the changes in regime that occurred in the course of the first half of the twentieth century in Western Europe, and after the dissolution of the Soviet Union to much of the rest of Europe as well. The differences among such states as Athens, with its broad democracy, the oligarchic constitution of Thebes, and the militaristic caste system of Sparta in the fifth century were arguably no greater than the variety of governments to be found in England, Germany, Spain, and Russia (for all the changes they underwent between 1900 and 2000), and yet by the turn of the twenty-first century one might reasonably claim that there has occurred an analogous, if incomplete, convergence in Europe (and it was not complete in Hellenistic Greece either). Many reasons can be adduced for this phenomenon, including adaptation to the American model, which was the dominant military and economic power in the aftermath of World War II, and the pressure of market forces, which are perhaps more compatible with liberal democracies than with authoritarian regimes, although this is debatable. Late capitalism placed a particular emphasis on a new kind of consumerism, in which styles and brand names were promoted among all classes and on an international scale. But cultural conformity went beyond a uniform manner of dressing 1

See Ma, Chapter 13 in this volume.

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(jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers), homogeneous cuisine (hamburgers and hot dogs), car and garage, and the like. There was also a shared vision of a particular kind of social independence, in which amorous relations flourished among apparently autonomous young men and women who lived in their own apartments, had jobs, and were at ease in the larger social world, unafraid of police or agents of the state, free to move about as they pleased, concerned with issues of private life rather than with war and militarism: a whole way of life predicated on the fulfilment of private desires and ‘the pursuit of happiness’, in the words of the United States Declaration of Independence (which self-consciously replaced John Locke’s emphasis on property). This image of the good life did have implications for preferences in political institutions, and a case can be made that among the most important vehicles for promulgating it was the cinema, and more especially Hollywood.2 I wish to suggest that New Comedy might have played a comparable role in diffusing a conception of a life style that helped to dispose communities to imitate, however superficially in the end, the institutions of Athens—not necessarily the historical Athens at any given stage, but an idealized image of Athens that had wide appeal, beginning with the Athenians themselves.3 Hollywood has produced films in a wide variety of genres, but one of its hallmark types is the romantic comedy, which has affinities with, and was indirectly shaped by, the kinds of plots favoured by Menander and his contemporaries (although New Comedy itself also took diverse forms). To take a well-known example, the story of Frank Capra’s It Happened One Night, released in 1934, is quintessentially sentimental. As Maury Kline summarizes the plot, ‘poor boy and bored rich girl met improbably, delighted in their differences and, through a series of wacky adventures, fell in love. The poor boy made good, the rich girl found true happiness, class divisions were healed, and all lived happily ever after’. Klein remarks: ‘The message of this film satisfied everyone’s fantasies. . . . Capra’s instinct for convincing audiences 2

Cf. Conrad 2014 for a balmy view of American influence on world culture. Although the Athenian so-called ‘radical’ democracy is often contrasted with the modern conception, Hansen 2004: 171 argues rather that ‘the undeniable differences are overshadowed by the striking similarities’. It is worth citing Hansen’s conclusion in extenso: ‘I am inclined to believe that liberty, equality, separation of the public from the private, and protection of personal rights are ideals fostered in the ancient Greek world by the development from tyranny over oligarchy to democracy, and, independently, in modern Europe by a somewhat similar development, from monarchy over republic to democracy. In my view the Athenian example was of little or no importance for those who in the nineteenth century developed the liberal view of democratic freedom, and there is no evidence of any direct tradition transmitted from Athens to Western Europe and America in the eighteenth century’ (p. 179). Cf. the observation by Thomas Jefferson: ‘The introduction of this principle of representative democracy has rendered useless almost everything written before on the structure of government; and in great measure, relieves our regret, if the political writings of Aristotle, or of any other ancient, have been lost, or are unfaithfully rendered or explained’ (quoted in Saxonhouse 2006: 13), and in general, Konstan 2015. 3

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that his world was the way life should be lived was uncanny. To it he added topical relevance that fashioned mythical portraits of an America in which people longed to believe.’4 It Happened One Night was the first film to win all five major Academy Awards (a distinction achieved by only two other motion pictures since), and was an extraordinary box-office success. Oddly enough, both Hitler and Stalin seemed to have liked the movie: according to William Shirer’s Berlin Diary, ‘Hitler is a fiend for films, and on evenings when no important conferences are on or he is not overrunning a country, he spends a couple of hours seeing the latest movies in his private cinema room at the Chancellery. He likes American films. . . . A few years ago he insisted on having It Happened One Night run several times.’5 The social premises of modern romances are vastly different from those of ancient comedy (indeed, there are elements in It Happened One Night, such as misadventures in the course of travel, that recall rather the Greek novels), but marriage across class lines is a feature that they share. To be sure, there are fairy-tale or archetypal aspects to such a narrative—one thinks of Cinderella, for example—but when set in a more or less naturalistic context, however fanciful the story line, the notion of a social solidarity that includes rich and poor alike in a single community suggests an ideal, or ideology, of class equality that is more in line with the traditions of a democracy than with those of an elitist oligarchy. But it is not just the marriage per se that conveys the values of a liberal society; rather, these values are communicated implicitly, and so all the more effectively, in the language, comportment, and expectations of the characters, and in the assumptions that underpin the plot, for example that love is a sound basis for matrimony. The power of the message resides not so much in the action as such as in the audience’s instinctive feeling that ‘I want to live like that’.6

4 Kline 2010: 80. For detailed discussion, see Mizejewski 2010. Of course, comedies like this were only one form of Hollywood production, which also developed the genre of gangster movies and styles of social realism that revealed a good deal about American life in the period of the Great Depression and afterwards. These too, in their way, contributed to creating a certain uniform sense of life globally, but they require a separate discussion. 5 Shirer 1985: 588 (first published 1941); for Stalin, see Simon Sebag Montefiore, ‘Why Stalin Loved Tarzan and Wanted John Wayne Shot’, The Telegraph (4 June 2004). 6 Canevaro, Chapter 4 in this volume, points to the practice of composing fictional declamations in the style of Demosthenes, as evidenced by papyri dating to the third century BCE; these papyri, which were found in Egypt, were set in Athens but never meant to be performed there. So too, once the genre of New Comedy was established, comic poets reproduced the Athenian setting and its specific features, even if they were intended for performance elsewhere. Tragedy too contributed to the diffusion of an Athenian ideal; cf. Hanink 2014: 6: ‘in the third quarter of the fourth century BCE, a number of measures were taken in Athens to affirm to the Greek world that the cultural achievement of tragedy was owed to the special qualities of the city that had first fostered it.’ Silva 2017 argues that fifth-century tragedy ‘adoptou . . . um tom de elogio, adequado a uma Atenas que procurava impor, no mundo grego, uma imagem de superioridade’.

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Hollywood’s worldwide domination of the film industry is well documented, and continues to this day, despite the emergence of national cinema in a wide variety of countries, most famously in India’s ‘Bollywood’ but also in sites that are less well known internationally such as Nigeria (recently dubbed ‘Nollywood’) and Cairo, not to mention Japan, France, and a host of other states. Hollywood outsells all the rest by a substantial margin, but more important, it has provided the template for successful movies, despite resistance from alternative or independent studios (‘indies’) and the festivals and art theatres that foster them. There are profound differences, needless to say, between the commercialized distribution of movies today and the travelling companies that performed ancient comedies around the Greek-speaking world in Classical antiquity, but it is not entirely wide of the mark to see an analogy between the role of Athens and that of Hollywood in disseminating and inspiring a particular image of the good life and the kind of social arrangements that enable it. New Comedy was a Panhellenic phenomenon. To be sure, the Athenian theatre provided the model (and it appears that a majority of the comedies of whatever provenance were set in Athens), but playwrights came from various cities and only a small fraction of the many thousands of comedies that were written could have been produced at the two major festivals in Athens. It is thus safe to infer that a great many were intended for performance in various parts of the Greek-speaking world, both on the mainland and abroad, and those that opened in Athens would later be taken on the road. Companies of actors travelled far and wide, staging the latest shows. It may be that a performance in Athens was still the acme of a comic poet’s career, but Athens was no longer the exclusive venue of the genre.7 Although bits and pieces survive of the works of a few hundred different comic poets, as quoted by later erudite writers in antiquity, it is only with Menander that we can assess the effect of a complete play and four or five more that are in good enough condition to permit plausible interpretations of 7 For a summary of the spread of New Comedy throughout the Greek-speaking world, see Rusten 2011: 36–8; Dearden 2012: 272–88; Nervegna 2013: 17: ‘Menander’s comedies made attractive material for travelling actors and became classics among audiences from the EarlyHellenistic period onwards. . . . Actors went on to perform Menander’s drama across the Adriatic, in South Italy and all the way to Rome, in adapted Latin versions.’ For details, see Le Guen 1995: 66: ‘Hors d’Athènes des listes de Magnésie du Méandre dont les premières ne sont pas antérieures à 150 av. J.-C. énumèrent les noms des poètes de drames nouveaux vainqueurs lors des Rômaia. . . . À Samos des listes du IIe s. av. J.-C. mentionnent parmi les vainqueurs au concours des Heraia . . . des poètes de nouveaux drames satyriques, de nouvelles tragédies et de nouvelles comédies. Aux Sarapieia de Tanagra, ca 90–80 av. J.-C . . . , un poète de comédie, un acteur comique, un acteur d’ancienne tragédie, puis un acteur d’ancienne comédie figuraient au palmarès. De même à Oropos, à l’occasion des Amphiaraia/Rômaia des années 86/85 av. J.-C, les concurrents suivants: poète de drames satyriques, acteur d’ancienne tragédie, acteur d’ancienne comédie, poète de nouvelle tragédie, acteur tragique, poète de nouvelle comédie et acteur de comédie, se partagèrent les récompenses.’ See also Le Guen 2014: 359–77, esp. 369–73.

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the whole.8 Inevitably, the following discussion concentrates on these, with occasional reference to more fragmentary texts. Menander lived in a period of rapid and dramatic political change. He was born in 342 or 341, shortly before Philip of Macedon’s victory over Athens in the Battle of Chaeronea (338), which put an end to Athens’ imperial ambitions. After the death of Alexander, the Athenians made a last-ditch effort to throw off Macedonian overlordship, but were quickly defeated, and in 317, Demetrius of Phalerum was installed as hegemon. Ten years later, he was ousted by another Demetrius, nicknamed The Besieger (Poliorcetes), with the support of his father, Antigonus the OneEyed. In his mature years, Menander witnessed further conflicts, including a short-lived rebellion against Demetrius. The backdrop to all these events was a contention over the nature of democracy, even if aristocratically aligned regimes dressed up restrictions on civic rights in the language of democratic institutions.9 There has recently been a debate concerning where Menander’s political allegiances lay in all this. Some scholars have stressed his ties to Demetrius of Phalerum, who is said to have been a fellow-student of Menander’s in the school of Theophrastus, Aristotle’s successor at the Lyceum. Wilfred Major has argued that Menander identified fundamentally with the Macedonian rulers of Athens; if his plays seem apolitical, it is because he preferred to concentrate on domestic issues and thereby distract his audience from public affairs: ‘In view of Menander’s attested associations with the Macedonian elite and with the Macedonian-backed Peripatos, and given the views of Theophrastus, the rigidly domestic world of Menander’s comedies presupposes the stability of the Macedonian establishment.’10 Susan Lape has defended the opposite view, maintaining that Menander was a staunch defender of the democratic ideology and that his comedies served to sustain the democracy against the threat posed by Hellenistic kingdoms.11 On the one hand, Menander enhanced the democratic ideal by blurring the status boundaries between men and women, free people and slaves, and citizens and foreigners: the representation of marriages across class lines had a ‘levelling effect’

8 Although some scholars have argued that Menander’s comedies were not necessarily typical of the genre as a whole, the similarities stand out; see Scardino and Sorrentino 2015, who conclude: ‘Menander scheint . . . in den grundlegenden Zügen ein Vertreter der Komödie seiner Zeit gewesen zu sein, zumal er sich weder in Bezug auf die Struktur seiner Stücke noch auf die Wahl der Themen und Motivesowie der komischen Technik merklich von seinen Zeitgenossen, bei denen ebenfalls privaten Thematiken im familiären Rahmen des οἶκος dominant waren, unterscheidet.’ 9 For these events, see Bayliss 2011: 61–93 and Luraghi, Chapter 2 in this volume. 10 Major 1997: 59–60. Cf. Nervegna 2013: 17: ‘Menander was an oligarchic, pro-Macedonian intellectual. . . . His comedy appealed to oligarchic regimes and responded well to Peripatetic theories on comedy and the comic.’ 11 Lape 2004: 10.

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(25; cf. 92–3);12 on the other hand, plots involving mercenary soldiers looked to neutralizing the ‘transnational’ threat by embracing ‘the contemporary political confrontation between military kingdoms and the Greek cities within the romantic relationship’ (33). But if Menander’s comedies lend themselves to two such disparate interpretations of his political affinities, it is because the world they render, in which people of different social classes interact comfortably, projects a democratic, and more specifically Athenian, ambience without raising uncomfortable questions about the degree of citizen participation in public life, and so is compatible with the image of Athens under either Demetrius or indeed prior to Macedonian domination. To anticipate my discussion of Menander’s Dyscolus, one of the principal characters, apart from the rich young lover and the misanthrope who gives the play its title, is the misanthrope’s stepson, who is very poor—so much so, he says, that he has no time to be in love, which disqualifies him from ever being the protagonist of a comedy; and yet, nothing in the script invites one to ask whether his meagre property would have qualified him to vote under the restricted franchise imposed by Demetrius of Phalerum, under whose regime the play was first produced. The gauzy nature of social arrangements in New Comedy allowed the audience to participate imaginatively in a world that resembled Athens, and carried with it an aura of its legendary democracy. As they laughed at the antics on stage, Athenians and spectators in any other city where the play was mounted would be united in their sympathy for the young lover and the indigent farmer who becomes his ally, feeling at home in a depoliticized society in which success in such private affairs was the essence of the pursuit of happiness. And this might be true even of some ancient Greek equivalent of Hitler or Stalin, who ordered a performance to be staged for himself alone in his personal precinct, though he might wish to ban public productions of such subversive material. There is indeed some evidence, based on the distribution of theatres in the Hellenistic world, that tyrants were loath to construct such spaces, whether to avoid large public gatherings in general, with their suggestion of popular participation in governing, or more specifically to avoid dramatic performances that projected an image, however nebulous, of popular rule.13 12 Cf. Cox 2002: 391–4, who argues that, in comedy, love and marriage help break down social barriers. But see Vérilhac and Vial 1998, who argue that the basic forms of marriage were similar in most Greek cities; thus, to some extent citizens of poleis with quite different political regimes may have been predisposed to accept the premises of romantic comedy. 13 Frederiksen 2002: 65–124, at 91–2 notes that ‘Some of the regions with no or only a few theatres were dominated by a few monarchically governed poleis; perhaps they, for whatever reason, did not share the habit of mass meetings of people, religious or political, to the same extent as regions dominated by democratic and oligarchic poleis?’ Frederiksen does not draw the conclusion that monarchies disliked drama, but rather that ‘the concentration of power in large urban centres may have inhibited the development of theatres . . . ; the monumental theatre seems to be a monument of the large democratic or oligarchic polis in regions in which dramatic

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Let us take a closer look at Menander’s Dyscolus. A wealthy young man, Sostratus by name, spies the pretty daughter of the misanthrope while he is out hunting in the countryside, and falls in love with her. The vagaries of the plot enable him to overcome the old curmudgeon’s objections to the liaison, which are based in part on his native antipathy to anyone, apart from his daughter, and in part, as the play makes clear, on a grumpiness natural to poor, hardworking, but essentially virtuous farmers in general, who have no time for any sort of frivolity, much less for rich young men who see the rural world as an arena for idle sports. Having gained the old misanthrope’s consent, or rather that of his stepson Gorgias, to whom he has entrusted authority over his daughter, Sostratus suddenly demands that his father, a prosperous farmer whom Gorgias himself admires for his industry, marry off his own daughter— Sostratus’ sister—to Gorgias. To this proposal, Callipides objects that he is unwilling to betroth both his children to paupers, using the strong term ptokhos, indicating not just poverty but indigence (vv. 795–6). In a harangue full of sententious platitudes, Sostratus persuades his father that wealth is to be shared, not stored up till one is dead, and his father, in a courteous about-face, gives his consent.14 Susan Lape remarks that the comedy ‘takes on an antioligarchic inflection because economic considerations are rendered irrelevant to the question of matrimonial eligibility’ (113). What is more, she ties the comedy closely to Demetrius of Phalerum’s regime (112), taking Sostratus’ father to represent an oligarchic position (133): his acquiescence in his children’s marriages is thus a triumph for democratic ideology. Without assuming such a one-to-one mapping of the characters in the play onto the contemporary political situation in Athens, what is noteworthy is the very possibility of such a dialogue between a father and son, in which Sostratus indeed adopts something of the didactic tone that Gorgias had used with him earlier in the play, when he suspected Sostratus of harbouring illicit designs upon his half-sister. We have a kind of discourse that imagines cordial relations across class lines, in which even slaves can speak frankly to their masters. There is nothing that is in principle incompatible in this scenario with a limited democracy, even one so restricted as to qualify as an oligarchy. Citizens in an oligarchy who watched such a show might feel disposed to think of themselves as comparably liberal, and even be reconciled to adapting their institutions to the image of Athens that they saw enacted on stage. This does not mean that the upper classes lost their authority and control,

performances were an integrated part of the political and religious culture.’ For the association between drama and popular assemblies, see Villacèque 2013. 14 The exchange is marked by various forms of polite discourse; cf. Sorrentino 2012, esp. 194–5, 215, 221–2.

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since such democratic reforms might be more cosmetic than substantial.15 After all, there was clearly nothing in the Dyscolus that offended Demetrius of Phalerum. One difficulty with the division of Greek states into democracies and oligarchies, which was conventional among political thinkers in Classical antiquity and remains so today,16 is that it summons up to modern ears too radical a division between the two forms, as though oligarchy meant that a clique of half a dozen men (or families) openly dominated the state and deprived all others of the rights of citizens. In Thebes, for example, it is likely that there was a minimum property prerequisite for full citizenship, but what percentage of the free adult male inhabitants might qualify is impossible to estimate (Nancy Demand suggests ‘about one third’ for the fifth century, and leaves open whether those who fell below the minimum might nevertheless vote, even if they could not hold office).17 The evidence for Corinth, especially after the battle of Chaeronea, is similarly opaque.18 As Simon Hornblower remarks, in small cities (his example is fifth-century Erythrae) the number of active citizens ‘was going to be much the same whether they called themselves a “democracy” or an “oligarchy,”’ and he adds parenthetically: ‘not that any oligarchs anywhere would have called themselves that; they would have demurely called themselves an “aristocracy”’.19 Thucydides’ unforgettable depiction of civil war in Corcyra, and the brutal conflict to expel the Thirty Tyrants in Athens in 404, which resulted in a decree of amnesty, show that the choice between governmental forms might be taken to extremes, especially in wartime, but this does not mean that in practice the dividing line between democracies and oligarchies was always very sharp. Menander’s Periciromene or ‘The Shorn Girl’ is set in Corinth. A mercenary soldier named Polemo has been living with Glycera as his concubine, but when he saw her kissing a strange man, he flew into a rage and cut off her hair. In fact, the youth is Glycera’s brother, though he himself is unaware of the relationship. When their father exposed them to die as infants, an old woman managed to have the boy adopted, but raised Glycera herself and then contracted her to Polemo. It was decided to keep the boy in the dark about his origins, so that he might think of himself as the legitimate child of his foster parents. Stung by Polemo’s action, Glycera moves into the house next door, where her brother lives. Polemo is desolate at her departure, but all turns out well in the end, when Polemo’s good friend Pataecus turns out to be the father of the two abandoned children. Pataecus betroths Glycera to Polemo, now that

15

Disguising oligarchy as a modified democracy was a trick that went back at least to the socalled regime of the 400 that took power in Athens in 411; see David 2014: 11–38. 16 See Ostwald 2000, for the classical view of oligarchy in literary and philosophical texts. 17 18 Demand 1982: 16. Dixon 2014: 21; cf. Salmon 1984: 231–9. 19 Hornblower 2002: 16.

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her legitimacy is restored, but insists that he must give up his violent ways, despite his profession as a soldier. We may perceive here a kind of domestication of the warrior, who practically whimpers in his eagerness to prove his peaceable nature; as Lape observes, romance takes priority over military values, and this may be seen as promoting a sentimental culture that is implicitly egalitarian. It is risky to push this line of interpretation too far: Polemo is not asked to abandon his profession, and the status barrier between a citizen and a foundling is only resolved when Glycera is revealed as the offspring of citizen parents (this is in contrast with the class barrier between rich and poor, which may be overcome without resorting to the device of a recognition). But what difference does it make that this comedy is set in ostensibly oligarchic Corinth instead of democratic (or quasi-democratic) Athens? Would Athenians see the action as in some way foreign, as they are alleged to have done with tragedies set in Thebes?20 Or would Corinthians have appreciated a comedy cut more to the lifestyle of their oligarchy, as distinct in some way from the customs of neighbouring Athens? It seems impossible to pick out any elements in the plot or characterization that require Corinth rather than Athens as the location of the Periciromene, except perhaps for the fact that Glycera’s brother, Moschio, is apparently being passed off as the son of citizen parents, even though his true parentage is unknown. At Athens, this would have been a serious offence under the law promulgated by Pericles in 451, which limited citizenship to the offspring of citizen parents on both the paternal and maternal sides. But it is unknown whether this law was still in effect, or still being enforced, in Menander’s time. Perhaps convention dictated that a comedy based on this kind of arrangement be situated outside of Athens, but if so, it would appear that Corinth was being cast as the more liberal city in respect to status constraints—an odd way to advertise Athenian democracy. If the social background of Menander’s Periciromene is indistinguishable from that of his plays set in Athens, it may of course be that the cultures of the two cities were in fact very much alike in this period, whatever the nomenclature of their institutions or extension of rights among their citizen bodies. But the world of the comedies need not reflect either Athens or Corinth specifically, but may rather project an imagined society that irons out the differences among the mores of the several city-states. To paraphrase Klein on Capra, the message of Menander’s comedies satisfied everyone’s fantasies, and his ‘instinct for convincing audiences that his world was the way life should be lived was uncanny’. Watching a play like Periciromene, a Corinthian (or any other Greek) might have been moved to say, ‘We are all Athenians now.’ That might not have been true at the time, but the sentiment would have helped Cf. Zeitlin 1990: 131: ‘Thebes . . . provides the negative model to Athens’ manifest image of itself with regard to its notions of the proper management of city, society, and self.’ 20

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pave the way for those alterations in life patterns and even in constitutional arrangements that resulted in the ‘great convergence’. We may consider one final example of how Menander’s comedies may have advanced a homogeneous image of Greek society. The Samian Woman begins with a conversation between two men, Demeas and Niceratus, who have just returned from an extended trip north, to the region of Byzantium, on commercial business. This in itself is significant: there is no evidence of a stigma attaching to trade, as opposed to the traditionally valorized occupation of farming. On their journey, they agreed to join their two children in wedlock, sealing a bond between the two families. As it happens, Demeas’ son has in the meantime raped Niceratus’ daughter, and though he is eager to marry her, hasn’t the courage to confess the deed to his father (actually, foster-father). After a series of contretemps, in which Demeas comes to suspect that his son, Moschio, has had an affair with his own concubine, the truth comes out and the wedding is about to begin. But Moschio suddenly gets it into his head to resent his father’s doubts concerning his character, and to teach him a lesson he pretends that he is going off to fight somewhere in Asia, anticipating that this will give Demeas a good scare, although his love for his bride inhibits him from even thinking of actually carrying out the idea. Here again we see how domestic values override military ambitions in Menander’s universe, although any notion that Menander was opposed to mercenary service as such is dispelled by the opening of his Aspis or ‘Shield’, which presents an unmotivated raid on villages in Lycia to obtain plunder and slaves in a way that seems entirely indifferent to their fate.21 As Nick Lowe observes, in Menander’s comedies ‘The world beyond the polis is a violent, lawless, and unstable one . . . ; the principal opportunity available to ambitious young men is a dangerous and often short life as a mercenary soldier in the eastern wars, and such wealthy mercenaries are typically characterized in the plays as violent, unpredictable, and prone to irrational rages.’ The flip side of this coin is ‘a near-utopian pride in the orderliness of the polis and the power of its laws and values to sustain the happiness of its citizens. Though the democratic constitution is by now a thing of the past, the civic ideology it fosters lingers on, and Menander’s world is still in many key respects the world of the orators.’22 I would say rather that this ideology is alive and well in the Hellenistic world, and retains a power to inspire imitation even at the level of institutions. Near the beginning of the Peloponnesian War, Pericles, in his funeral oration, defined Athens not by its ethnic purity and the myth that Athenians had sprung from the soil, but rather by qualities of character: ‘Our constitution does not copy the laws of neighbouring states; we are rather a pattern to others

21

Cf. Konstan 2013: 144–58, esp. 145–7.

22

Lowe 2007: 71.

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than imitators ourselves. Its administration favours the many instead of the few; this is why it is called a democracy. . . . The freedom which we enjoy in our government extends also to our ordinary life. There, far from exercising a jealous surveillance over each other, we do not feel called upon to be angry with our neighbour for doing what he likes’ (2.34–6, trans. Crawley). Although Pericles pronounced his discourse for fallen Athenians, resident aliens or metics had also fought and died, and I suspect that Pericles may have sought an inclusive definition of what it meant to be an Athenian out of respect for their sacrifice. But his sense that a democratic government is coordinate with freedom in private life is perhaps an early expression of the idea that would associate the sentimental world of Menandrean comedy with Athenian political forms, however much they had been modified by the time of New Comedy’s apogee. What remained of Pericles’ ideal was private civility, and that was the special sphere of New Comedy. The Hellenistic critic and scholar Aristophanes of Byzantium exclaimed: ‘Oh Menander, O Life, which of you is imitating the other?’.23 The statement has commonly been taken as a tribute to Menander’s realism, but it may be that Aristophanes, writing only a few decades after the death of Menander, was pointing equally to the influence that Menander’s comedies, and by implication New Comedy generally, had on Greek social life, which took as its paradigm the world depicted on the comic stage. Doubtless the convergence of the Hellenistic poleis depended on a variety of favourable conditions, but it is well to include among them the ideological influence of comedy.

23

Menander, T32 (Koerte); cf. Nervegna 2013: 56.

Part II Later Hellenistic and Early Imperial Developments in the Reception of Classical Athenian Politics

7 Polybius on ‘Classical Athenian Imperial Democracy’ Craige B. Champion

In commenting on Polybius’ views on the Athenian empire, the great Italian scholar Arnaldo Momigliano once remarked, ‘fifth-century Athens was to him a distant, unattractively democratic world’.1 In this chapter I hope to show that Polybius’ attitudes towards Classical Athens were more complex, dynamic, and ambivalent than Momigliano’s statement suggests. I explore Polybius’ depictions of ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’—which I take to be the Athenian democratic polis from the time of the Persian Wars until the end of the Peloponnesian War in 404. We shall consider passages from Polybius’ political theory in Book 6 and in the historical narrative outside of the sixth book, as well as some reports pertaining to his contemporaneous and nearly contemporaneous Athens in the diplomatic realm. When Polybius discusses the ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’ in Book 6, he does not provide such chronological specificity as I have designated for this study, but he does, it seems to me, discuss Athens during the time in which popular political participation of non-elite citizens in imperial administration was at its height. Therefore, I think it is safe to use my specification as to what the phrase ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’ will mean in this chapter when I am discussing Polybius’ statements on Athens in the fifth century, without doing too much violence to his historical conceptions or narrative representations. My first task is to be clear about what the term δημοκρατία meant for Polybius, before I can discuss his ideas about ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’. Specifically, we need an account of how he uses the term δημοκρατία and a determination of what relation this has with his ideas on the Athenian polis 1 Momigliano 1977: 69. All dates are BCE; unless otherwise noted, all translations of Polybius are from Champion, Eckstein, and Strassler, forthcoming. I wish to thank Charles Goldberg and Elisabeth Lasch-Quinn for their careful reading, insightful criticism, and helpful suggestions for improvement. Any remaining faults are, of course, my own.

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of the fifth century. As we shall see, although we normally think about the ‘Classical Athenian democracy’, it is not at all clear that Polybius would have called the Athenian polity of the fifth century a democracy. For this reason I shall insist on placing inverted commas around the phrase ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’. It is clear, at any rate, that according to his political theory, Polybius would not have described fifth-century Athens as a true δημοκρατία. Therefore, clearing the way in terms of Polybius’ political terminology is essential. The next question concerns the criteria by which Polybius judges the ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’, and indeed any state. For him, states and their constitutions are to be measured largely in terms of their success in international relations, in both military and diplomatic terms, and one yardstick for this assessment would be what we might term lasting imperial predominance. But, as Arthur Eckstein has demonstrated, while zero-sum success mattered to Polybius in the interstate arena (‘arena’ is an appropriate term to describe the brutal, highly militarized, international competition of the ancient Mediterranean world), there was much more for Polybius in evaluating both states and historical actors, and this had to do with moral judgements.2 As we shall see, Athens was no exception in this regard. To this point the chapter considers Polybius’ views on ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’ in the context of his general political theory and moral criteria for evaluating states, but we may also compare his assessment of ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’ in the sixth book with his account of Athens beyond that book. And here we find an apparent discrepancy, as on the whole the Athenian polis performs reasonably well on the military and diplomatic stage in Polybius’ historical narrative, while he condemns Athens in no uncertain terms in his Book 6. This disjunction raises a question. Did Polybius consider that the Athenian polity of later times (that is, the times for which he most frequently gives us accounts of actual Athenian diplomatic activity) was similar to or fundamentally different from the Athens he portrays in such highly negative terms in Book 6? Unfortunately, Polybius’ refusal to discuss Athens in any detail in his political analysis in Book 6 does not allow us to answer this question in a way that could rise above conjecture. The final section returns to Polybius’ highly negative representations of the ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’ in the sixth book and his seemingly inconsistent characterizations of it elsewhere, and seeks to understand them within the historical and political contexts of the historian Polybius’ composing his work at the mid-point of the second century as a political hostage at Rome.

2 For the strong moral undercurrent in Polybius’ history, see Eckstein 1995. For the ancient Mediterranean world as a highly militarized, competitive, international anarchy, see Eckstein 2006 and 2008.

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This chapter makes two contributions to our understanding of Polybius’ representations of Athens. First, it shows that Polybius’ negative portrayal of Athens in Book 6 is frequently at odds with his apparent, and perhaps begrudging, admiration of the Athenians as reflected in his accounts of Athenian warfare and diplomacy in the historical narrative. Second, and more importantly, the chapter places the characterizations of the Athenian politeia in Book 6 within Polybius’ generally negative depictions of radical democratic states (in the Aristotelian sense; that is, the ‘rule of the poor’), and seeks to understand his apparently divergent representations of Athens in the political contexts of the composition of the Histories.

7 . 1 Δ η μ ο κρα τ ί α, Ὀχλ ο κρα τ ί α , AND A T HE N S I N B OO K 6 Polybius describes his native Achaean Confederation of Greek poleis in the Peloponnesus as a true democracy.3 He states that this ‘system and policy of completely true democracy’ was based on the principles of equality (ἰσηγορία) and freedom of speech (παρρησία). So far so good, as this is in keeping with widespread, present-day sensibilities about the term ‘democracy’.4 It is also important to note that this statement comes at the beginning of Polybius’ socalled prokataskeue (2.37–71), a brief account of the early history of the Achaean Confederation, which stands in parallelism with the synoptic history of early Rome, and which is cast in effusive and highly laudatory language.5 For Polybius, then, ‘democracy’ is a most positive word in evaluative terms. But what did it mean to him? Long ago, A. Aymard forcefully suggested that at 2.38.6, Polybius was using the term δημοκρατία metaphorically to describe the rights of individual poleis within the Achaean Confederation, which were comparable to the rights of the individual citizen in a democratic polis.6 This was an attractive suggestion, and while we cannot rule it out, it is probably best to follow F. W. Walbank, who was on surer ground when he argued that in Polybius’ time, although formal distinctions of monarchical, aristocratic, and 3 Plb. 2.38.6, καθόλου δημοκρατίας ἀληθινῆς σύστημα καὶ προαίρεσιν; see also 2.41.5; 2.41.6; 2.44.4. Oddly, while Polybius mentions Athens in the sixth book only to condemn it, he does not discuss his native Achaean Confederation at all in his political analysis in that book. For Polybius’ applied political theory, with references to earlier scholarship, see Hahm 1995. 4 This statement seems safe enough, in general terms; though one should consult the brilliant discussion on the dilution of ‘democracy’ in the modern period by Meiksins Wood 1994. 5 For Polybius’ idealized representation of the Achaean Confederation, see Champion 2004a: 122–9, and 137–43 on the parallelism with Rome. For Polybius’ Roman prokataskeue, see Beck 2013. 6 Aymard 1938: 17 n. 10.

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democratic polities still obtained in political theory (as in Polybius’ Book 6), the term δημοκρατία was generally used in a loose sense, and did not contrast sharply with ‘oligarchy’, but rather meant little more than any polis that could make a claim to be autarkic, or self-governing, with a legitimate constitution.7 It is in this sense that Polybius could call the Achaean Confederation a δημοκρατία.8 This is an important point and more than pedantic quibbling over lexicography, as imprecision here can result in distortions in Polybius’ text. For example, in Book 8 Polybius discusses the excesses and subsequent societal degeneration resulting from enervating wealth and prosperity at Tarentum, which led the Tarentines to call on Pyrrhus of Epirus for aid (8.24.1). In the translation of the Loeb Classical Library by W. R. Paton, we read, ‘For in every case where a democracy has for long enjoyed power, it naturally begins to be sick of present conditions and next looks out for a master, and having found one very soon hates him again, as the change is manifestly for the worse.’ The other mainstay English translation of Polybius’ history, that of E. S. Schuckburgh, renders, ‘For democratic liberty that has enjoyed a long and unchecked career comes naturally to experience a satiety of its blessings, and then it looks out for a master; and when it has got one, it is not long before it hates him, because it is seen that the change is for the worse.’9 In both of these well-known translations, Polybius’ text has been distorted, and the use of the words ‘democracy’ and ‘democratic’ is unwarranted. Polybius actually describes an autarkic or ‘free state’ in this passage (the Greek word he uses is ἐλευθερία). Perhaps Polybius intends for us to understand that democratic states have the seed for such degeneration in them inherently, as he expressly says in the political analysis in Book 6, but he does not use the word δημοκρατία or its cognate δημοκρατικός here. This is important, since for Polybius these words are highly commendatory terms.10 When Polybius condemns Athens in Book 6, he likens the Athenian δῆμος to a ship without an effective commander. In times of storms and perilous conditions at sea, the crew will take orders and perform requisite duties. But on calm waters it will become lax, disregard all authority, grow over-confident, 7 At Plb. 11.13.5–8, δημοκρατία stands in stark opposition to tyranny. There is a lot of debate in scholarship about whether Hellenistic δημοκρατίαι were ‘real’ democracies, and on the very criteria to assess them. For a summary of different views see in particular Hamon 2009 and Mann 2012, and the introduction to this volume, as well as the chapters by Canevaro (Chapter 4) and Ma (Chapter 13) for further discussion and references. Whatever the true nature of Hellenistic δημοκρατία, it is clear from the evidence that the term was used in the Hellenistic period to indicate a legitimate constitutional regime in a Greek polis. 8 Walbank 1957: 221–2, with a catalogue of Polybian passages and further discussion; cf. Walbank 1957: 229–30, 638–41, 655–7. 9 Paton 1927: 507–9; Schuckburgh 1889: 550 (printed as 8.26). 10 Δημοκρατία occurs twenty-one times, δημοκρατικός nine times, in the Histories; see Mauersberger 1956: 454.

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and through mindlessness and negligence run into shipwreck when near to home and a safe harbour. Athens was much like this, in Polybius’ estimation, a state in which the mob, or ὄχλος, took all matters into its own hands under the impulses of the moment.11 The language could hardly make it clearer: for Polybius, the ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’ was veering into ochlocracy, the rule of mob violence; it was no longer a true democracy.

7.2 A THENS IN ACTION: ATHENIAN D I P L O M A C Y I N T H E HI S T O R I C A L N A RRA TI V E In his account of the First Illyrian War, Polybius states that in the aftermath of the Roman defeat of Queen Teuta and her Illyrian subjects, the Romans sent diplomatic embassies to Athens and to Corinth. The immediate political context in Greece was the recent liberation of Athens from Macedonian control and the fact that Corinth was a member of the Achaean Confederation, and it is significant that there was no Roman embassy sent at this time to the Macedonian royal court at Pella, which was in a vulnerable state of political transition, as Demetrius II had died early in 229 (the Roman crossing to Illyria was in the spring of that year), and had been succeeded by Antigonus III Doson.12 The Roman military presence in Illyria, though short-lived, must have seemed to Doson like an encroachment on a traditional sphere of Macedonian influence, and the senators were sensitive to the need for cultivating goodwill and support among the Greek polis communities for their actions across the Adriatic.13 Their decision to approach Athens and Corinth was astute, and Polybius applauds the warm Greek reception of the Romans, noting that the Corinthians even admitted them to participation in the Isthmian Games (2.12.8). Polybius adds as an editorial aside that the Romans had done a great service to the Greeks, since the Illyrians were the common enemies of all mankind.14 This note is one of the first instances of a pervasive narrative thread in Polybius’ Histories, which I have called a ‘politics of cultural assimilation’ of the Romans to ‘Greekness’, a cultural politics whereby Romans are represented as quasi-Greeks. An astonishing example of this narrative device occurs some twenty chapters later in Book 2, in a summation of the Roman-Gallic wars 11 Plb. 6.44.9, ἐν αἷς ὄχλος χειρίζει τὰ ὅλα κατὰ τὴν ἰδίαν ὁρμήν. See Walbank 1957: 725 ad 6.44.3 and Brock 2013: 53–68 for discussion and sources on the metaphor of the ungovernable ship. Rood 2012: 66 intriguingly argues for an allusion here to Thucydides’ famous description of the Athenian naval disaster in the Great Harbour at Syracuse. 12 13 See Habicht 1997: 173–93. Cf. Champion 1997: 120. 14 For Polybius’ representations of Illyrians, see Champion 2004a: 111–14.

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culminating in the Battle at Telamon in 225. Here Polybius aligns the Roman defeat of the Gauls with the valorous Greek victories in the Persian Wars and the Greek repulse of the Gauls from Delphi in 279.15 For him, Athens was the real champion at the time of the Persian Wars (see section 7.2). The passage as a whole, however, functions as an exercise in the cultural politics of assimilating the Romans to Hellenism.16 As we shall see in section 7.3, Athens occupied an ambivalent position in Polybius’ cultural politics. As an index of the politics of cultural assimilation’s pervasiveness in the Histories, we may note that in discussing the history and achievements of his native Achaean Confederation, Polybius says that its most signal accomplishments came when it worked in tandem with its Roman friends (2.42.4–5). He could not have stated more explicitly his approval of a conciliatory Greek cultural politics in regard to the Romans, and to the extent that the Athenians engaged in such a policy in the aftermath of the First Illyrian War, they garnered Polybius’ heartfelt praise. There are further instances of positive evaluations of Athens in the Histories, both during the times it purports to treat and in reflections on Athens’ role during the great Persian invasions of Greece in the fifth century. In the aftermath of the Antiochene War, special interventions of King Amynander of Athamania, some Acarnanian representatives, the Lokrian Damoteles, and envoys from Athens and Rhodes barely saved the Ambraciots from the wrath of the consul Marcus Fulvius Nobilior. The Aetolian statesman Phaeneas and Damoteles even approached Nobilior’s half-brother, Gaius Valerius Laevinus, to appease the consul’s anger. Imperious, brutish, and rapacious individual Roman commanders appear from time to time in the Histories, but Nobilior is among the worst of the lot in Polybius’ history. Nobilior later dictated peace terms to the Aetolians, greedily carried off precious artworks, and received a bribe of 150 talents.17 Polybius greatly admired Greek statesmen with the courage to stand up to bullying Roman potentates, and he points out that he himself did all he could to protect his fellow Greeks, cloaking their faults in the face of Roman power (38.4.7–8), and that he did not back down to Roman authorities on the question of posthumous restoration of honours for the Achaean statesman

15 On this passage (2.35), see Champion 2004a: 114–17; cf. Champion 1996 for Polybius’ account of the Gallic attack on Delphi in 279. 16 This strategy of assimilating the Romans to the Greeks was not isolated, and we find its fullest manifestation in the first century BCE in the Roman Antiquities of Dionysius of Halicarnassus. See Wiater, Chapter 10 in this volume. 17 See Plb. 21.29.1–32.5; Liv. 38.9.3–11.9 (from Polybius’ Book 21; see Nissen 1863: 202–3). For another notorious example of such Roman bullying, when the consul Gnaeus Manlius Vulso vehemently ranted against Moagetes of Cibyra’s envoys, and extorted one hundred talents and ten thousand medimnoi of grain from Moagetes in return for his safety, see Plb. 21.34.3–13; cf. Liv. 38.14.1–14 (from Polybius’ Book 21; see Nissen 1863: 203–5).

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Philopoemen (39.3.1–11). Athenian intervention on behalf of the Ambraciots, then, could only have earned his praise. Concerning the aftermath of the war against Antiochus III, we may also point out that Polybius tells us that back in Rome an angry populace was ready to reject the Aetolian peace arrangement, until the Rhodian Damon and the Athenian Leon exercised all of their oratorical skills to mollify its rage. Polybius stresses how decisive the eloquence and rhetorical powers of Leon the Athenian, son of Cichesias, were in saving the Aetolians at this time and even quotes him. Polybius’ Athenian ambassador likened the Aetolian people to the sea; they were naturally calm and peaceful, but had been stirred up by the villainous Thoas, Dicaearchus, Menestas, and Damocritus, just as violent winds sometimes stir up placid waters. By this speech Leon dissuaded the senators from renewing war against the Aetolians, and earned Polybius’ admiration.18 Concerning Athenian embassies before the Roman Senate, we may mention in this context the famous ‘philosophical embassy’ to Rome in 155.19 The embassy’s objective was to obtain remission of an enormous fine. Sometime before, the Roman Senate had designated Sicyon as third-party arbitrator, whose task it was to impose a penalty on the Athenians for their attack on neighbouring Oropus. No Athenian representatives appeared for the trial, and the Sicyonians inflicted on them in absentia a fine of 500 talents. The Athenian embassy secured from the senators a reduction of the fine to 100 talents, which in the end the Athenians did not pay. On the contrary, they ultimately beguiled the Oropians into agreeing to admit an Athenian garrison and give hostages to Athens.20 Each of the philosophers who travelled to Rome on Athens’ behalf— Carneades, Diogenes, and Critolaus—gave spectacular oratorical performances.21 According to Plutarch, Carneades in particular won a huge following among Roman noble youth and ‘filled the city, like a powerful wind, with his praises’.22 Plutarch has certainly exaggerated here, as Carneades’ audience is likely to have been a select group of Roman and Greek elites. The setting for 18 Plb. 21.29.1–32.5; cf. Liv. 38.9.3–11.9 (see Nissen 1863: 202–3 for the Polybian derivation). At 9.40.1, Polybius talks about the uselessness of coming late to the aid of one’s allies, and an epitomator informs us that he is referring to Athens; but there is not enough context for the fragment to know the aspect of Athenian character to which Polybius refers. On this fragment, see the discussion of Walbank 1967: 13. See also Plb. 18.14.1–5 for criticism of Demosthenes and Athenian self-interested behaviour. 19 For the most recent discussion of the ‘philosophical embassy’, see Powell 2013. 20 Paus. 7.11.4–8; Plut. Cat. Mai. 22.1–2; for discussion and further sources, see Gruen 1984: 257–8; Mette 1985: 66–9, 121–2; Erskine 1990: 189 n. 13; MRR 1.448. 21 Cic. De orat. 2.155; cf. Tusc. 4.5. The event was famous enough to merit inclusion in Atticus’ Annales (Cic. Ad Att. 12.23.2). 22 Plut. Cat. Mai. 22.2, ὡς πνεῦμα τὴν πόλιν ἠχῆς ἐνέπλησε; cf. Gel. NA 6.14.10, violenta, inquiunt, et rapida Carneades dicebat (‘they say Carneades spoke forcefully and vehemently’). See Plut. Mor. 1059b for Carneades as the Academics’ ‘fairest flower’; Mor. 717d for Carneades as ‘the most celebrated adherent of the Academy’; cf. D.L. 4.62–4.

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these speeches was undoubtedly not the contio, an official but non-voting public assembly summoned by a Roman magistrate, and it is difficult to imagine that the philosophers had any opportunity for such virtuoso oratorical displays in Greek on the Senate floor, as we know that C. Acilius served as their interpreter there.23 The scene was rather most likely an informal gathering at an urban house of one of the Roman grandees who sponsored and hosted the philosophers.24 The ‘philosophical embassy’ became one of the most celebrated diplomatic events in Greek and Roman politico-cultural interactions, and it succeeded splendidly in obtaining its political objectives. It is relevant for our purposes because there is strong circumstantial evidence that Polybius himself was in attendance at the oratorical performances. He apparently referred to them in a lost part of his work (Plb. 33.2.9–10 = Gel. NA 6.14.8–10). Moreover, we learn from Cicero (De or. 2.154–5) that P. Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus, C. Laelius, and L. Furius Philus were auditors of the philosophical embassy, and that these men always surrounded themselves with the most learned Greeks (qui secum eruditissimos homines ex Graecia palam semper habuerunt), of whom Polybius must certainly have been one.25 If this is correct, then Polybius will have witnessed at first hand one of the most stunning of Athens’ many diplomatic victories. Polybius was a scion of an influential and powerful family of Peloponnesian Megalopolis, and although he had had an aristocratic education and was among the political elite of the Achaean Confederation, there is evidence that he was sensitive to, somewhat awed by, and perhaps even a little envious of Athens’ glorious history and traditions.26 At any rate, it is clear that he held the Athenians to a very high standard in international relations. In 229, at a time of instability on the Macedonian throne resulting from the death of Demetrius II, the Athenians were able to reclaim their independence, but Polybius censures their behaviour at this time. He condemns the leadership and policies of the Athenian statesmen Eurycleidas and Micion, chiefly because they kept Athens away from the affairs of the Achaean Confederation. 23

Plut. Cat. Mai. 22.4–5; Gel. NA 6.14.9. From Gel. NA 6.14.8–10 (= Plb. 33.2), we know that the philosophers demonstrated their oratorical skills before they addressed the Senate. As is the case with Plutarch, Gellius has undoubtedly exaggerated the size of their audience (magno conventu hominum). The same circumstances would have applied to the strange case of Crates of Mallos, who lectured in Rome while recuperating from a broken leg suffered from a fall in a sewer-hole on the Palatine (Suet. Gram. 2.1, with Kaster 1995: 58–9). 25 Lucil. fr. 35 Warmington (fr. 17 Charpin; fr. 31 Marx) may refer to these speeches. For further discussion and sources, see Astin 1967: 81–2 and 82 n. 1. On Scipio, Laelius, and Furius, see Rawson 1991: 80–101. 26 Canevaro, Chapter 4 in this volume discusses the evidence for Demosthenic influence (and therefore for the influence of Athenian public ideology) in Polybius’ rhetorical style as found in the speeches he includes in his work. 24

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Instead, they induced the Athenians to abase themselves in profuse adulation of kings, and especially of Ptolemy III Euergetes I.27 According to Polybius, the Athenians at this time disregarded appropriate restraint and decency (βραχύν τινα λόγον ποιούμενοι τοῦ καθήκοντος), largely because of their leaders’ ineptitude (διὰ τὴν τῶν προεστώτων ἀκρισίαν). For Polybius, more should have been expected of Athens, and this demand becomes clearer in another passage in which the historian criticizes Athenian policy. In 171, the Roman praetor Gaius Lucretius Gallus besieged and captured Boeotian Haliartus in the course of the war against King Perseus of Macedonia. The survivors were sold into slavery (Liv. 42.63.11; cf. Plb. 27.5.3). After the Senate refused the Athenian proposal that the survivors of Haliartus, redeemed from slavery, be allowed to reestablish their city, Athens requested their territory in Boeotia for their own, along with the islands of Delos and Lemnos. As in his censure of Athens’ self-interested behaviour in 229, Polybius lambasts the Athenians’ self-serving petition because they had acted in a manner that was unworthy of their great past. Their behaviour in 171 would have been a disgrace for any Greek city, but for Athens it was completely beyond the pale.28 The Athenians had failed in their traditional claim to be the champions and protectors of all Greeks, and to make their city ‘common to the whole world’.29 There can be no doubt that for Polybius Athens had set this high standard during the Persian invasions of Greece, and his understanding of those events aligned with Herodotus’ famous statement that at the time of Xerxes’ invasion the Athenians had emerged as the ‘saviours of Greece’ (Hdt. 7.139.1–6). In the context of recounting the disasters that befell Greece in 147/6, Polybius contrasts the Greeks’ deplorable behaviour of his own day with Athenian heroics in 480/79 (to the detriment of Sparta): The ultimate terror that Fortune is supposed to have inflicted on the Greeks was Xerxes’ crossing over to Europe, when all of them were endangered, though only a very few were harmed—principally the Athenians, who wisely foresaw what was coming and abandoned their country with their wives and children. That episode certainly injured them, for on taking Athens the barbarians savagely destroyed it. But the Athenians incurred no shame or disgrace: on the contrary, they won the highest glory in the eyes of all men for thinking nothing more important than

27 Plb. 5.106.6–8, with Walbank 1957: 725 ad 6.44.2 for Polybius’ occasional hostility towards Athens; cf. Walbank 1972: 169 and n. 81. 28 Plb. 30.20.5–6, δῆλον ὡς οὐδενὶ μὲν ἂν δόξαι τῶν Ἑλλήνων καθήκειν, ἥκιστα δὲ τῶν ἄλλων Ἀθηναίοις. 29 Plb. 30.20.6–7, echoing Thuc. 2.39.1; cf. Aeschin. 3.134, with further references assembled by Walbank 1979: 444 ad loc. For Polybius’ representation of Athenian policy between 229 and 168, see Perrin-Saminadayar 1999: 445–53. This image of Athens as the champion and protector of all Greeks was of course fostered most prominently in the speeches of the Attic orators, with which Polybius was very familiar (see Canevaro, Chapter 4 in this volume).

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sharing the fate of the other Greeks. As a result of this noble policy, they not only immediately recovered their city and territory, but were soon disputing the supremacy of the rest of Greece with Sparta. Later, defeated in war by the Spartans, they were reduced to having to pull down the walls of their city. But blame for this falls not on the Athenians but on the Spartans, who wielded with excessive harshness the power given to them by Fortune.30

Polybius accepted that the Athenians had been the champions of all the Greeks in their darkest hour (as this passage read in conjunction with 2.35 makes abundantly clear), and he frequently, if perhaps reluctantly, reports impressive Athenian diplomatic achievements in other contexts. By his own criteria for assessing states’ military and diplomatic achievement in the international arena as well as the moral dimension of conducting affairs with an eye to the welfare of all Greeks, the Athenians perform fairly well in Polybius’ pages. This all stands at odds with the overall assessment in Book 6, where Athens is dismissed as an ochlocracy at the time of its greatest flowering, which must have been during Athens’ imperial ascendancy in the immediate aftermath of the Persian invasions of Greece (6.43.1–44.9).

7 . 3 P O L Y B I U S ’ C H A RA C T E R I Z A T I O N S O F ATHENS IN POLITICAL CONTEXT In his famous comparative analysis of politeiai in Book 6 (6.43–56), Polybius refuses to discuss the Athenian polis in any detail. This is because, in his eyes, Athens’ imperial success, like that of Thebes, was ephemeral, and after a spectacular and sudden effulgence, both states suffered an equally sudden reversal of fortune and collapse (6.43.1–3). In the case of Thebes, its brief period of magnificence was due to the extraordinary talents of Epaminondas and Pelopidas, not to any merits of its constitution (6.43.6–7). These gifted leaders were solely responsible for their state’s stunning accomplishments; and since their noteworthy achievements were for the most part individual ones, their deeds were short-lived and little more than accidents of fortune.31 The same was true of the ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’. Polybius singles out the excellent administration of Themistocles, after which time the Athenian imperial democracy was unworthy of serious consideration. His condemnation of it is particularly harsh, as he here stresses the fecklessness of Athenian character (6.44.2, διὰ τὴν ἀνωμαλίαν τῆς φύσεως).

30 31

Plb. 38.2.2–7, trans. Champion, Eckstein, and Strassler, forthcoming. Cf. Erskine 2013: 243.

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On these grounds, then, Polybius considered both Thebes and Athens to be unworthy of detailed discussion in his account of politeiai in the sixth book, but a generalized statement on the deterioration of simple constitutional forms clearly provides more on the reason for the omission: Since their last unspoiled hope was in themselves, they resorted to that, and changed the constitution from an oligarchy to a democracy, taking into their own hands the care and trust of the state. And as long as some who had experienced overbearing rule still survived, they were contented with the existing arrangement, and valued equality and freedom of speech above everything. But when a new generation arose, and the democracy was entrusted to the grandchildren of the first democrats, their familiarity with these privileges made them attach small importance to them, and to seek to possess more than the multitude. It is the rich above all who fall into this pattern. Then, when they gave themselves over to love of power, and could not obtain it by themselves and through their own ability, they wasted their wealth to entice and corrupt the common people in every way. The result, once their mad hunger for reputation has made the populace into willing devourers of their gifts, was the dissolution of democracy and its transformation into violence and mob rule (εἰς βίαν καὶ χειροκρατίαν). The people were now accustomed to feeding at the expense of others, and to the hope of living off their neighbors’ substance; and when they found an ambitious and daring leader whose poverty excluded him from political honors, that is when they achieved the reign of force, joining together to massacre, banish, and redistribute the land until they became quite bestial, and again found a despot and monarch.32

This is a grim picture, indeed, and it is worth reiterating that for Polybius political communities of such violence and brutality emerge only after true δημοκρατία has been obliterated. Athens (and Thebes) were for Polybius states of this sort, trending to this final outcome, and in the period of their imperial greatness he most likely would have considered them to have been ochlocracies, rather than true democracies. Athens enjoyed temporary good fortune largely because of the genius of Themistocles, just as Thebes flourished under the enlightened guidance of Epaminondas and Pelopidas. Polybius is always conscious of the strong influence of individual historical actors on the unfolding of historical events, but such instances of individual brilliance had no place for him in his account and evaluation of constitutional forms.33 As we have already noted, the absence of any analysis of Athens in the sixth book means that we cannot precisely know which Athens—the ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’ or the nearly contemporaneous Athens we meet with in the historical narrative—he would have considered. In any event, it is unlikely

32

Plb. 6.9.3–9, trans. Champion, Eckstein, and Strassler, forthcoming. For the power of individuals in Polybius, see Champion 2004a: 103–5; Pédech 1964: 204–53; and now Maier 2012: 152–9. 33

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that we would be in a much better position even if Polybius had discussed Athens in Book 6, since his discussion there is for the most part anachronistic (and this applies to the discussion of the Roman polity, as well).34 And so for Polybius’ views on Athens, we must cobble together his various, piecemeal statements, as I have tried to do here; beyond that we cannot go. We can, however, illuminate what Polybius implies about the ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’ in Book 6 and what he explicitly says about the perversion of democracy into ochlocracy there by placing these statements within the historical and political contexts in which they were written.35 For Polybius, it is the demagogic leader in the corrupted democracy who will eventually lead it to its ruin (conscientious, morally upright leaders with predominant influence, men such as Themistocles, Epaminondas, or Pelopidas, are the exception rather than the rule in Polybius’ view). This is an especial danger for states that have achieved imperial success and have garnered the resources that go with it, as Polybius says in no uncertain terms in a later passage in the sixth book: I hardly need argue that all things are subject to ruin and change, since natural necessity is proof enough. There are two ways in which every kind of state is ruined, the external and the internal. The external has an indeterminate principle, but the internal an ordered one. I have already said what kind of state naturally comes first, and what second, and how they change into each other, so that readers capable of connecting the beginnings of this argument to its conclusion can themselves predict the future, which I think is plain. When a commonwealth has warded off many great dangers to achieve supremacy and uncontested power, its long familiarity with wealth will clearly make its way of life more luxurious, and its men more ambitious for office and other objects than they should be. As these tendencies progress, the desire for office and the shame of obscurity, along with ostentation and luxury, will initiate a change for the worse. The common people will get the credit for this change, when they believe they are being wronged by some men seeking gain, and are puffed up with flattery by others seeking office. Then, excited to anger, and deciding everything in passion, they will no longer be willing to obey or to have equality with their leaders, but will want everything for themselves. And when that happens, the constitution will adopt the fairest of all names, liberty and democracy (τὴν ἐλευθερίαν καὶ δημοκρατίαν), but the worst of all realities, mob-rule (ὀχλοκρατίαν).36

Ambitious demagogues, stirring up the irrational passions of the populace, are the culprits here. Such men abound in the Histories, and Polybius routinely excoriates them: for example, the Romans C. Flaminius and C. Terentius 34

For Polybius’ simplifications and distortions in representing politeiai, see Seager 2013. In my own various efforts in contextualist hermeneutics, I have benefited enormously from the writings of Quentin Skinner, many of whose most important essays are collected together in Tully 1988. 36 Plb. 6.57.1–9, trans. Champion, Eckstein, and Strassler, forthcoming. 35

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Varro, and among Greek statesmen Molpagoras of Cius, the Achaeans Critolaus and Diaeus, the Spartans Cleomenes III and Nabis, the Boeotian Opheltas, the Epirote Charops, and Lyciscus the Aetolian.37 The frequency and vehemence of Polybius’ charges of demagogy demand our attention, and his vilifications of demagogic leaders in corrupted democracies are relevant to the discussion at hand, if indeed the interpretation offered here—that Polybius refuses to discuss Athens in his political analysis on the grounds that it was on the road to ochlocracy—is correct. Polybius’ own political career and condition as hostage in Rome help us to understand these spirited charges on the historian’s part, as there is evidence that Polybius was himself an accomplished orator and that he was accused of demagogic, anti-Roman policies by his political opposition within the Achaean Confederation. His impassioned denunciation of demagogues in the Histories can therefore be read as political apology.38 To the extent that Polybius saw the ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’ as an example of the perverted simple constitutional form of true δημοκρατία, as a state in which imperial success had led to enervation and corruption, and the advent of the demagogic parasite, his reproach of Athens in Book 6 is part and parcel of his general condemnation of all such corrupted states. But there is more to say, I think, about his ambivalence towards Athens per se, and here we must again turn to Polybius’ immediate political circumstances and political associations. Throughout most of the time in which he was composing his history, Polybius was a political hostage at Rome. He suffered through witnessing several Greek embassies come to Rome in order to gain the release of the Greek political prisoners, only to see his hopes dashed each time.39 Polybius’ chances for repatriation must have seemed to have been largely dependent on the good-will and support of two of the most powerful senators and statesmen of the time, P. Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus and M. Porcius Cato. Scipio was, of course, Polybius’ friend and patron; Polybius appears to have been on familiar, if more distant, terms with Cato. It is tempting to see the two men, Aemilianus and Cato, as political friends, but their respective views on Athens seem to have diverged sharply.40 Scipio had been the beneficiary of his father’s victory over King Perseus at Pydna, in receiving as his own volumes from the royal Macedonian library.41 In the aftermath of his great victory,

37

See Champion 2004b; cf. Welwei 1966; Musti 1967; Eckstein 1995: 129–40. On Polybius as orator, see Thornton 2013a; on the interpretation offered here on Polybius’ excoriations of demagogues, see Champion 2004b, esp. 207–10. See also Canevaro, Chapter 4 in this volume, pp. 80–1. 39 For Polybius’ deportation and political exile, see Paus. 7.10.7–11; Plb. 30.13.1–11; 31.23.5–6; Liv. 45.31.9; the Senate denied petitions for repatriation in 164 (Plb. 30.32.1–12); in 159 (Plb. 32.3.14–17); two embassies were rebuffed in 155 (Plb. 33.1.3–8 and 3.1–2); and another was rejected in 153 (Plb. 33.14.1). 40 Cf. Cato’s high praise of the young Scipio at Plut. Cat. Mai. 27.4. 41 Plut. Aem. 28.11. 38

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early in the fall of 168, L. Aemilius Paullus came to Athens in the company of his son, Scipio. He there offered a sacrifice on the Athenian acropolis. Moreover, he asked the Athenians to lend him their most respected philosopher as a tutor for his sons, and also requested that they supply an artist to commemorate his triumph over Perseus back in Rome. The Athenians sent Metrodorus to fulfil both roles. Scipio Aemilianus, by these indications, then, had a warm regard for Athens and the Athenians.42 Cato, on the other hand, adopted a cultural politics of distancing himself from Greek cultural productions and warning his fellow senators and citizens of the deleterious effects of overexposure to Hellenic culture. According to Plutarch, Cato visited and gave a speech in Latin at Athens in 191. He did so through an interpreter, and he remarked that the Athenians were astonished at the speed and concision of his oration. What he set forth with brevity, his interpreter expanded upon at great length in Greek. Cato quipped that the words of the Greeks were merely on their lips, while those of the Romans resided in their hearts. Cato opined that there was nothing to admire in Socrates other than the fact that he was kind to members of his family; otherwise, he was a lawless windbag and a danger to his country. He belittled Greek rhetoric in general and the school of Isocrates in Athens in particular, and he did all he could to usher the Athenian ‘philosophical embassy’ hastily out of the city of Rome in 155.43 These pieces of evidence are anecdotal, but they indicate that Cato’s public pronouncements on Athens and the Athenians were hardly flattering, and another passage in Plutarch’s Life of Cato indicates both Polybius’ cordiality with the elder Roman statesman and the crucial role Cato played in Polybius’ long-awaited release and repatriation.44 In this political context, and with Scipio and Cato among his Roman readership, it is small wonder that Polybius’ representations of Athens and the Athenians are highly ambivalent.

7.4 CONCLUSION In this chapter I have employed an approach to Polybius which I have used in several of my previous publications on this historian. I first seek to understand Polybius’ political terminology by situating it in its contemporaneous 42 Plb. 30.10; Liv. 45.27.5–28.5; Plut. Aem. 28; Plin. HN 35.135 (Metrodorus), with Astin 1967: 177, on Scipio’s Greek tastes. For Polybius’ report of Paullus’ travels in Greece, see now Russell 2012. 43 Plut. Cat. Mai. 12.4–5 (speech in Athens), with Astin 1978: 160; 20.2, 23.1 (Socrates); 23.2 (Isocrates); 22.1–5 (‘philosophical embassy’). For Cato’s stance on Greek culture, see Gruen 1992: 52–83. 44 Plut. Cat. Mai. 9.1–3.

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semantic field and ideological contexts; and then I try to make sense of it in the practical, political contexts of the Histories’ composition. I hope it will not offend the sensibilities of the reader, who may be sensitive to and impatient with jargon, to call this an exercise in contextualist hermeneutics. Such an exercise tries to elicit the meaning and authorial intention of a given text, to get at ‘what the author was doing in writing’ (to use Quentin Skinner’s phrase), but it lays no claim to having recovered the author’s conscious intentions or subjective operations in writing (the recovery of which, in any event, I regard as a methodological impossibility). It does claim to reveal the meaning and intention of a given work within its own ideological and practical contexts, regardless of whether the author would have seen it that way at a conscious level. To paraphrase Friedrich Schleiermacher’s famous dictum, the investigator is actually in a better position to understand the meaning of a work than its author. Some readers will undoubtedly be uncomfortable or dissatisfied with such an approach, but I do feel it may be helpful to include in my concluding remarks this sidebar on the methodological position which undergirds this chapter. Elsewhere I have used this method to argue for a dynamic tension regarding Polybius’ representations of Romans, whereby Romans can be both quasi-Greeks (by a ‘cultural politics of assimilation to Hellenism’) and barbarians (by a ‘cultural politics of alienation from Hellenism’). Together, these narrative threads, I have argued, constitute a Polybian ‘cultural politics of indeterminacy’.45 We find interesting parallels in Polybius’ representations of Athens and the Athenians. I hope to have demonstrated that there is a real tension, even an indeterminacy, in Polybius’ picture of Athens. It is both the gold-standard as an effective and valiant champion of Greece, in its performance during the Persian Wars, and a state reeling out of control, with an unruly populace driven on to frenzy by unscrupulous demagogues; the epitome of nightmarish ochlocracy. We cannot press the analogy between Polybius’ ambiguous depictions of Romans and his ambivalent picture of Athenians too far, however, since the indeterminate representative play with the Romans pervades the entire history, whereas representations of Athens and the Athenians are relatively peripheral and unimportant to the main thrust of the narrative. But these representations of Athens do serve as vehicles for expression of important Polybian themes: admiration of noble, courageous, and selfless action on the part of individual states for the welfare of the Greek international community; the corrupting influences of imperial success; and the conservative political values that find radical, populist political communities to be anathema.

45

See Champion 2004a passim; for Romans as barbarians in Polybius, see also Champion 2000a; cf. Champion 2000b.

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We should take care in considering Polybius’ representations of Athenian democracy, nonetheless, since in his time δημοκρατία was often a commendatory political tag with little substance, and when condemning degenerate democratic states (such as Athens at 6.43.1–44.9), his term would be ὀχλοκρατία, not δημοκρατία. Outside of Book 6, in the historical narrative, Polybius could admire Athens in the international arena, and even when he is critical of Athenian policy, he measures Athens by the standard of its venerable past—more precisely by the touchstone of Athenian heroics in the time of the Persian Wars. And so there is this unresolved tension in Polybius’ representations of the ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’—now an impulsive, imperial polity careening out of control into ochlocracy, or mob rule; now a selfless saviour of all Greeks in their darkest hour. The tension is mitigated somewhat by the fact that Polybius credited one man, Themistocles, with Athens’ stunning achievements at the time of Xerxes’ invasion, and not Athens’ constitutional system. Nevertheless, we can hardly say that Polybius’ depictions of Athens are consistent. While his vehement denunciations of demagogues and ochlocracies are illuminated by his own political misfortunes, Polybius’ ambiguities in his representations of the ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’ (compare especially 6.43.1–44.9 with 38.2.2–7), may at least in part be understood in light of the widely divergent and ambivalent views of his Roman captors regarding Hellenic culture generally and the legend of Athens in particular.

8 A Later Hellenistic Debate about the Value of Classical Athenian Civic Ideals? The Evidence of Epigraphy, Historiography, and Philosophy Benjamin Gray

8.1 I NTRODUCTION This chapter seeks to complement this volume’s studies of particular mid- and later Hellenistic authors (Polybius, Diodorus Siculus, Dionysius of Halicarnassus), by offering a wide-ranging interpretation of the place of Classical Athens in later Hellenistic civic culture and political debates.1 It discusses, and places in its first-century BCE context, the Stoic Posidonius’ account of unrest in Athens in 88 BCE, during the First Mithridatic War. It compares the ideas advocated by Posidonius in that account with those expressed in a range of contemporary texts. The resulting argument is that this comparison reveals traces of a lively later Hellenistic debate among Greek intellectuals and politically active citizens about the value of different Classical Athenian civic ideals, both democratic and philosophical, in the new world of Roman power. This was a debate about whether different traditional civic ideals were vital or outdated, liberating or constraining, exemplary or questionable. In concentrating on ideas about the status of the Athenian political past, this chapter offers a different perspective on the broader debates in the mid- and later Hellenistic world, well and intensively studied by modern scholars, about the political and moral questions arising from the Roman conquest.2 It does so

1

I am very grateful for help with this chapter to Mirko Canevaro, Matthias Haake, Alex Long, John Ma, Manuela Mari, Paraskevi Martzavou, John Thornton, Ulrike Roth, and the anonymous reviewers for OUP. 2 See, for example, Bowersock 1965; Deininger 1971; Ferrary 1988; Thornton 1999; Champion 2004a.

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partly by giving weight to marginal, or submerged, views, preserved now only in asides in literary texts or in inscriptions, which suffered for their divergence from an emerging new consensus in the Roman world. The chapter is thus also an example of how comparing literary texts with inscriptions’ rhetoric can lead to more complex and multi-faceted reconstructions of ancient ethical and political debates. The first half of the article (sections 8.2 and 8.3) analyses the better preserved evidence for one side in these debates: the arguments of critics of certain Classical Athenian civic ideals, especially more utopian and communitycentred ones. The second half (section 8.4) argues that it is also possible to excavate traces of the other side in these debates: the arguments of later Hellenistic thinkers and citizens who insisted on the continuing importance of those more community-centred Classical Athenian ideals.

8.2 P OSIDONIUS ’ ATHENION: RADICALLY DEMOCRATIC CLASSICISM In the course of the second century BCE, the Romans established a dominant position in the Eastern Mediterranean. In the early first century BCE, King Mithridates VI of Pontus led a revolt against Roman power in the Greek world, in what was to become known as the First Mithridatic War (89–85 BCE). By 88 BCE Athens had problems of its own. The traditional democratic Athenian constitution had probably remained in force, perhaps in diluted form, until very recently, when it had been suspended. The details are obscure, but it seems that repeated archonships by a single individual (Medeios) from 91/0 BCE, and possibly also accompanying internal unrest, had led one or more Athenian factions to appeal to the Roman Senate. In response, the Senate had probably ordered the temporary suspension of normal democratic institutions while it deliberated about Athens’ problems. It was in these circumstances that the Athenians became involved in Mithridates’ revolt.3 Posidonius’ highly satirical and exaggerated,4 but also analytical,5 account of how the Athenians joined Mithridates6 is quoted at length,7 perhaps with 3 On the background, see Badian 1976: esp. 106–8, 112; Malitz 1983: 340–57; Kidd 1988–99: vol. II (ii): 866–9; Habicht 1997: ch. 13; Haake 2007: 271–3; Grieb 2008: 132–8. 4 5 See Ferrary 1988: 473, with IG II2 1714. Hahm 1989: 1328–31; Kidd (1997). 6 This is Posidonius fr. 253 (= Athen. 5.47–53, 211d–215d); see also now BNJ 87 F36 (edition, translation, and commentary by K. Dowden). All Posidonius fragments are cited here by Edelstein-Kidd numbers. I have been guided in my translations of Posidonius by Kidd’s. 7 On the likelihood that Athenaeus quotes Posidonius directly at length here, compare most recently K. Dowden in BNJ 87 F36, citing earlier bibliography. This view was also defended by the principal modern expert on Posidonius, I. G. Kidd, on the basis of the style and language of

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some modifications or editing,8 by Athenaeus. According to Posidonius, the mediator between Athens and Mithridates was a teacher of philosophy with Peripatetic leanings: the Athenian citizen Athenion. Posidonius introduces Athenion as the son of an Athenian citizen, also called Athenion, who had been a keen disciple of the leading Peripatetic Erymneus. The younger Athenion’s mother was an Egyptian slave-girl, but he was illegitimately smuggled onto the Athenian citizen-roll. Posidonius then describes Athenion’s early life as a ‘sophist’ in Messene and Larissa.9 This is in itself an interesting indication, very relevant to this volume, of the continuing prominence of Classical Athenian political and philosophical discourse in the first century BCE: Posidonius mobilizes one of the main forms of Classical democratic invective, a charge of low, foreign birth and illegitimate citizenship,10 alongside one of the leading forms of Classical Athenian philosophical invective, a charge of sophistry. The fact that some earlier Stoics had been less instinctively hostile to sophistry as an occupation, at least for the wise man (see Long, Chapter 5 in this volume), reinforces the point that Posidonius’ approach harks back to a Classical mindset. In Posidonius’ account, the Athenian people elect Athenion as their envoy to Mithridates when Mithridates’ revolt is gaining steam in Asia Minor. Athenion ingratiates himself with Mithridates, to the extent that he can write letters to the Athenians claiming that he is most influential with him, such that, ‘not only having been released from their pressing debts, but also having recovered their democracy, they will live in concord and receive great gifts, both as individuals and as a community’ (μὴ μόνον τῶν ἐπιφερομένων ὀφλημάτων ἀπολυθέντας, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὴν δημοκρατίαν ἀνακτησαμένους ἐν ὁμονοίᾳ ζῆν καὶ δωρεῶν μεγάλων τυχεῖν ἰδίᾳ καὶ δημοσίᾳ). After Posidonius’ Athenians respond enthusiastically to this proposal, Athenion makes an extravagant return to Athens, to a rapturous reception.11 A large crowd of Athenians and foreigners assembles in the Kerameikos and an assembly congregates. Posidonius’ Athenion then stands on the podium built for the Roman praetors, before the Stoa of Attalos. Standing amidst these the fragment: ‘this looks to me like straight Posidonius, a quotation: the language is Posidonian and certainly not Athenaean’ (Kidd 1997: 41; compare Kidd 1988–99, vol. II (ii): 865). Kidd also points out that Athenaeus introduces the account as a direct quotation: he says he will set out what Posidonius writes about Athenion, ‘though it is rather long’; that would be a strange way to describe a paraphrase. Athenaeus’ other uses of the same verb, ἐκθήσομαι, introduce verbatim quotations: see Ath. 9, 374a2–5; compare Ath. 3, 95a6–7. Direct quotation would also explain why Athenaeus introduces Posidonius as a philosopher active in Athens, Messene, and Larissa, but Athenion is then presented (slightly differently) as a ‘teacher’ or ‘sophist’ working in these cities in the opening part of the main narrative, as if this is new information. 8 Compare Malitz 1983: 341. 9 Posidonius fr. 253, ll. 12–23. For philosophical teaching at Larissa in this period, compare Haake 2009; 2010. 10 11 Compare Kidd 1988–99, vol. II (ii): 866; 1997: 42. Posidonius fr. 253, ll. 23–58.

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symbols of the patronage and power of external potentates in Hellenistic Athens, Athenion gives a speech emphasizing traditional Athenian civic virtues and freedoms. He begins by claiming that, though his ‘country’s interest’ (τὸ τῆς πατρίδος συμφέρον) is driving him to speak, the magnitude of his message is holding him back. After setting aside this feigned reluctance, Athenion then gives a detailed account of the remarkable developments in Asia Minor, before predicting that Mithridates’ revolt will spread to Europe.12 He then concludes by appealing to Athens’ proud traditions: ‘τί οὖν’ εἶπε ‘συμβουλεύω; μὴ ἀνέχεσθαι τῆς ἀναρχίας, ἣν ἡ Ῥωμαίων σύγκλητος ἐπισχεθῆναι πεποίηκεν, ἕως αὐτὴ δοκιμάσῃ περὶ τοῦ πῶς ἡμᾶς πολιτεύεσθαι δεῖ. καὶ μὴ περιίδωμεν τὰ ἱερὰ κεκλῃμένα, αὐχμῶντα δὲ τὰ γυμνάσια, τὸ δὲ θέατρον ἀνεκκλησίαστον, ἄφωνα δὲ τὰ δικαστήρια καὶ τὴν θεῶν χρησμοῖς καθωσιωμένην Πύκνα ἀφῃρημένην τοῦ δήμου. μὴ περιίδωμεν δέ, ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, τὴν ἱερὰν τοῦ Ἰάκχου φωνὴν κατασεσιγασμένην καὶ τὸ σεμνὸν ἀνάκτορον τοῖν θεοῖν κεκλῃμένον καὶ τῶν φιλοσόφων τὰς διατριβὰς ἀφώνους.’ πολλῶν οὖν καὶ ἄλλων τοιούτων λεχθέντων ὑπὸ τοῦ οἰκότριβος, συλλαλήσαντες αὑτοῖς οἱ ὄχλοι καὶ συνδραμόντες εἰς τὸ θέατρον εἵλοντο τὸν Ἀθηνίωνα στρατηγὸν ἐπὶ τῶν ὅπλων. καὶ παρελθὼν ὁ Περιπατητικὸς εἰς τὴν ὀρχήστραν, ‘ἴσα βαίνων Πυθοκλεῖ’ εὐχαρίστησέ τε τοῖς Ἀθηναίοις καὶ ἔφη διότι ‘νῦν ὑμεῖς ἑαυτῶν στρατηγεῖτε, προέστηκα δ’ ἐγώ. καὶ ἂν συνεπισχύσητε, τοσοῦτον δυνήσομαι ὅσον κοινῇ πάντες ὑμεῖς.’ ‘What then’, he said, ‘do I advise? Do not tolerate the anarchy which the Roman Senate has caused to be drawn out until it reaches a decision about how we should conduct our civic life. And let us not look on passively at our sanctuaries closed, our gymnasia abandoned, the theatre without assemblies, the law-courts without a voice, and the Pnyx, blessed with oracles of the gods, taken away from the people. And let us not tolerate, men of Athens, the sacred voice of Iacchus silenced, the holy temple of the two gods shut, and the schools of the philosophers without a voice.’ After many other such things had been said by this common slave, the masses burst into chatter and came running together into the theatre, where they elected Athenion hoplite general. And the Peripatetic, having come onto the orchestra, ‘walking like Pythocles’, thanked the Athenians and said: ‘Now you are in command of yourselves, and I have taken on the leading position. And if you combine your strength, I will be as powerful as all of you collectively.’13

Despite his promise that they will now govern themselves, the new strategos Athenion then seizes power and governs as a tyrant, keeping tight controls on the population and organizing unsuccessful foreign ventures.14 Little is known about the final fall of Athenion’s regime. Either his regime or, more probably,

12

Posidonius fr. 253, ll. 58–92. Posidonius fr. 253, ll. 94–110. As Ferrary (1988: 443–4) points out, there is obvious exaggeration in Athenion’s claims about anarchy: he has recently himself been appointed ambassador. 14 Posidonius fr. 253, ll. 111–79. 13

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that of a successor, another philosophical tyrant, an Epicurean called Aristion,15 was violently and decisively overthrown by Sulla’s army in 86 BCE. Posidonius thus offers a very striking account of a Peripatetic philosopher leading a radically democratic revolt in Athens in 88 BCE. This is surprising to anyone familiar with earlier Athenian and Peripatetic ideology,16 and earlier uneasy relations between Peripatetics and the Athenian democracy.17 Some Hellenistic Peripatetics had enjoyed esteem in the Athenian democracy, and even participated in its civic and diplomatic life,18 but it is still surprising to find in Posidonius’ account a Peripatetic enthusiastically promoting, rather than simply collaborating with, Athenian democracy. Many modern historians have been highly sceptical of the historical accuracy of Posidonius’ account, for this and other reasons. For example, some, such as Badian and Kallet-Marx, argue that Posidonius gives a highly misleading impression of popular revolt and even class conflict in Athens at this point.19 I will return briefly in the conclusion to the historical plausibility of Posidonius’ account, but my focus is the account itself as key evidence for Posidonius’ own political thinking and targets. Posidonius’ Athenion is partly the stereotypical tyrant of much Greek historiography;20 the development of his behaviour resembles, for example, that of Xenophon’s Euphron of Sikyon, who also eventually emerges as a fully fledged, oppressive tyrant after initially ambiguous political promises.21 This further confirms the prominence of Classical Athenian models, in this case historiographical invective, in later Hellenistic debates. However, Posidonius’ presentation is more subtle than a simple tyrannical stereotype: as clear from the quotation above, he gives Athenion highly idealistic, egalitarian and republican rhetoric, far more elaborate even than the promises of democracy given by Xenophon’s Euphron. Even if Athenaeus did modify Posidonius’ original account, it is highly unlikely that Athenaeus, rather than Posidonius, invented these parts of Athenion’s rhetoric. Athenaeus’ aim in this part of his work was to present examples of philosophers shamelessly contravening their doctrines, not expressing idealistic views, when participating in public life.22 The more

15

On the relationship between Athenion and Aristion, see Kidd 1988–99, vol. II (ii): 884–6. Note, for example, the severe criticisms of radical democracy in Aristotle’s Politics. 17 Compare Canevaro, Chapter 4 in this volume, for early Hellenistic Peripatetic attacks on the anti-Macedonian democratic arguments and actions of Demosthenes. Another probable case is Demetrios of Phaleron’s role in running a non-democratic regime in Athens (317–307 BC), though the extent of his Peripatetic attachments and inspirations is debated, with some favouring scepticism: see Haake 2007: 60–82, esp. 67–9. 18 See IG II³ 1147 (226/5 BC), honouring the Peripatetic Prytanis of Karystos. 19 Badian 1976: esp. 105, 108, 113; Kallet-Marx 1995: 207–8. Contrast, for example, Malitz 1983: 345; Grieb 2008: 132–8. 20 21 Compare Bringmann 1997. Compare especially Xen. Hell. 7.1.44–6. 22 Compare Athen. 5.47, 211d–e; 5.54, 215b–c (discussing Lysias, Epicurean tyrant of Tarsus). 16

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idealistic rhetoric attributed to Athenion, almost certainly by Posidonius himself, serves partly to paint him as a familiar radical democrat or demagogue.23 Nevertheless, there is much more to Posidonius’ portrayal of Athenion’s ideology and rhetoric. When his Athenion appeals to the Athenians not to allow their civic traditions to be neglected, he refers with enthusiasm, not only to the democratic institutions of the Pnyx and courts and to Athenian religious traditions,24 but also to Athens’ cultural and educational institutions, including even the gymnasia and philosophical schools. This seemingly elevated intellectual and cultural interest is hardly characteristic of a stereotypical bloodthirsty and shameless demagogue. Moreover, many of Athenion’s ideals had long been cherished by both democrats and non-democrats. Appeals to Athens’ gods and religious traditions were certainly not the sole preserve of democrats. Similarly, Athenion’s appeal to the Athenian people to take their future in their own hands, rather than allow their magistracies and institutions to lie vacant through ἀναρχία (‘anarchy’ or ‘absence of magistrates’), evokes generic Classical civic ideals of collective participation, vibrant institutions, civic autonomy, and civic selfsufficiency. In addition, Athenion has already appealed to other generic civic values which were certainly not uniquely democratic: for example, both concord (ὁμόνοια) and the common good of the polis (τὸ τῆς πατρίδος συμφέρον). Posidonius’ Athenion should therefore be seen as drawing on, and manipulating, a generic Classical civic ideal, which had been embraced across the social and ideological spectrum in Classical Athens: the good polis should be a close-knit community of educated, virtuous civic friends, dedicated to their city’s political, religious, and cultural life, who govern themselves through informed political participation and law. This was certainly not the sole ‘Classical’ civic ideal: Classical Greeks held a very wide range of ideas about the good polis.25 The approach identified here had, however, long been widely popular, across the Greek civic world. Despite this ideal’s wide popularity, Posidonius’ Athenion’s appeal to the traditional institutions and buildings of the Athenian polis shows that his version had a distinctive, nostalgic26 focus on Classical Athens. Significantly, he has himself elected strategos, the principal office of Pericles and other Classical Athenian leaders.27

23 Compare Deininger 1971: 248–55; Badian 1976: 112; Malitz 1983: 348–52; Gruen 1984: 353; Dowden in BNJ 87 F36. 24 For religion and demagogic rhetoric, compare Mari (2003). 25 For an overview, see Gray 2015: introduction and ch. 1. 26 The Pnyx, for example, had probably by now largely been superseded by the theatre as the location for assemblies. 27 Manuela Mari pointed this out to me.

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Crucially, Posidonius presents Athenion exploiting Classicizing ideals, both narrowly democratic and more generic ones, to advocate transgression of certain standards apparently of great importance for Posidonius and his assumed audience. These include the sanctity of debt contracts: Athenion’s letters promise the overturning or artificial settling28 of certain debts, possibly public but more likely private, and resulting ὁμόνοια.29 Athenion also subsequently rides roughshod over the inviolability of established property rights more generally: on becoming tyrant, he confiscates the property of political opponents. Athenion’s calls for solidarity and self-government also incite disregard for the principles of ordered, rule-governed, and trustworthy diplomacy. He urges the Athenians not to acquiesce in Roman order and procedures, including the Senate’s reasoned supervision of Athenian affairs. Posidonius thus offers a satire on a particular type of Classicism: a particular, destabilizing way of harking back to the more utopian and community-centred elements in Classical civic values and practices. His Athenion is a ridiculous and pernicious advocate of a move, conceived as a reversion, towards an extreme type of civic self-determination, which can impulsively set aside legal contracts and diplomatic agreements in the name of collective freedom, the common good, ὁμόνοια, and the defence of civic life, culture, and institutions. The ethical force of Posidonius’ representation of Athenion is best understood in the context of Posidonius’ broader ethical philosophy. It is important to make clear that Posidonius was not uniformly hostile to all forms of demanding ethics. He held, like all Stoics, that moral virtue is the only true good.30 On the other hand, he was perhaps more prepared than many Stoics to recognize the force of immediate calculations of expediency as a rival consideration to virtue and true reason: unusually for a Stoic, he entertained the possibility of a conflict for an individual between what is expedient and what is morally right in a given situation.31

28 Kallet-Marx (1995: 207) argues that Posidonius’ Athenion could be taken to be implying that Mithridates’ bounty will make possible the settling (rather than overturning) of all debts. Even in that case, Mithridates’ intervention would compromise the principle that individuals should take responsibility for their own debts and obligations. However, there does, in fact, seem to be at least an undertone of threat, directed at the propertied, in Athenion’s remarks. 29 Posidonius fr. 253, ll. 26–30. The reference to concord adds to the probability that the reference to debts is to private debts, binding individuals to fellow Athenians or outsiders, probably including Romans. Indeed, the language of civic ὁμόνοια (on which see generally Thériault 1996: ch. 1) is very frequently used in Hellenistic honorary decrees for foreign judges, to celebrate the resolution of debt disputes between individuals: Dössel 2003: 263–4, 271–2. Badian (1976: 107–8) thinks that public (state) debts may be in question here, though the matter is open. 30 See, for example, Posidonius T81 and frr. 185–6. 31 Cic. Off. 3.8 (= Posidonius fr. 41c, section 8), with Kidd (1988–99), vol. II (i): 188–9.

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This was partly a reflection of the fact that Posidonius was almost certainly one of those later Stoics who took a particular interest in the practical ethical problems not only of the sage but also of ordinary men (those ‘making progress’ towards virtue) and how to educate and advise them.32 The details of his resulting practical ethical teaching are difficult to reconstruct. The fragments of his historical writing show that Posidonius was certainly not hostile to all ideals of human sympathy and even solidarity: he repeatedly draws attention to the possible adverse consequences of brutality towards the less powerful, especially slaves.33 Nevertheless, the types of fellow-feeling approved by Posidonius were predominantly hierarchical and paternalistic. Athenaeus quotes Posidonius commenting, in connection with the hierarchical relations between the citizens of Pontic Herakleia and the surrounding non-Greek population, the Mariandynoi, that many of those who cannot stand up for their interests, due to weakness in intellect, call on the help of cleverer superiors, offering other services in return.34 In other words, the less intelligent require the sober, reasoned supervision of a more intelligent elite, which they can repay with work of their own.35 In light of his paternalistic outlook, it is quite easy to imagine Posidonius being favourable to judicious, occasional bending of contracts and rules, for the sake of stability. However, it is also easy to see why he would have been opposed to any systematic legal or political changes in the name of equality, strong community, or collective freedom, of the kind championed by his Athenion. A clue to Posidonius’ approach to the precise ethical character and structure of good social relations is Athenaeus’ report of Posidonius’ approving summary of traditional Roman ethics: the main personal virtues are frugality and self-restraint, and the key to good social relations is justice and scrupulous care not to commit wrong against anyone (δικαιοσύνη δὲ καὶ πολλὴ τοῦ πλημμελεῖν εὐλάβεια πρὸς πάντας ἀνθρώπους).36 It is difficult to reconstruct how exactly Posidonius would have interpreted ‘justice’ and ‘not committing wrong against anyone’. There is, however, a very interesting overlap in phrasing and approach with another first-century work, Cicero’s De officiis, which

32

See, for example, Kidd (1988–99), vol. II (ii), 585, with Posidonius frr. 176–7. See Posidonius fr. 51; compare frr. 59, 262. 34 Posidonius fr. 60. Posidonius perhaps advanced this parallel in connection with Attalus III’s bequest of his kingdom to the superior power of Rome: K. Dowden in BNJ 87 F8 Commentary. 35 Compare Kidd (1988–99), vol II (ii), 294–5, 870; Garnsey (1997), esp. 173. Consider also Posidonius fr. 284. 36 Posidonius fr. 266. Compare Posidonius fr. 273; see also Posidonius frr. 58–9, 63, 77, for criticism of over-indulgence. 33

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had its own Stoic inspiration.37 It is likely that Posidonius, like Cicero,38 regarded a particular type of respect as an especially important component of these two values: unbending, unconditional respect for individuals’ legal and contractual entitlements, including property rights. It is also likely that, again like Cicero, Posidonius would have given great importance under these headings to the precise, ‘just’ requital of goods with equivalent goods. Indeed, emphasis on justice and avoidance of harm chimes with the ‘stress on agreement and contract’,39 as well as strictly equivalent exchange of useful services, which marks Posidonius’ treatment of the subordination of the Mariandynoi to the Herakleians.40 Significantly, alongside his other ethical concerns, Posidonius appears to have presupposed the importance of helping one’s home country, since he compiled a list of extreme cases of actions so appalling that a sage would not do them even to save his country.41 He is unlikely, however, to have been in sympathy with the kind of extreme, emotional patriotism advocated by his Athenion: warm, nostalgic, community-centred ideals have to be kept within the limits of property rights, proportionality, and protocol. In the remainder of this chapter, I argue that Posidonius’ approach to Athenion can be seen as a contribution to important later Hellenistic debates. The central point of controversy in those debates was whether property rights, financial contracts, and other formal agreements are unconditionally inviolable, or whether they should sometimes be set aside for the sake of other values with at least an equally strong Classical pedigree, such as equality, freedom, virtue, tradition, or solidarity. These debates must have been a response to the probable Roman-backed changes in culture and ethics, as well as law and institutions, which gave expanded freedoms and privileges to elite citizens, property-owners, and creditors in the later Hellenistic Mediterranean.42 As will be seen, supporters of the first alternative tended to criticize certain Classical Athenian ideals, while their opponents championed particular Classical Athenian traditions. However, it is important to emphasize that each side in these debates was selective among Classical Athenian political ideals, singling out particular values for attack or emulation; neither side’s position rested on a comprehensive picture of Classical Athenian political thinking, and both downplayed the already strong Classical tendency to understand the polis in contractual terms.

37

Compare Cic. Off., esp. 1.20, 31. See Long 1995; compare section 8.3 of this chapter. 39 40 41 Kidd 1988–99: vol. II (ii), 297. Posidonius fr. 60. Posidonius fr. 177. 42 These changes are emphasized by de Ste Croix and others in the Marxist tradition (see, for example, Briscoe 1967; de Ste Croix 1981: 300–26), but also acknowledged by others. See, for example, Bowersock 1965: 6–7, Gauthier 1985, and Fröhlich and Müller 2005 on the polis, with the specific case-studies in Grieb 2008: 196–8 (Cos) and 260–1 (Miletus). Kallet-Marx (1995: 71–2) sounds a sceptical note about any Roman suppression of Greek democracy and egalitarianism, emphasizing long-term internal Greek shifts. 38

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8.3 A BROADER LATER HELLENISTIC REACTION AGAINST CERTAIN CLASSICAL ATHENIAN CIVIC I DEALS? Political attitudes and targets similar to Posidonius’ are more directly attested for some other mid- and later Hellenistic intellectuals favourable to Rome: there was a broad reaction in some quarters against certain traditional Greek, and Athenian, ideals of civic community, which relevant intellectuals attacked as an explicit foil. The most obvious comparison is with Posidonius’ fellow mid- and later Hellenistic Stoics. Although it remains a controversial interpretation, there are strong grounds for believing that certain mid- and later Hellenistic Stoics made important adaptations to Stoic practical ethics. According to this highly plausible view, some Stoics of that era reacted against the more egalitarian and community-centred elements of Greek and Stoic political thought, including their Classical Athenian forms. In doing so, they strongly advocated the revision, devaluation, or supersession of those ideals in favour of principles giving special moral weight to the rule of law, contracts, and property rights; strict reciprocity and earned individual entitlements; and regulated, enlightened egoism.43 The cornerstone of this contested interpretation of some mid- and later Hellenistic Stoics’ ethics and politics is Cicero’s De officiis. In that work, Cicero stresses the importance of good faith or fides as a central aspect of justice and virtue. A. A. Long argues44 provocatively but effectively that Cicero is here principally interested in the kind of fides involved in scrupulously respecting property rights and financial contracts, if necessary at the expense of other values.45 It is important to note that Cicero also uses much rhetoric about the common good and solidarity in the De officiis. However, those notions are often pegged very closely to the upholding of property rights, strict entitlements, and the existing social order,46 and to strict reciprocity, rather than unconditional generosity.47 As Long puts it, human solidarity, for all Cicero’s praise of it, is made ‘to consist primarily in respecting strict justice about property rights and business transactions’.48 The reason why Cicero’s De officiis indicates that a similar approach was prominent within contemporary Stoicism is that Cicero’s work was very deeply indebted to the On Duty of the leading second-century Stoic Panaetius of Rhodes. If the De officiis was not quite a quasi-translation of that work,49 it was a faithful but imaginative Roman interpretation of it. A particular reason 43

44 See Erskine 2011: esp. chs 5 and 6; Long 1997. Contrast Brunt 2013. Long 1995. Note, in particular, Cic. Off. 1.23: fundamentum autem est iustitiae fides, id est dictorum conventorumque constantia et veritas. 46 47 See Cic. Off. 1.20; 2.85. See Cic. Off. 1.20, 22. 48 49 Long 1995: 239. See Brunt 2013: ch. 5. 45

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for believing that the inspiration for Cicero’s approach to fides in that work came partly from one strand in contemporary Stoic thought50 is Cicero’s own presentation of aspects of mid- and later Hellenistic Stoic ethics in Book 3. Cicero there presents Panaetius’ mentor, the second-century Stoic Diogenes of Babylon, arguing that the just man is morally51 obliged only to respect the letter of his legal and contractual obligations. A just trader, for example, has no moral obligation to reveal that goods he is selling are faulty.52 Moreover, Cicero presents the later Stoic Hecato of Rhodes, like Posidonius a pupil of Panaetius, drawing out the egoistic implications of this approach to ethics. Cicero quotes Hecato arguing that it is characteristic of the wise man, the Stoic sage, that he pursues the private interests of his family estate, within the constraints of custom and law. This is because the welfare of a city is, in fact, dependent on its individual members maximizing, rather than sacrificing, their personal fortunes.53 It is very likely that Hecato was here reacting against prominent Greek ideas about the primacy of the common good over private interests. His aim must have been to redefine the common good, in order to accommodate, and even celebrate, more egoistic impulses.54 This contract-focused, quite egoist strand in Stoic practical ethics was certainly not unquestioned within the Stoa: indeed, Cicero presents Diogenes of Babylon engaged in a vigorous debate with his fellow Stoic Antipater of Tarsus, who insists on the importance of far more robust ties of solidarity among all humans.55 However, Cicero’s evidence suggests that this new strand in the Stoa was a prominent and widespread one. It is likely that Posidonius shared with Diogenes of Babylon and Hecato of Rhodes, and probably also Panaetius, scepticism about any high-blown rhetoric about community, virtue, and the common good which might substantially curtail individual freedom in using and preserving private wealth. In this respect, relevant Stoics were in agreement with a prominent Roman line of thinking, represented by Cicero, which was instinctively suspicious of ambitious social projects, including Classical Athenian ones.56 Cicero in the De re publica disparaged Greek ambitious, utopian theories of civic education; in the De officiis, while he praised Peripatetic and Academic ideas highly, he announced that on the particular issue of duty (officium) he was minded

50

Compare Erskine 2011: 156. Contrast Annas 1997: esp. 158–60, criticized in Schofield 1999: ch. 9. 52 53 See Cic. Off. 3.50–7, 91–2. Cic. Off. 3.63. 54 Schofield (1999: 175–6) compares Hecato with Adam Smith in this respect; compare Erskine 2011: ch. 5. 55 Cic. Off. 3.50–7. 56 For Cicero’s De re publica as a non-utopian adaptation of Greek paradigms, compare Asmis 2004: 590–1 (the good res publica as a ‘partnership’). On the complex, difficult relationship between Roman political thinking and Greek ethics and utopianism more generally, compare Griffin and Barnes (1997); Gotter (2003). 51

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to follow the Stoics,57 who gave him a template for the picture of duty, partly centred on contractual fides, which he developed in that work. This is certainly not to deny that other Romans were attracted to more utopian and community-centred types of politics: there was rich diversity in Roman political thinking, as in Greek.58 Significantly for the concerns of this volume, the community-centred approaches of which relevant Greek Stoics themselves were suspicious would also have included much Classical Athenian ethical and political rhetoric, democratic and philosophical. Indeed, they would have included early Stoic political thought, especially Zeno’s Republic,59 which had arisen in the context of later Classical and early Hellenistic Athenian political and philosophical debates.60 For example, Long, Chapter 5 in this volume, brings out the utopian and anti-conventional character of Zeno’s political thought, quite different from the strands of later Stoic political thinking emphasized here. While Posidonius shared the approach under discussion here with some fellow Stoics, his relevant attitudes and aversions overlapped most closely with those of another intellectual, Polybius, Posidonius’ forerunner as historian. Like Posidonius, Polybius shows strong hostility to certain types of Classical Athenian civic ideal, both democratic and more generic. Indeed, Posidonius’ account of Athenion recalls Polybius’ well-known hostility to radical democracy and popular agitation, both in theory and in practice. As Champion shows, Chapter 7 in this volume, an integral feature of Polybius’ development of his sceptical position towards radical democracy was criticism of Classical Athenian internal politics.61 Polybius was striving to display to Roman readers, and also to some Greeks, a reassuringly conservative approach to politics and property rights. This too chimes with Posidonius. Indeed, there are echoes in Posidonius’ excoriation of Athenion’s approach to finance of Polybius’ regular hostility to calls for debt reform or overturning of debts in different parts of the Greek world, including by alleged tyrants or aspirants to tyranny.62 A further shared symptom of this conservative approach was resentment of emotional and emotive rhetoric, which carried the threat of demagoguery. In the same way as Posidonius mercilessly satirized Athenion’s rhetoric, Polybius heavily

57

58 Cic. Rep. 4.3; Off. 1.2, 6. Compare Arena 2012. For the probable wider phenomenon of later Stoics reacting against earlier Stoic views betraying Cynic influence: Brouwer 2002: 202–3; Bees 2011: 34–6, both citing earlier bibliography. The Athenian honorary decree for Zeno quoted in Diogenes Laertius was probably forged in the first century BC (Haake 2013: 99–100), perhaps in the context of these debates. 60 See recently Murray 2005; Bees 2011; Richter 2011: ch. 2. 61 See also recently Grieb 2013. 62 See, for example, Plb. 15.21.3–5; 20.6.3–6, 7.4; cf. Ferrary 1988: 489–90; Eckstein 1995: 133–5; Champion 2007. 59

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criticized excessively emotional or flamboyant rhetoric both in political speeches63 and in works of history.64 In addition to an aversion to Classical Athenian radical democracy, Polybius also shared with Posidonius an aversion to some more generic Classical Athenian civic ideals, of philosophical, utopian, and community-oriented types.65 For example, Polybius was openly sceptical about the law-code drawn up by the Peripatetic Prytanis of Karystos for Polybius’ home city, Megalopolis, in 222 BCE, exposing it as a source of discord rather than stability.66 Polybius’ scepticism about this Peripatetic philosopher’s laws probably had deeper intellectual roots. Lintott, Hahm, and others have emphasized the distinctiveness of Polybius’ vision of a constitution combining elements of different constitutions (democracy, aristocracy, monarchy) in Book 6. Whereas earlier thinkers, including Plato and Aristotle, advocated a genuinely ‘mixed constitution’, a harmonious blend of contrasting citizens and institutions, Polybius reacted against earlier Greek approaches by favouring a dynamic, conflictual system. He advocated complex interaction, competition, and bargaining, involving the possibility of both cooperation and antagonism, between contrasting citizens and institutions, regulated by institutional checks and balances, on the Roman model.67 Moreover, Polybius praises his home state, the second-century Achaean League, in a way which probably reveals self-conscious opposition to Aristotelian and Peripatetic demanding ideals of civic community. Polybius insists that the second-century Achaean League was simultaneously both a military alliance of states and very nearly an almost pan-Peloponnesian polis: only the lack of a circuit wall stood between it and qualification as a polis.68 With this claim, he shatters the famous Aristotelian qualitative distinction between an alliance, which exists for the sake of mutual utility and mere life, and a true polis, which exists for the sake of the good life and virtue for all.69 In Polybius’ view, there was no sharp qualitative distinction in the Achaean case: the League came to resemble a very large polis by expanding upon, rather than abandoning or transforming, the institutions and customs characteristic of a military alliance. The likelihood that Polybius was here directly taking issue with Peripatetic thought is greatly increased by the fact that, as scholars since von Scala have noted, he makes probable hostile allusions to the ideas in two passages of Aristotle’s Politics, which, significantly, both concern Polybius’ beloved

63

Consider, for example, Plb. 38.12. See Plb. 2.56; 12.26d. Compare recently Marincola 2013; Thornton 2013b. 65 66 Gray 2013b. Plb. 5.93. 67 On the differences between Polybius’ and earlier approaches, see Lintott 1997: 78–9; Hahm 2009: 193–6; Gray 2013b: 339–40, 352–3. 68 69 Plb. 2.37.7–11. Arist. Pol. 1280a34–1280b35. 64

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Peloponnese.70 First, Aristotle had claimed that there are limits to the possible size of a true polis; putting a wall around the Peloponnese would not make it a polis.71 It is hard not to take Polybius’ claim that a wall would have made the Achaean League an almost pan-Peloponnesian polis as a riposte to Aristotle’s studied localism. Second, Polybius’ theme of the relationship between a military alliance and a polis recalls a difficult Aristotelian passage, whose interpretation is contested, in which Aristotle discusses the relationship between polis, ‘tribe’ (ἔθνος), and military alliance. Aristotle probably there uses the Arcadians, Polybius’ own ἔθνος, as an example of a federalized tribe which lacks the complex type of social integration characteristic of a true polis, because it remains fundamentally a prudential (military) alliance.72 Whether or not Aristotle intended to belittle the Arcadians and their style of federalism in that latter passage, it is probable that Polybius interpreted him or a Peripatetic successor as having done so. Indeed, Polybius’ praise of the Achaean League as virtually a pan-Peloponnesian polis, based on principles of democratic equality, is a Peloponnesian, indeed Arcadian, riposte to any Athenian or Peripatetic condescension or disdain concerning the political credentials and moral standing of Peloponnesian supra-polis institutions. These different elements of Polybius’ political thought made him an advocate of an ideal of what might be called a ‘limited’ polis, bound more by constitution and law than by far-reaching virtue and education. This approach certainly had Greek antecedents,73 but it was more consistent with certain Roman ideas74 than with much mainstream political thought in the Greek philosophical tradition.75 A true, admirable polis need not be a very close-knit community committed to shared ideals of virtue, as in the Aristotelian ideal. Rather, it may be simply a very complex alliance or social contract of individual people and groups, each principally seeking their own interests within its formal constraints. Within a ‘limited’ polis of this type, marked by a significant degree of egoism and antagonism, the inviolability of property rights, contracts, and law, on which Polybius elsewhere insists so vehemently, takes on particular importance: it is both a constraint against excessive self-seeking and a defence of individuals’ private interests. Significantly, Polybius even attempts, like the Stoic Hecato of Rhodes, to appropriate major value terms, such as virtue and the common good, for his own, more contractual political ideal. In his praise of the Achaean League, Polybius polemically insists that one could not find a purer system of true 70

See von Scala 1890: 134; Lehmann 2001: 58–60; also Gray 2013b: 338–41. Arist. Pol. 1276a24–7. 72 Arist. Pol. 1261a22–9. Compare the interpretations of this passage advanced by Schütrumpf 1991–2005: Teil II, 164–6 and Lehmann 2001: 35–7; contrast Saunders 1995: 109 and Hansen 1999: 80–4. 73 See Gray 2015: ch. 1 and passim, on Greek ‘Dikaiopolitan’ approaches. 74 75 See e.g. those studied in Asmis 2004. Gray 2013b develops this case. 71

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democracy, equality, and freedom of speech than the Achaean League.76 This is an obvious challenge to the truly democratic character of the Classical Athenian democracy, distinguished by more far-reaching political equality among all socio-economic citizen groups, a far higher level of direct popular sovereignty, and a stronger ethos of solidarity. For Polybius, such features hindered, rather than promoted, (‘true’) democracy, equality, and freedom, whether in Classical Athens or in contemporary Greece.77 Polybius’ work thus reveals, but also plays on, the ambivalence in Hellenistic thought, explored elsewhere in this volume,78 concerning whether demokratia denotes popular, non-oligarchic government or, more blandly, any form of republican government.79 To sum up, there are important similarities between Posidonius, some fellow Stoics, and Polybius: all shared a strong aversion to certain, more utopian and community-centred Classical Athenian civic ideals, also evident slightly later in Strabo’s professed approach to political theorizing.80 For all these thinkers, a more contractual model of political life held the attraction over visceral, particularist patriotism that it could be extended across a much broader scale, whether a federal league or the whole Romanizing Mediterranean cosmopolis. There were also important differences between these thinkers, especially between the contractarian Polybius and relevant Stoics, who continued to believe that moral and political values are grounded in nature. This meta-ethical disagreement need not, however, obscure convergences in practical ethical and political thinking. Indeed, Posidonius’ discussion of the mutual agreement between the Herakleians and Mariandynoi, already discussed in section 8.2, is almost an application of Polybius’ model of hierarchical contractarianism among primitive men:81 both models involve the consent of the weaker in rule by their more intelligent superiors. In this respect, these thinkers were developing certain distinctive earlier Greek ideas,82 fusing them with Roman ones, but they were also moving very far from their explicit foil: prominent Classical Athenian ideals of solidarity, which made a respectable polis something much more than a social contract.

76

Plb. 2.38.6; see also Champion’s chapter here. Compare Polybius’ criticism of developments at Cius at 15.21; also Champion (2004b). 78 See, for example, Canevaro’s and Champion’s chapters. 79 Compare Musti 1978: 127–8; contrast Kallet-Marx 1995: e.g. 207–8, who thinks that the word had in general lost its radical connotations. 80 See Strabo 1.1.18, implicitly siding with Plato’s Thrasymachos over more communitycentred approaches. 81 Plb. 6.6.4–6.7.5; compare Hahm 1995; Griffin 1996: 271; Champion 2004a: 88. 82 See Gray 2015: ch. 1 and passim (‘Dikaiopolitan’ values). 77

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8.4 TRACES OF L ATER HELLENISTIC ADVOCACY OF CLASSICAL ATHENIAN CIVIC IDEA LS, BEYOND POSIDONIUS ’ ATHENION There are, therefore, good reasons for thinking that Posidonius’ stress on property rights and aversion to Classicizing utopian rhetoric about civic community chimed with the approaches of some contemporary Greek intellectuals, as well as those of prominent Romans. This raises the question of these Greek intellectuals’ precise motivations and targets. Were they attacking a straw man, or, at least, a political position which had long ceased to be prevalent in the Greek world, in order to ingratiate themselves with prominent Romans? Or were they, on the contrary, reacting against a live, vibrant strand of contemporary thinking? In this section, I identify traces in the surviving sources of the ideas and rhetoric of an opposing camp: articulate, uncompromising exponents of varied ideals of strong civic community. These Greeks challenged any suggestion that property rights or diplomatic protocol should automatically take precedence over equality, solidarity, and collective freedom. On the contrary, they should sometimes be sacrificed or adapted in accordance with the demands of those other ideals. Moreover, many relevant mid- and later Hellenistic Greeks drew on Classical models to reinforce their case. It is important to make clear that the traces in question are fleeting ones. Relevant Greeks were on the losing side in heated political and cultural debates. Their opponents, both leading Romans and stauncher defenders of the Roman order among Greeks, had many opportunities to belittle and marginalize relevant ideas, and even remove or dilute the evidence that others advocated them. Nevertheless, if the different types of evidence for later Hellenistic political and ethical thought are analysed with a willingness to detect the weaker voices of the less powerful and less conventional, traces of more utopian ways of thinking emerge.83

8.4.1 Self-confident Later Hellenistic Democrats? Posidonius’ Athenion’s speech is one of the only traces of radically democratic rhetoric in later Hellenistic Athens itself. However, evidence from other parts of the Greek world contains traces of democratic self-confidence. The still rich epigraphic record shows that traditional participatory democratic institutions and practices, partly Athenian-inspired,84 were under some threat, from

83 84

Compare Arena 2012, on the Roman Republic. See the Introduction to this volume and Canevaro’s Chapter 4.

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long-term trends and Roman influence, but certainly continued to function.85 In most cities the demos still retained a strong voice and significant institutional power, advertised in public inscriptions. The demos’ power was exercised not least in assigning coveted honours to elite benefactors, through a complex negotiation.86 This negotiation gave rise to formal honorary decrees passed and inscribed in poleis in honour of leading civic benefactors.87 Since all such decrees would have been ratified by a vote in the assembly, after speeches and probably also discussion, there would have been scope for both elite, welleducated citizens and other members of the demos to influence their content. Surviving decrees preserve some indications that still functioning democratic institutions were underpinned by explicit, self-conscious democratic thinking. In the second century BCE, for example, the demos of Kyme in western Asia Minor awarded an honorary statue to the leading female citizen Archippe. In a display of continuing democratic self-confidence, Archippe’s statue was to be crowned by a colossal statue of the Demos itself.88 There are even some traces of later Hellenistic democrats asserting the importance of popular sovereignty, equality, and solidarity, even to the extent of questioning the privileges of elite citizens, property-holders, and creditors. As Hamon has argued,89 a trace of strikingly egalitarian principle is preserved in the middle of a varied later Hellenistic honorary decree for a benefactor, the decree of Pergamon for the gymnasiarch Metrodoros. As well as praising his general virtues and imaginative contributions to the gymnasium and festivals, the Pergamenes praised Metrodoros for organizing and leading parades of the young men of the gymnasium, on his own initiative, at a wide range of citizen funerals, such that ‘the thoroughly common people were no less honoured in this respect than those in superior positions’ ([τ]ο̣ὺς πανὺ δημοτικοὺς μηδὲν ἧσσον τῶν ἐν ὑπεροχῆι ὄντων ἐν τῶι μέρει τούτωι τιμᾶσθαι).90 He thus ensured that a grand funeral, with a quasi-official parade, usually a privilege for elite benefactors, was available to citizens from all parts of the social scale, including the lowest. It is difficult to determine the exact political force of this claim. It must be significant that the decree dates to the period shortly after the tumultuous end of the Attalid monarchy in 133 BCE, when Aristonikos had led an anti-Roman revolt in Asia Minor which probably had at least some populist colouring, as well as popular support from the poor and even the unfree.91 Metrodoros’ behaviour, and the praise for it before the Pergamene assembly, could be 85

For an overview of the complex picture: Fröhlich and Müller 2005. Ma 2013, esp. ch. 2. 87 On such decrees and their rhetoric in general, see in particular Gauthier 1985; Wörrle 1995; Robert and Robert 1989; Quaß 1993; Robert 2007: ch. 21. 88 SEG 33.1035, ll. 1–3, with Ma 2013: 47 on the wider phenomenon. 89 See Hamon 2012: 62–4. 90 H. Hepding, MDAI (A) 32 (1907), 274–6, no. 10, ll. 19–23. 91 See Strabo 14.1.38; D.S. 34/35.2.26. 86

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interpreted solely as parts of a paternalistic attempt by an anxious elite to soothe popular discontent and resentment of elite privileges. It is true that neither Metrodoros’ actions nor subsequent praise for them overturned rigid status distinctions: they showed, rather, that those status distinctions could be set aside or concealed in a specific context. In this respect, this clause in the Metrodoros decree bears some comparison with the claim in a later Hellenistic decree of the city of Priene, also in western Asia Minor, that a great benefactor invited slaves and foreigners to a breakfast, on equal terms with citizens, temporarily rendering insignificant the chance misfortune (τύχη) of slaves and the standing of foreigners.92 Indeed, Metrodoros might be seen to emerge from the Pergamene decree as a paternalistic, quasi-monarchical patron of equality and solidarity, standing above the community.93 However, even if elite Pergamenes were motivated principally by a desire to disarm popular disaffection, they must at least have expected there to be self-confident egalitarians among the Pergamene people, to whom such rhetoric would appeal. Moreover, it is not necessary to be entirely cynical about the motivations of Metrodoros and his supporters themselves. Granting ordinary citizens a quasi-honorific funeral was a far more substantial challenge to the existing distribution of honour and privilege than merely inviting unfortunate neighbours to a special meal, clearly as guests rather than truly equal partners, as at Priene. Indeed, Metrodoros’ actions went a long way towards setting poorer citizen families in a position of genuine honour, in a crucial, conspicuous, and clearly political context. Since it was a matter of equality among citizens in access to a key symbol of civic honour and belonging, the value in question was quite different from the more general equality of all city-residents in access to less directly political goods, including medical care as well as hospitality, celebrated in other later Hellenistic decrees.94 At these Pergamene funerals, and in passing this decree, the Pergamene elite and demos came together in support of quite a robust, political form of egalitarianism—what the young men in Metrodoros’ charge celebrated as his ἰσότης.95 There are traces in other evidence of strong democratic self-confidence in mid- and later Hellenistic Asia Minor. In his Pro Flacco of 59 BCE, Cicero attempted to discredit the cities of Asia Minor, including Pergamon itself, by describing them as governed by unpredictable and seditious assemblies, dominated by manual workers and other unreliable types. Classical Athens fell as a result of the immoderate freedom of its assemblies, so what hope is there that

92

I.Priene2 69 (new edition of I.Priene 113), ll. 53–6; compare Hamon 2012: 70–1. Hamon 2012: 64. 94 For a doctor’s universal equality to all residents, see IG V 1 1145 (Gytheion, first century BCE), ll. 18–20. 95 H. Hepding, MDAI (A) 1907, 274–6, no. 10, ll. 40–2, 47–9. 93

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the assemblies of Phrygia and Mysia will show any restraint?96 Similarly, Dionysius of Halicarnassus castigated the shamelessness and demagoguery which he held to be characteristic of Asianic oratory, which had colonized the cities of Asia.97 The Metrodoros decree indicates that democratic selfconfidence in the cities of Asia Minor, which was clearly sufficient to alienate conservative Romans and pro-Roman Greeks, could have stronger roots in egalitarian principle than Cicero and Dionysius themselves allow. Self-confident mid- and later Hellenistic democrats could also mount opposition to contested debt contracts. One piece of evidence, from the second-century Peloponnese, gives insights into the kinds of opposition to which Polybius, in particular, was reacting. This evidence comes in the form of the words of a Roman official, in the famous letter of Q. Fabius Maximus Servilianus to the Dymaians of Achaea in the later 140s BCE.98 The letter contributes to restoring the status quo in Dyme after a period of unrest, in which a faction around a man called Sosos had overturned the new order established by the Romans after their defeat of the Achaean League in 146 BCE. That new order had included a political system, probably partly new99 and more oligarchic than that in place previously,100 for the Achaeans, in their individual cities and probably also, maybe after a delay, in a reformed Achaean League.101 The opposition of Sosos and those around him to this new order was partly destructive: they had destroyed official civic records, leading to a situation of ‘non-fulfilment of contracts’ (ἀσυναλλαξία). In a touch strongly reminiscent of some of the pro-Roman, contract-centred rhetoric and re-evaluation of moral concepts discussed in the previous section, the contract-destroying revolt is said to have undermined the ‘freedom’ (ἐλευθερία) brought by the Romans to the Greeks.

96 de Ste Croix 1981: 310. See especially Cic. Flac. 16–17; cf. 57 (mentioning Tralles’ assembly as well as Pergamon’s). 97 Dion. Hal. On the Ancient Orators, preface. 98 RDGE 246; see in general Ferrary 1988: 186–99; Kallet-Marx 1995: 72–3. 99 Although the Dyme text refers to a restored (ἀποδοθείση) πολιτεία (ll. 9–10), consider Plb. 39.5.2–3: Polybius helped the Achaeans to get used to the πολιτεία ‘given’ (δεδομένη) by the Romans. Polybius’ language implies that the constitution imposed by the Romans had some new features. For discussion, see Ferrary 1988: 191–4. 100 Paus. 7.16.9 suggests that L. Mummius appointed magistrates in Achaea according to a property qualification after 146 BCE, which might well indicate that he established new, more oligarchic rules concerning eligibility for magistracies (compare Ferrary 1988: 192–4; but note the scepticism of Kallet-Marx (1995), 66–70). 101 Paus. 7.16.9–10 suggests that Mummius initially abolished Greek federal συνέδρια, but restored them not long afterwards. Other evidence relevant to the debate about whether changes in individual cities and at the federal level were linked: Paus. 8.30.9 credits Polybius with establishing ‘constitutions’ in the plural; contrast the use of the singular in the Dyme inscription and Plb. 39.5.2–3 (see previous notes).

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Although Sosos’ revolt was at least partly a revolt against financial agreements, almost certainly including debt contracts, it also had more constructive aspects: Sosos had proposed new laws, which are said to have been contrary to the new Roman-backed laws imposed after 146. It is impossible to be certain what these new laws entailed, though their association with overturning of contracts and their provocation of firm Roman opposition lend support to the view that they had egalitarian or populist aspects.102 Later Hellenistic Greeks were certainly capable of formulating public principled arguments for the relaxation of debt contracts, based on considerations of common welfare. For example, in first-century BCE Tenos, the demos praised a Roman creditor, L. Aufidius Bassus, for being lenient with the polis about repayment of debts, judging that, ‘for himself, the salvation of the polis and good repute among all were greater than all wealth’ (εἶναί θ’ ἑαυτ[ῶι] πλούτου παντὸς κρείττονα πόλεως σωτηρίαν καὶ τὴν π[αρὰ] πᾶσιν ἀγαθὴν εὐφημίαν). They subsequently praised him for using the key democratic virtue of frank speech (parrhesia) to convince those putting pressure on the Tenians (τοὺς ἐπιβαροῦντας), probably including other creditors,103 to desist.104 Like a good Classical Athenian democrat, he used parrhesia to stand up to the stronger, on behalf of the weaker party. These traces of evidence for later Hellenistic democrats’ opposition to the entrenchment of creditors’ power and freedoms suggest that the debt revolts regularly condemned by Polybius probably sometimes had a more systematic ideological basis than Polybius allows. Relevant socio-economic tensions, and associated popular agitation, almost certainly endured into the first century CE in some cities.105 Later Hellenistic and early Imperial popular agitation in Greek cities was probably also sometimes entangled, as in Posidonius’ picture of Athenion’s Athens, with resistance to external interference, including Roman control, on the grounds of civic self-determination.106 It is not clear to what extent mid- and later Hellenistic democrats were consciously influenced by the Classical Athenian democracy, though it clearly was an obvious parallel for their opponents, including Cicero as well as Posidonius and Polybius. Athenian influence is not unambiguous in the examples considered in this section, though the Metrodoros decree does give

102

72–3.

Compare Ferrary 1988: 198–9; Thornton 2001a: Part I, ch. 3; contrast Kallet-Marx 1995:

103 For ἐπιβαρέω used to refer to indebtedness, compare the same inscription, IG XII 5 860 (Migeotte Emprunt no. 64), ll. 9–10; cf. 31–2. 104 IG XII 5 860, ll. 37–9, 49–52; compare the earlier attitude attributed to his father in ll. 10–12. 105 On the Greek cities of the early Imperial period, compare Ma 2000a; Thornton 2001b, 2008 (reconstructing the stasis which led to the provincialization of Lycia, SEG 51.1832, A, ll. 16–30). 106 Compare Thornton 1999, 2001b, 2008.

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pause for thought: the emphasis on egalitarian funeral arrangements for all citizens recalls the distinctive practices and ideology of Athenian public funerals and funeral orations, surely well known in the Hellenistic world through the evidence of Thucydides and the Attic orators. The probability of a link is increased by the fact that other aspects of Hellenistic Pergamon’s civic life were self-consciously modelled on the Classical Athenian democracy.107

8.4.2 Traces of Later Hellenistic Assertion of Certain Classical Athenian Philosophical Ideals of Strong Civic Community 8.4.2.1 The Role of the Hellenistic Peripatetics Even though explicit appeals to Classical Athenian democratic ideals are not widely attested, there is more evidence for later Hellenistic Greeks making direct appeals to broader Classical Athenian civic ideals, sometimes drawing on Classical Athenian philosophical models and doctrines. The argument of this section is that certain followers of Aristotle, and sometimes Plato, were at the forefront of these moves. Aristotle himself was obviously not connected solely with Classical Athens, though he did spend most of his working life there, but also with many other parts of the fourth-century world. Nonetheless, he was closely associated with Classical Athens by at least some Hellenistic Greeks: there is a Hellenistic forged Classical Athenian honorary decree for him.108 Moreover, his school, the Lyceum, was more unequivocally rooted in Classical Athens. The best evidence for later Hellenistic Peripatetic philosophers’ approaches to practical ethical and political issues109 is the first-century BCE summary of Peripatetic ethics preserved in Stobaeus, traditionally attributed to the late Hellenistic philosopher Arius Didymus, who flourished in the Augustan period.110 That summary includes quite surprisingly cosmopolitan or universalist aspects, which suggest the influence of Stoic thought on Peripatetic ethics, also evident in other sources.111 However, it also includes strong emphasis on more traditional Peripatetic concerns, especially the importance of close-knit human communities, including close-knit poleis. Stress is laid on the traditional Peripatetic insistence on the social and political nature of all humans: ‘a human being is a cooperative and communal animal’ (φιλάλληλον γὰρ εἶναι καὶ κοινωνικὸν ζῷον τὸν ἄνθρωπον), in relations with family, fellow citizens, and broader groups. This is because good relations 107

108 See recently Thonemann 2013b, on the astynomoi law. Haake 2013: 94–6. For a broader survey of Peripatetic ethics, especially meta-ethics, see Inwood 2014. 110 On this work, see recently Sharples 2010: text 15A, with commentary; Inwood 2014: 77–88. 111 See Annas 1995; Inwood 2014: 55, 83–8. 109

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with others are intrinsically choiceworthy: affection among humans ‘is choiceworthy on its own account (δι’ αὑτὴν αἱρετήν) and not only because of its usefulness (μὴ μόνον διὰ χρείας).’112 The summary also expands on the practical consequences of basic Peripatetic ideas about human nature and relationships. The summarizer claims that, since virtue makes a greater contribution to happiness than bodily or external goods, ‘benefaction (εὐεργεσία) will be established and gratitude (χάρις) and favour (εὐχαριστία) and humanity (φιλανθρωπία) and love of children and of brothers, and in addition to these love of country and of one’s father and one’s relations and, in accordance with proper function, readiness to share and goodwill and friendship and fairness and justice (ἥ τ’ εὐκοινωνησία καὶ ἡ εὔνοια, καὶ ἡ φιλία, καὶ ἡ ἰσότης καὶ ἡ δικαιοσύνη) and the whole divine chorus of the virtues’.113 The reference to εὐκοινωνησία (‘readiness to share’, ‘good fellowship’, or ‘community spirit’), a rare word scarcely114 attested in surviving Greek literature outside Stobaeus, immediately suggests that these types of benevolence and affection rely on very robust ideas of mutuality and community: it is important to share goods out of pure public-spiritedness, rather than merely observe contracts and strict entitlements. In Stobaeus’ summary, an inference is drawn from this about the moral status of external goods, including wealth, office, and capacities: they are good only in so far as the good man makes proper use of them (ἀφώρισται τὸ εἶναι ἀγαθὰ τῇ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ ἀνδρὸς χρήσει).115 One section of the Stobaean summary indicates particularly clearly that Hellenistic Peripatetics reflected about the relationship between justice, solidarity, and contracts: at what price should contracts be observed? In chapter 43, the summarizer attributes to the Peripatetics a distinctively social, communitycentred view of justice. For the Peripatetics, justice is a complex virtue, which involves ‘piety (εὐσεβεία), holiness (ὁσιότης), goodness (χρηστότης), community spirit (εὐκοινωνησία), and fair dealing (εὐσυναλλαξία)’. Peripatetic justice is thus not merely a question of giving fair shares: it also involves ‘goodness’, subsequently defined as ‘a disposition which does good to people voluntarily for their own sake’. Particularly relevant among the facets of justice listed is ‘fair dealing’ (εὐσυναλλαξία). Its presence in the list shows that the Peripatetics were keen to lay claim to respect for contracts as part of their ethical system. They were, however, also wary of excessive punctiliousness. They defined true ‘fair dealing’ as a mean between two extremes: at one extreme lies lack of fair dealing 112 Sharples 2010: text 15A, section 4; the translations from this text in this chapter are those of Sharples, sometimes adapted. 113 Sharples 2010: text 15A, section 12. 114 But see M. Aur. Med. 11.20. 115 Sharples 2010: text 15A, section 23. This was, in fact, a disputed question within the later Hellenistic Peripatos: Inwood (2014), 54–65.

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(ἀσυναλλαξία); at the other, another, less predictable vice which has no name of its own, but has something to do with ‘excessive legalism’ or ‘excessive justice’ (τὸ ἀκροδίκαιον). That doctrine may well contain a hint of selfconscious Peripatetic opposition to some contemporary Stoics’ and other Greeks’ rigid insistence on strict enforcement of contracts and justice, already discussed in section 8.3. The word ἀκροδίκαιος is very rare, scarcely attested elsewhere outside lexica. It is closely related to the slightly less rare word ἀκριβοδίκαιος, used by Philo and some Christian authors. It was that latter word which Aristotle himself had used in defining the nature of ἐπιείκεια (‘decency’), which he regarded as a species of justice itself: the decent man is the one who does not insist on strict justice when it has bad consequences, but takes less than his share in such cases, even when the law is on his side (ὁ μὴ ἀκριβοδίκαιος ἐπὶ τὸ χεῖρον ἀλλ’ ἐλαττωτικός, καίπερ ἔχων τὸν νόμον βοηθόν, ἐπιεικής ἐστι).116 This partly recalls the way in which citizens of a good Aristotelian polis will make their formally private property ‘common in use’ when the need arises, rather than insist on their exclusive legal right to it.117 The fact that Aristotle and the Peripatetics made the attempt to define and analyse the uncommon Greek concept of the ἀκροδίκαιον suggests that they had a particular interest in addressing its ethical status. Significantly, the abstract noun ἀσυναλλαξία is also a rare word.118 One of the few surviving occurrences is in Fabius Maximus’ letter to Dyme, already discussed in section 8.4.1, in which it was used to condemn the overturning of contracts by Sosos’ rebels. This unexpected similarity in unusual abstract vocabulary between the two apparently quite different texts is itself a vivid sign that the question of the ethical and political status of contracts moved to centre stage in both philosophical and popular ethics at this particular stage of Greek history.119 As well as insisting on particular traditional elements of Greek ethics, the later Hellenistic Peripatetics also retained a self-conscious interest in traditional political theorizing, focused on the small-scale polis. The Stobaean summary of Peripatetic ethics ends with a quite faithful summary of key elements of Aristotle’s Politics, discussing, for example, constitutions, stasis, 116 Arist. Eth. Nic. 1138a1–2. Aristotle certainly does not argue in his discussion of ἐπιείκεια for disregard of law and legal principles, but rather for a subtle approach in difficult cases, informed by the lawgiver’s intention (compare Brunschwig 1996); but that lawgiver’s intention should itself always include concern for the common good of the polis and the ethical flourishing of its citizens (cf. Arist. Pol. 1280a34–b35). 117 Arist. Pol. 1263a37–9. 118 For the opposite value, εὐσυναλλαξία, consider another work attributed to a later Hellenistic Peripatetic, but also influenced by Stoicism: [Andronicus of Rhodes] On the Passions Book II, 7.2, l. 15: Εὐσυναλλαξία δὲ ἕξις ἐν συναλλαγαῖς φυλάττουσα τὸ δίκαιον; compare Glibert-Thirry 1977: ch. 2, esp. 11–29. 119 For the related adjective ἀσυνάλλακτος in another later Hellenistic text concerned with the politics and ethics of debt contracts: Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 5.66.3; compare 1.41.1.

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and civic education. This section includes reflection on means of pursuing harmony within the close-knit city-state, through common education and dining.120 Moreover, Seneca claims that ‘some Peripatetics’ claimed that politics should be a fourth major branch of philosophy, alongside the three branches conventional in the Hellenistic period (logic, physics, and ethics).121 Some Peripatetics, were, therefore, among the most concerted Hellenistic advocates of the particular civic ideal, prominent in the Classical period and beyond, of the autonomous, harmonious, close-knit polis of virtue, whose needs and values may sometimes legitimately override the sanctity of contracts or narrow ‘justice’. Significantly, relevant Peripatetic approaches were not necessarily confined to narrow philosophical circles. As Hahm and Sharples have argued, some leading Peripatetics, especially the second-century scholarch Critolaus, enjoyed a significant public reputation, not least as highly visible anti-Stoics.122 Moreover, biography represented a major, accessible Hellenistic genre in which Peripatetics were prominent, as authors and subjects. For example, the Hellenistic biographical tradition about Aristotle himself was complex and contested, with stories and counter-stories about Aristotle’s own political activities circulating for public consumption;123 it was probably within the context of such disputes that the purported Athenian honorary decree for Aristotle was forged.124 Aristotle’s writings themselves were probably also gaining a wider audience, partly through the efforts of Greeks of Asia Minor. Strabo claims that, around the beginning of the first century BCE, Apellikon of Teos discovered ‘Aristotle’s books’, presumably Aristotle’s own copies of his works,125 lying buried on peasants’ land in the territory of the polis of Skepsis in the Troad.126 Apellikon, a native of another polis of western Asia Minor, published a hasty edition of the books. This itself suggests that he anticipated a ready market for them.127 After Sulla captured Athens, he deported the books to Rome, as plunder. At Rome, the first scholarly work on the books was undertaken by Tyrannion of Amisus, a ‘lover of Aristotle’ (a φιλαριστοτέλης man) who had, appropriately, been given the birth-name of Theophrastos in his Pontic homeland in northern Asia Minor.128

120

Sharples 2010: text 15A, sections 45–52. Sen. Ep. 89.9–10 (Sharples 2010: text 5D). 122 See Hahm 2007; Sharples 2010: esp. 1–2; compare Inwood 2014: ch. 3. 123 124 See Aristocles of Messana fr. 2. Cf. Haake 2013: 93–6. 125 It is likely that other copies of many of his works, even esoteric ones, had remained available in the interim: see Barnes 1997; Primavesi 2007; Hatzimachali 2013: 3. The issue is, however, still debated (Schofield 2013: xv). 126 127 Strabo 13.1.54. Hatzimachali 2013: 15. 128 Strabo 13.1.54; Plut. Sull. 26.1. On his name: Hesychius Illustrius fr. 7, ll. 992–4 (Müller FHG). 121

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There are also signs that broader interest in the Classical Athenian philosophical schools, including the Peripatos, had an impact on civic life in the Greek cities, especially in Asia Minor. According to Posidonius, Apellikon of Teos was himself an associate of Athenion of Athens, because of their shared Peripatetic philosophical school (hairesis).129 Similarly, Strabo claims that Diodoros of Adrammytion, who claimed to be one of the philosophers from the Academy (τῶν τε ἐξ Ἀκαδημίας φιλοσόφων εἶναι) and also to be skilled in rhetoric (καὶ δίκας λέγειν καὶ σοφιστεύειν τὰ ῥητορικά), sided with Mithridates in the First Mithridatic War, slaughtering the council of his home city.130 Strabo also recounts nearby how another Academic, Metrodoros of Skepsis, transferred his interest ‘from philosophy to politics’ and became involved at Mithridates’ court.131 It is, however, certain later Hellenistic honorific inscriptions of poleis of more southerly Asia Minor which offer the most vivid, though still fleeting, traces of practical appeal in Hellenistic cities to civic ideals inspired by Classical Athenian philosophies. Some such texts contain isolated but striking echoes of the ideas of fourth-century Athenian philosophical schools. Significantly, such rhetoric could serve to assert very substantial, demanding notions of the common good and of civic virtue. Such rhetoric reinforced the tendency of many such decrees to paint the good citizen as a ‘polis fanatic’.132 Indeed, though the four striking claims analysed in the following paragraphs might look like isolated fragments within the relevant inscriptions, the four decrees in question all put continuous emphasis on far-reaching polis commitment and civic virtue. The most striking example occurs in a decree of the Otorkondeis, a subdivision of the polis of Mylasa, dating to 76 BCE. The benefactor Iatrokles is praised for helping individuals and the whole demos. He has also given loans and released certain struggling debtors from their debt contracts, even returning their deposits, ‘believing that justice is more beneficial than injustice’ (λυσιτελεστέραν ἡγούμενος τὴν δικαιοσύ[νην] τῆς ἀδικίας).133 This claim echoes very closely Plato’s Republic. Plato’s Socrates claims towards the end of Book 1, in his argument against Thrasymachus, that injustice is never more beneficial than justice (οὐδέποτ’ ἄρα, ὦ μακάριε Θρασύμαχε, λυσιτελέστερον ἀδικία δικαιοσύνης).134 This is no simply random sentence of the Republic for the Mylasa decree to echo: Socrates goes on to develop precisely the argument summarized in this one line in the whole of the rest of the Republic, emphasizing the intrinsic benefits of justice for the just man. The words in the decree can thus be seen as an allusion to the central concerns of Plato’s Republic, 129 131 132 134

130 Posidonius fr. 253, ll. 156–7. Strabo 13.1.66. Strabo 13.1.55. For these two figures, see Ferrary 1988: 483–4. 133 Wörrle 1995. I.Mylasa 109, ll. 4–10. Pl. Resp. 353e7–354a9; compare 354b7; 360c8.

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including its defining interest in social and psychic harmony and the importance of citizens strongly identifying with the collective.135 There is no reason to doubt the possibility of wide acquaintance with Plato: Plato’s and Socrates’ ideas were certainly held in high esteem around this time in nearby Miletus.136 Very significantly for the argument of this chapter, the probable allusion to the strongly community-centred ethics of Plato’s Republic at Mylasa was used in a way which cast doubt on the justice of always scrupulously respecting debt contracts. In releasing people from oppressive debt contracts, Iatrokles was acting, not charitably,137 but justly. Insisting strictly on property rights and debt contracts would have been both unjust and unprofitable. There is a clear contrast here with the claims of Polybius and some Stoics that strict observance of, and insistence on, contracts and formal entitlements is the route to both virtue and general well-being. Although the most striking example involves a probable allusion to Plato, there are some similar traces of community-centred application of Aristotelian and Peripatetic ethics. The three most interesting cases derive from a single city, Priene, within quite a short time span (later second and first century BCE). This is unlikely to be a coincidence: even if any one of the three would not be compelling in isolation, the combination of the three suggests that Peripatetic ideas were influential on later Hellenistic Prienian debates about wealth, virtue, and citizenship. The latest of these decrees is the first-century BCE decree for the naturalized Prienian A. Aemilius Zosimos. That decree praises Zosimos for knowing that virtue alone brings the greatest fruits and rewards from a community of men, probably including foreigners, who hold ‘the fine’ in honour (συνιδὼν δ’ ὅτι μόνη μεγίστους ἀποδίδωσιν ἡ ἀρετὴ καρποὺς καὶ χάριτας π[αρὰ ξένοις κ]α̣ὶ ἀστοῖς τὸ καλὸν ἐν τιμῇ θεμένοις).138 The explicit reference to the capacity of virtue alone to bring the greatest benefits and rewards suggests an acquaintance with philosophical arguments in favour of virtue, which tended to stress the benefits of virtue for the virtuous agent. The particular approach of these lines evokes specifically Aristotelian and Peripatetic, rather than Platonic or Stoic, versions of the argument that virtue benefits the virtuous agent: the decree presents virtue as a strongly social and public-spirited disposition, which the members of a political community can join together in cultivating and valuing, in a way which is mutually beneficial for all of them.139 Interestingly, the vision here of the Prienian political community as a mutually supportive group dedicated to honouring an abstract ideal of ‘the fine’ recalls 135 This theme in the Republic does issue in some explicit moral condemnation of profiteering through loan-giving: see, for example, 555e4–556b5. 136 See Haake 2007: 228–31, discussing Milet VI 2 734. 137 For that approach, see SEG 39.1243, col. III, ll. 38–47. 138 I.Priene2 68 (new edition of I.Priene 112), ll. 13–14. 139 On Aristotle’s commitment to this type of approach: Cooper 2010.

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precisely the Aristotelian or Peripatetic view to which, I suggested on pp. 151–2, Polybius was self-consciously reacting in his portrayal of the Achaean League: the view that a polis necessarily exists for the sake of the good life, rather than utility or ‘mere life’.140 This decree for Zosimos picked up and developed the themes of some slightly earlier Prienian honorary decrees, especially the later second-century decrees for the brothers Athenopolis and Moschion. The decree for Athenopolis praises him for maintaining his good will towards his home city, ‘thinking that what belongs to himself most of all is the maintenance of assiduousness towards those conducting their lives together with him’ (νομίζων το[ῦτο α]ὑτῶι μέγιστον ὑπάρχειν τὸ τὴν πρὸς τοὺς συν̣α̣ναστρ[ε]φ̣ο̣[μέν]ους ἐκτένειαν συντηρεῖν).141 This again recalls the specifically Aristotelian and Peripatetic version of the eudaimonist idea that personal happiness is necessarily dependent on virtue: the thing which is most proper to a man (compare [α]ὑτῶι μέγιστον ὑπάρχειν) is the fulfilment of his natural function, which he achieves through virtuous activity of the soul (ψυχῆς ἐνέργεια142 κατ’ ἀρετήν), guided by reason.143 This part of the decree for Athenopolis also recalls the traditional Aristotelian and Peripatetic concern with humans’ interdependence, and its ethical consequences: a virtuous life for any individual must have a strongly social and public-spirited component, in as far as he is a human being and lives together with multiple others (ᾗ δ’ ἄνθρωπός ἐστι καὶ πλείοσι συζῇ).144 In other words, it is central to a good life to maintain good relations with those with whom one shares ties of interdependence (compare τοὺς συν̣α̣ναστρ[ε]φ̣ο̣[μέν]ους). In both the decree for Athenopolis and the one for Zosimos, the abstract language about virtue and its benefits had implicit practical implications about wealth and property: the good citizen does not hoard his wealth, insisting on his formal entitlement to use it principally for private purposes, but freely donates much of it to support the collective civic life of his fellow citizens. These practical implications were, however, spelled out far more clearly in the third relevant Prienian text, the later second-century decree for Athenopolis’ brother Moschion. Moschion was praised for providing both money and sureties for loans from his personal fortune in a fiscal crisis, ‘treating the property as common to all citizens’ (διαλαβ[ὼν κ]οινὴν εἶναι τ̣ὴ̣[ν] οὐσίαν πάντων τῶν πολιτῶν).145 There is a striking echo here of Aristotle’s famous doctrine (mentioned on p. 161) that, although genuine communism is undesirable, citizens should be willing to treat their private property as ‘common 140 141 142 143 145

See especially Arist. Pol. 1280a34–b35. I.Priene2 63 (new edition of I.Priene 107), ll. 17–21. Compare the decree’s ἐκτένεια, though it conveys ‘assiduousness’ rather than ‘activity’. 144 Arist. Eth. Nic. 1098a7–18. Arist. Eth. Nic. 1178b5–6. 2 I.Priene 64 (new edition of I.Priene 108), ll. 89–97.

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in use’ in times of collective need.146 A strong indication that the decree drafter intended Moschion to be seen as acting from a considered, intellectual position is that he does not simply describe him as in practice sharing his resources by making them common,147 but attributes to Moschion himself this distinctive attitude to the nature of his property. He does so, like the drafters of the other decrees considered in these paragraphs, by using the participle of a verb of thinking, διαλαβ[ών] (compare ἡγούμενος, νομίζων, and συνιδών in the other examples). This case probably, therefore, represents another self-conscious allusion to fourth-century Athenian philosophical ethics. Like the probable Platonic allusion at Mylasa, this probable Aristotelian allusion calls into question any dogmatic insistence on the immutability of private property rights, or even any sharp barrier between public and private. Interdependent fellow citizens, all members of one demos, in fact share many interests and goods, to an extent which more contractual notions of the polis cannot address. Benevolence to one’s community, including willingness to adapt or bend property rights and debt contracts for the sake of justice, harmony, and the common good, is integral to virtue. Surviving honorary decrees preserve only a very small fraction of the civic discourse of later Hellenistic poleis. It is difficult to tell whether the strikingly Classicizing claims in these four inscriptions of Mylasa and Priene were fragments of wider tendencies in the rhetoric of the later Hellenistic assembly, agora, and gymnasium. Some other decrees do sometimes reveal similar overlaps with Peripatetic language and ideas.148 The likelihood of a wider pattern is much increased by contextual evidence about later Hellenistic civic education. Later Hellenistic citizens would have imbibed Platonic and Peripatetic teaching, as well as other philosophical ideas, from varied sources. Some made trips to philosophical centres such as Athens and Rhodes, but many also benefited from philosophical teaching, lectures, reading, and debates in local gymnasia.149 Indeed, the three Prienian decrees just discussed could reflect, for example, the influence of one or two charismatic Peripatetic philosophy teachers. Significantly, it is quite probable that many Hellenistic Peripatetics, in particular, concentrated their efforts on teaching and oral lectures and discussion,150 aimed at educating active citizens, rather than on written dogmatic works. Cicero identifies the Hellenistic Peripatetics as leaders in rhetorical and 146

Arist. Pol. 1263a37–9. That kind of description finds parallels in texts unlikely to reflect Aristotelian influence: consider Dem. 20.44. 148 See Gray 2013a. 149 For the vibrant life of Hellenistic civic gymnasia, see Kah and Scholz 2004; for a particular example of philosophical studies in a polis, see I.Iasos 98. 150 Compare Inwood 2014: e.g. 75. 147

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political education.151 Similarly, Dionysius of Halicarnassus advocated his own brand of rhetorical training and Classicism, oriented around the Attic orators, as a challenge to the Peripatetics’ dominant position as teachers of rhetoric.152 An inscription which identifies sites of later Hellenistic philosophical education of ephebes at Athens mentions the Academy, Lyceum, and Ptolemaion.153 This too suggests that the older philosophical schools were dominant over the newer Hellenistic ones in civic education, in this particular case and probably also in the structure of the curriculum. Admittedly, philosophers from the newer schools, especially the Stoa, could sometimes lecture in the physical homes of the older ones.154 However, they would have suffered the rhetorical disadvantage of having to do so within the traditional homes of their philosophical rivals. A suggestive piece of evidence for the priorities of Hellenistic Peripatetic teachers is a rare case of a polis honouring a philosopher for his teaching:155 a decree of c.200 BCE passed by the Samians in honour of a certain Epikrates of Herakleia. Significantly, this Epikrates was both explicitly identified as a Peripatetic and praised for having waived his fees specifically for those poorer citizens who were unable to pay (τοῖς τε [μὴ] δ̣υναμένοις τῶν δ[η]μοτῶν τελεῖν [τὸν] ἐκκείμενον ὑφ’ αὑτοῦ μισθὸν προῖκα [σχο]λάζων).156 This example of Peripatetic social conscience, expressed in benevolent action and teaching, is useful for explaining the orientation of the rhetoric of some of the decrees just discussed. Epikrates probably belonged to a vibrant group of Hellenistic Peripatetics who were leading Hellenistic intellectual champions of demanding ideals of solidarity and tireless commitment to education and virtue. As a result of the nature of the subsequent development of the Roman Empire and its Greek intellectuals and cities, only traces of the efforts and ideas of such Hellenistic Peripatetics remain, in Strabonic anecdotes, Stobaean doxography, and honorific inscriptions. Relevant Peripatetics probably did, however, have a key role to play in Hellenistic intellectual and political arguments: that of advocating the traditional, Classical polis, small-scale, participatory, self-governing, and solidaristic, as still the fundamental, irreplaceable basis for a worthwhile human life, in opposition to the alternative ethico-political models and innovations advocated by Hellenistic Stoics, Academic Sceptics, and Epicureans. These schools were, of course, like the Peripatetics, heterogeneous, with many internal disagreements about doctrines, not least 151 Griffin 1997: 9–10; Wiater 2011a: 33–40, discussing Cic. De or. 1.43, 3.57–76, esp. 62; Brut. 119–20; Tusc. 2.9. 152 See Wiater 2011a: 47–52, discussing Dionysius’ First Letter to Ammaeus. 153 IG II2 1006 (122/1 BC), ll. 19–20. Compare Haake 2007: 44–55. 154 Compare Ferrary 1988: 438–41; Haake 2007: 47, with n. 147. 155 For some other recently published cases, see Haake 2009, 2010; in general, see Haake 2007. 156 IG XII 6 1 128, ll. 21–4; cf. Scholz 2004, 119–20; Haake 2007, 185–90.

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concerning the question of how, if at all, the relevant school’s ethical teaching should be applied to practical politics. Many were not interested in practical questions at all.157 This tendency itself, however, created an opening for those philosophers, including certain Peripatetics, who did seek to bind theory and practice together more closely.

8.4.2.2 Posidonius’ Athenion as a Peripatetic Posidonius’ presentation of the Athenian tyrant Athenion, with which this chapter began, itself takes on a different complexion when put in the context of these broader roles of certain Peripatetics in Hellenistic political education and debates. Though it must remain a matter of interpretation, in the absence of explicit comment by Posidonius, a strong case can be made that Posidonius, as a philosopher himself, expected readers to infer a link between Athenion’s Peripatetic leanings and some of his behaviour and rhetoric,158 even though he also reveals many other, quite different ideological influences. In the light of the role of certain Peripatetics as leading Hellenistic defenders of traditional community-centred polis ideals, it would have been easy for Posidonius’ contemporary readers to deduce that Athenion was able to advocate those ideals with ease and authority before the Athenian audience (see section 8.2, this volume) partly because he had imbibed Peripatetic teaching and had a reputation as a Peripatetic. This possibility is worth exploring further, because it adds a new dimension to the argument that certain later Hellenistic Peripatetics and anti-Peripatetics contested the value of Classical Athenian expressions of ideals of solidarity and equality, including the elaborations of those ideals by Aristotle and subsequent Peripatetics themselves. This basic argument that Posidonius’ Athenion should be seen partly as characteristically Peripatetic depends only on the fact that he expresses traditional civic ideals of polis autonomy and solidarity, as Hellenistic Peripatetic thinkers and teachers often did, in contrast to adherents of other Hellenistic philosophical schools, which had other priorities. The argument does not require that Posidonius’ Athenion says anything more specifically Aristotelian or Peripatetic, though that would give it greater strength. It is true there is little uniquely Peripatetic in Athenion’s specific words. This reflects, however, the nature of Peripatetic ethics, also evident in section 8.4.2.1, this volume. Aristotelians were distinguished in ethics and other fields by their method of collecting reputable mainstream assumptions and thinking, and systematizing them into philosophical form.159 As already evident in section 8.4.2.1, Aristotle and the 157

Compare Gotter 2003: 174–5. Compare Ferrary (1988: 474–6): Posidonius indulges in ‘anti-Peripatetic polemic’, stressing the Peripatetic attachments of Athenion and Apellikon. 159 See, for example, Arist. Eth. Nic. 1145b2–7. 158

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Peripatetics laid great stress on widespread Greek civic values also given prominence by Posidonius’ Athenion, including ὁμόνοια,160 the common good or the good of the polis (τὸ τῆς πατρίδος συμφέρον),161 and active political and civic participation.162 They also, like Posidonius’ Athenion, drew some strongly antiegoistic conclusions from those community-centred values, condemning on ethical grounds both excessive insistence on strict financial entitlements (see pp. 160–1) and the practice of money-lending at interest.163 By emphasizing educational and cultural institutions among the central civic institutions he sees threatened, Posidonius’ Athenion also taps into another central Greek civic preoccupation on which Aristotle and Peripatetics laid particular stress: the fundamental role of παιδεία (education) in sustaining united, free political life.164 Moreover, some aspects of Athenion’s rhetoric do echo more specific Aristotelian and Peripatetic ideas. In the mouth of a Peripatetic, the castigation of the Athenians’ acquiescence in ‘anarchy’ (ἀναρχία)165 calls to mind Aristotle’s famous ‘political animal’ argument: it is in men’s nature that they aspire to live in civic communities of citizens under a constitution.166 Athenion can be seen to be exhorting the Athenians to remember their fundamentally political nature as human beings: to stand up for the civic institutions which enable them to fulfil their true natures, through strenuous political participation. They should not leave to the Romans the crucial role of deliberating about the fundamental question of how they should conduct their civic life (περὶ τοῦ πῶς ἡμᾶς πολιτεύεσθαι δεῖ),167 a role which Aristotle made central to the activities of good citizens, describing it in similar words.168 Most significantly of all, Aristotle himself explicitly deplores ἀναρχία. At one point, he criticizes the fact that, in certain Cretan cities, powerful citizens can suspend the appointment of the leading magistrates (κόσμοι) at will; the resulting ἀκοσμία can breed civic strife and ἀναρχία, in a way which threatens to dissolve the civic community.169 Aristotle’s linking of absence 160

See, for example, Arist. Eth. Nic. 1167a22–b16, where Aristotle himself comments on this value’s pervasive popularity. 161 Arist. Pol. 1278b21–3; 1279a25–31; 1280a25–1281a8; Sharples 2010: text 15A, sections 4 and 12. 162 See, for example, Arist. Pol. 1253a1–4, 1277b7–16, 1283b42–1284a3; Sharples 2010: text 15A, section 47. 163 Arist. Eth. Nic. 1138a1–2; Pol. 1258b2–8. 164 Compare especially Arist. Pol. 1263b36–7; note also Pol. Book 8. Compare Sharples 2010: text 15A, section 52. 165 166 Posidonius fr. 253, ll. 94–103. See Books 1–3 of Aristotle’s Politics. 167 Posidonius fr. 253, ll. 96–7. 168 Arist. Eth. Nic. 1112a28–34, for example, implies that reflection about how one’s own community should πολιτεύεσθαι is a central part of deliberation: by contrast, no Spartan (for example) deliberates about how the Scythians would best conduct their civic life (πῶς ἂν Σκύθαι ἄριστα πολιτεύοιντο). 169 Arist. Pol. 1272b1–15.

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of magistrates, imposed from above, with the collapse of the political community is strikingly close to Posidonius’ Athenion’s point that the whole civic life of the Athenians, including political, legal, religious, cultural, and educational institutions, is being destroyed by their tolerance of Roman-imposed ἀναρχία, also involving literal ‘lack of magistrates’. Posidonius could well have had in mind this Aristotelian argument or a similar argument by a later Peripatetic, now lost. The overlaps with Peripatetic ideas raised so far do not involve obvious distortion of Peripatetic values, even if Athenion applies them in idiosyncratic ways. In at least one other case, it is plausible to interpret Posidonius’ Athenion as applying in a clearly distorted, demagogic way a famous Aristotelian doctrine. The relevant part is Athenion’s claim to the Athenians that they are now commanding themselves, even if he has taken the lead; if they show solidarity, he will have as much power and potential as all of them combined (καὶ ἂν συνεπισχύσητε, τοσοῦτον δυνήσομαι ὅσον κοινῇ πάντες ὑμεῖς).170 This recalls one of Aristotle’s famous, qualified arguments for a broad-based, rather than narrowly elitist, constitution: if many diverse citizens participate in a city’s politics, the virtue and wisdom of individual citizens is aggregated. According to Aristotle, the citizens become in this way almost ‘one person’, with many combined limbs and faculties of soul.171 Posidonius’ Athenion is claiming to be almost the incarnation of this exceptional, imaginary super-individual, who combines within himself all the strengths which the Athenians possess collectively. It would not be surprising for the democrat-Peripatetic Athenion to evoke this particular point in Aristotle’s own work where Aristotle comes closest to fusing Aristotelian and democratic thinking. The general style of Athenion’s rhetoric and leadership can also be seen as a distorted application of certain Peripatetic practices and values. Posidonius’ Athenion displays great rhetorical skill as a civic orator, capable of persuading an assembly, which is in keeping with many Hellenistic Peripatetics’ focus on rhetoric, discussed on pp. 166–7. Moreover, in the course of his rhetoric, Athenion exhibits, as Kidd and Chaniotis have each emphasized, extravagant passions (πάθη) and desires, behaving like a theatrical actor, and stokes similar desires in the Athenian people.172 Significantly, the Hellenistic Peripatetics maintained, now in a polemically anti-Stoic manner, a commitment to the Aristotelian idea that the passions (πάθη), suitably moderated, should play a central, positive role in ethical deliberation and motivation.173 Even if a Peripatetic observer would have condemned Athenion for far exceeding the bounds of ‘moderation of passion’ (μετριοπάθεια), Posidonius probably intended his portrayal to be a 170

171 Posidonius fr. 253, ll. 108–10. See Arist. Pol. 1281a42–b7. See Kidd 1988–99: vol. II (ii), 870, 873, 886; Chaniotis 2013: 202–4. For destabilizing theatricality, compare Posidonius fr. 257, with Kidd 1988–99: vol. II (ii), 898–9. 173 See the evidence collected and analysed in Sharples 2010: ch. 16; also Inwood 2014: e.g. 74. 172

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vivid example to readers less favourable to the Peripatetics of the dangers which Peripatetic sympathy with the passions might unleash.174 It is, therefore, highly plausible to interpret Posidonius’ Athenion as applying certain Aristotelian and Peripatetic ideas and practices, especially the more utopian and community-oriented ones, in radical, provocative ways. This Athenion must be seen as being highly selective among Aristotelian and Peripatetic doctrines, ignoring more moderate ones. He must also be seen as combining his particular idiosyncratic interpretation of Peripatetic ethics and politics with many other values, especially democratic ones, to innovative and destabilizing effect. A potential problem for this argument is that the account preserved in Athenaeus does contain two explicit claims that Athenion transgressed Aristotelian and Peripatetic standards. First, Athenion is accused of getting out of the way the ‘right-thinking citizens’ (τοὺς εὖ φρονοῦντας) of Athens on taking power as tyrant, contrary to Aristotle’s and Theophrastus’ ideas. Subsequently, it is claimed that, while ruling as tyrant, Athenion forgot about Peripatetic principles in assigning rations to the Athenians more appropriate to chickens than to men.175 These comments could be taken to show that Posidonius did not wish Athenion to be seen as applying his Peripatetic ideas in any way during the events recounted. However, the two claims about Athenion contravening Peripatetic standards are the parts of the account most likely to have been added by Athenaeus: they directly support Athenaeus’ aim of exposing philosophical charlatans, who failed to live up to their own teachings. Even if, as is more likely (see section 8.2), Posidonius was the author of the whole extract, these two claims do not present a major problem. The two remarks are not blanket assessments of Athenion’s conduct, but comments on specific, clearly unjust actions, committed after Athenion has become an obvious tyrant. They do not necessarily apply to Athenion’s earlier actions and words, including his speeches to the Athenians. Indeed, the second claim, that Athenion ‘forgot’ Peripatetic principles at this point (ἐπιλαθόμενος τῶν δογμάτων τῶν τοῦ Περιπάτου), clearly allows that he remembered them at earlier stages. It even implies it. Posidonius probably, therefore, wished to suggest that Athenion initially relied on Peripatetic political ideals, especially in his rousing speeches to the Athenians, but cast them aside after gaining tyrannical power. In other words, he exploited certain Peripatetic ideals in a way which brought him into conflict with other, more respectable Peripatetic ideals. This interpretation is consistent with what is known of Posidonius’ broader approach: he was favourable to 174 Compare Kidd 1997: 43, 45. On recent debates about Posidonius’ position on the passions, and its relationship with Stoic orthodoxy: Gill 2006: 266–90. 175 Posidonius fr. 253, ll. 117–20, 157–60.

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some parts of Aristotelian and Peripatetic philosophy and argumentation,176 but hostile to others.177 A strong case can, therefore, be made that Posidonius’ portrayal of Athenion was a vitriolic satire, not only on certain radical applications of particular Classical Athenian civic ideals, but also on the specific role of certain Peripatetic ideas, thinkers, and rhetoricians in the shaping and spreading of relevant approaches. In that case, the Athenion passage shows that Posidonius, like Polybius (see section 8.3), was strongly hostile to certain Peripatetic values and philosophers. The shared anti-Peripatetic animus of these pro-Roman thinkers, sceptical about strong community and equality, serves further to strengthen the case that certain Hellenistic Peripatetics were at the forefront of moves to apply certain Classical civic ideals, including Aristotle’s own, in a way which questioned the existing distribution of power and property, and ideologies favourable to it.

8.5 CONCLUSION There were vibrant later Hellenistic debates about the form of the best polis, and the implications for Greco-Roman relations. A significant number of later Hellenistic intellectuals stressed the overriding justice and inviolability of formal contracts, agreements, and property rights. They did so partly in support of older Greek ideals, but also in reaction against other Classical Athenian ideals, under the influence of approaches prominent at Rome. They also advocated their case partly in reaction against dynamic opponents. These included both democrats and some who insisted on the more community-centred aspects of Classical Greek ethics, calling on certain Aristotelian and Peripatetic ideas, in particular, for support. Indeed, the evidence considered in section 8.4 suggests that a quite prominent, sharp-edged brand of Classicism was in circulation in some later Hellenistic circles. Ferrary is surely right that philosophical and rhetorical schools did not, as a general rule, serve as centres of resistance to Rome.178 However, some philosophers, alongside other Greeks, probably did embrace forms of Classicism which challenged certain political, social, and above all ethical changes associated with the Roman conquest. The relevant brand of Classicism was sufficiently prominent and sharpedged for Polybius, Posidonius, and probably also some other Stoics to subject it to ferocious satire and opposition. The combination of this intellectual and 176 177 178

See Posidonius T85; frr. 30–5, 142–9, 157–69. Posidonius fr. 70, ll. 42–59, with Kidd 1988–99: vol. II (ii), 636–8. Ferrary 1988: 489–90.

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ideological opposition with Roman military power and prestige must have been very successful. Indeed, more moderate forms of Classicism seem to have become dominant within the first century BCE. These more moderate forms involved far less stress on radical equality, egalitarian solidarity, justice, democracy, or untrammelled popular sovereignty. They gave prominence, instead, to ethical language about virtue, harmony, humanity, education, and selfcontrol, closer to Isocrates than to Demosthenes.179 This alternative Classicizing language was, understandably, less likely to be used to advocate political change: indeed, its advocates were often strongly paternalistic, and very comfortable with the unequal status quo in politics and socio-economic life. On the other hand, such language could also be much gentler and more universalistic than the radical Classicism studied here: it helped to delineate a new model of cultural citizenship, centred on paideia, cosmopolitanism, and philanthropia. Direct Roman cultural and ideological intervention must have played a significant role in encouraging new, gentler forms of Classicism.180 Nevertheless, another crucial contribution to the process came from Greek citizens and intellectuals themselves. The commonly quite flamboyant rhetoric of later Hellenistic poleis’ honorary decrees often took much less radically egalitarian, politicized forms than those discussed in section 8.4: there was much praise for the education and humanity of civic benefactors, eager to ensure the welfare of their less fortunate fellow citizens, but also to advance ideals of culture and civilization.181 These types of honorific language overlap closely with the descriptions of the ethical and political virtues of good elites in both Diodorus Siculus and Dionysius of Halicarnassus.182 Those two intellectuals provide the most vivid evidence of a less radically egalitarian form of appeal to the Classical Athenian past, more cultural, ethical, and cosmopolitan than directly political, in the later Hellenistic world; see Chapters 9 and 10 by Holton and Wiater in this volume.183 This shift in prominent values helps to explain further why only traces of more radical forms of Classicism survive in the literary and epigraphic evidence preserved for us, through the filter of the Roman Empire. Indeed, even some later Hellenistic Peripatetics were influenced by these broad shifts. Some associated themselves closely with Roman power, as intellectual companions of the Roman elite: examples include Staseas of Naples, house-guest of Piso in Cicero’s De finibus; Cratippus of Pergamon, associate of Brutus and tutor of Cicero’s son at Athens;184 and Nicolaus of Damascus, associate and

Note that a Samian benefactor of the Augustan age even adopted the name ‘Isocrates’ (IG XII 6 1 293). 180 181 See Spawforth 2012. See Gray 2013a; 2013c: esp. 150–2. 182 183 See Gray 2013c: 151–2. Also the papers in Schmitz and Wiater 2011. 184 Cf. Haake 2007: 264–9. 179

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biographer of Augustus himself. Other Peripatetics of this period, now based at Rome and Alexandria rather than Athens, innovated in the development of another form of Classicism, similarly lacking in an immediate, sharp political edge, which was to become very prominent in the Roman Empire: commentary on Classical texts.185 Some leading Peripatetics, such as Boethus of Sidon, Xenarchus of Seleuceia, and Andronicus of Rhodes, concentrated on technical Aristotelian scholarship and fields such as logic and metaphysics.186 Being Peripatetic thus became as much about critical method and textual focus as about any substantial shared doctrines; there was probably no ‘Peripatetic orthodoxy’.187 This move from ‘late Hellenistic’ engagement with doxai and arguments to a ‘post-Hellenistic’ concentration on texts188 was probably partly a reaction against earlier tendencies within the Peripatos, including its focus on teaching, civic engagement, and imaginative elaboration of Aristotle’s doctrines. Such a reaction would help to explain why the Stoicizing Strabo praised these later, more technical Peripatetics for ‘Aristotelizing’ (ἀριστοτελίζειν) better, harshly condemning earlier Peripatetics for merely ‘prattling about commonplaces’ (θέσεις ληκυθίζειν).189 As part of the same complex first-century BCE developments, intellectual teachers encountered in this chapter, including Strabo himself and Dionysius of Halicarnassus as well as Cicero, sought to offer alternative programmes of political education to rival or supplement the traditional ones associated with the Peripatetics. Significantly, the new, less radically egalitarian form of Classicism mainly superseded not only more radical forms of Classicism, but also the types of opposition to it identified in section 8.3: sharp polarization mainly gave way to a broad consensus. Stoic ethical authors of the Imperial period, such as Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius, do not display the hard-nosed insistence on unconditional property rights, law, and strict justice, selfconsciously hostile to strong ideals of community, attested for some later Hellenistic Stoics. Despite these developments, more radical Classicizing rhetoric did not entirely die out in the Greek cities. The old-fashioned ideal of civic autonomy and democracy could be expressed very trenchantly in civic language.190 Moreover, as Ma has shown, advocates of moderate Classicism had to challenge more radical forms directly, suppressing the connotations of egalitarian

185

See Hatzimachali 2013: 1–2; cf. Inwood 2014: 75. Schofield 2013: xv–xvi, with Chiaradonna 2013 and Falcon 2013; compare Ferrary 1988: 466–7. 187 188 Schofield 2013: xv, xvii–xviii. See Chiaradonna 2013. 189 Strabo 13.1.54; cf. Hatzimichali 2013: 13–14. 190 See Thornton 2007: esp. 159–66, interpreting the political situation and rhetoric attested in SEG 53.659, from Maroneia; he cites earlier Greek parallels for that document’s rhetoric about civic autonomy (pp. 149–52). Thornton is in dialogue with the alternative, more oligarchic interpretation of the Maroneian situation in Wörrle 2004. 186

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community intrinsic to their cherished Classical canon.191 Posidonius’ satirical portrayal of Athenion’s revolt is itself an important part of this story. By making Athenion appear ridiculous in his attempts to yoke together Classical Athenian radical democracy and Classical Athenian culture as an indissoluble pair, Posidonius contributed to detaching Classical Athens’ cultural, intellectual, and even ethical legacy from its radical democratic legacy. The resulting more cultural ideal of Athens was crucial to subsequent Roman Athenocentric philhellenism (see Ma, Chapter 13 in this volume). There would, therefore, have been obvious incentives for Posidonius to invent a connection between radical democrats and Peripatetics in early first-century Athens. Nevertheless, some independent evidence lends historical plausibility to his account’s general contours. Some sources indicate that philosophers of different schools were involved in political unrest at Athens around this time, both clashing with one another and becoming involved in wider social conflicts.192 Moreover, it is quite plausible that this chapter’s various different types of later Hellenistic appropriation of certain Classical civic ideals, democratic and philosophical, came together in Athens in 88 BCE in an ostensibly incongruous coalition: a single, united, now particularly extreme political reaction, shared between erstwhile rivals, against Romaninspired developments in the Greek world.193 This would have been a major intensification of the tendency already evident in section 8.4, in which citizens of later Hellenistic Mylasa and Priene appear to have adopted Classical philosophical ideals of solidarity in order to assert that private wealth must be used in keeping with the needs and values of the wider community, represented as a demos in their inscriptions. This conclusion about the historicity of the alleged events at Athens in 88 BCE is reinforced by another detail from Posidonius’ account, which Posidonius himself presents as merely incidental. Posidonius gives some background information concerning Athenion’s Peripatetic associate Apellikon of Teos. Before becoming involved in Athenion’s regime, Apellikon had dedicated much effort to collecting ancient written works. He had not only bought the original copies of Aristotle’s works, but also secreted some ancient Athenian decrees from the Athenian archives into his collection.194 It is possible that Apellikon was simply an antiquarian, interested in collecting both old works of

191 Compare Ma 2000b; also 1994. Among ancient texts, see, in particular, Plut. Prae. ger. reip. 814a–c, with de Ste Croix 1981: 310–31. 192 Cic. Leg. 1.53; Athen. 13.92, 611b. See also Cic. Brut. 306; cf. Malitz 1983: 343–4. In general, see Ferrary 1988: 435–6, 476–81. 193 There is probably, however, too little distinctively Aristotelian about SEG 26.120, an inscription recording first-century BCE constitutional changes, to merit the hypothesis of Peripatetic influence in that case; but such influence is posited in Oliver 1980; Antela-Bernárdez 2009. 194 Posidonius fr. 253, ll. 147–57; see also Hatzimichali 2013: 4.

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philosophy and ancient decrees. Could Apellikon not, however, have been interested in both types of document for far more pressing political reasons? Both Aristotle’s books and ancient Athenian democratic decrees were potent symbols of central Classical Athenian ideals of civic self-government and collective endeavour. Those old ideals appear to have assumed a new and urgent relevance in the later Hellenistic world.195

195

Apellikon reportedly himself defended Aristotle’s political engagement, writing favourably about Aristotle’s friendship with the dynast Hermias of Atarneus (Aristocles of Messana, fr. 2, section 13; Ferrary 1988: 474). Could Apellikon even have been the source, with his interest in decrees and Aristotelianism, of the Hellenistic forged Athenian honorary decree for Aristotle (Haake 2013: 94–6)? M. Haake suggested this possibility to me.

9 Philanthropia, Athens, and Democracy in Diodorus Siculus The Athenian Debate John Holton

9.1 I NTRODUCTION At 13.19–33 of his Bibliotheke historike, set in the aftermath of the Athenian defeat in the Sicilian Expedition (413 BCE), Diodorus Siculus presents a debate held in the Syracusan ekklesia concerning the future treatment of the Athenian prisoners of war. Initial motions are summarized by Diodorus in oratio obliqua (13.19.4–5). Diocles proposes that the Athenian generals be put to death under torture and the rest of the prisoners consigned to the quarries (with the suggestion that the Athenian allies later be sold as booty). Hermocrates attempts to counter Diocles’ counsel, and is said to have suggested that ‘a thing nobler than victory is bearing victory with human feeling (κάλλιόν ἐστι τοῦ νικᾶν τὸ τὴν νίκην ἐνεγκεῖν ἀνθρωπίνως)’,1 but his words are met with clamorous disapproval in the assembly, forcing him to discontinue. Then follows a pair of extended speeches in oratio recta. The gathered Syracusans, believing that he would denounce the Athenian prisoners since he had lost two sons in the war, allow the otherwise unknown Nicolaus to speak (13.19.6). Unexpectedly, Nicolaus makes an extended plea for showing humanity (φιλανθρωπία) towards the Athenian captives (13.20–7), which allays the Syracusans’ anger and gains their sympathy (13.28.1). The Spartan admiral 1 Although remodelled to emphasize the importance of acting ἀνθρωπίνως, this sentiment parallels the words of Hermocrates at Plut. Nic. 28.2, indicating a shared source. Although the Quellenforschung of Hermocrates’ words is not at issue here, it is worth noting that arguments for a Timaean origin have been popular, e.g. Brown 1958: 75; Pearson 1987: 145–6; 1991: 26. I would like to thank Ben Gray and Mirko Canevaro for their comments on this piece, which have greatly improved it. All translations in this chapter are my own.

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Gylippus, who had been sent to reinforce Sicilian resistance against the Athenian invasion, responds to Nicolaus’ counsel by once again making the case for harsh punishment (13.28.2–32). Gylippus successfully reignites the Syracusans’ temper, causing them to approve the enactment of Diocles’ original motion for retribution (13.33.1). Diodorus’ record of this particular debate is unique, substantially divergent from other historiographical traditions on the aftermath of the Sicilian Expedition.2 More pertinently, it holds a special significance in terms of the Hellenistic reception of Classical Athens, for the speeches of Nicolaus and Gylippus outline and are contingent on opposing conceptions of the Athenian state and its history. Essentially different visions of the Athenian past are evaluated by the opposing speakers in their attempts to persuade the Syracusan assembly. Nicolaus recalls an enlightened Athens, beneficent to all, the home of law, culture, and education and a refuge for suppliants from all mankind. Gylippus, conversely, characterizes an arrogant Athens, a cruel oppressor incapable of the gentleness Nicolaus proposes extending to them, an imperialist driven towards the enslavement of other states. The focus of this chapter is on how these visions of Classical Athens are constructed, the models they draw on and adapt, and on the evaluative power that the notion of φιλανθρωπία possesses in this discussion of the Classical Athenian state. The purpose of the debate will also be considered in terms of Diodorus’ project of a universal history and his context in the first century BCE, which some have seen as a period of struggle for Greek identity that prefigures the more fully fledged Classicism of the Imperial period.3

9.2 F RAMING TH E ATHENIAN DEBATE The debate between Nicolaus and Gylippus is the most extensive oratory in the entire Bibliotheke.4 It is a rhetorical tour de force by Diodorus’ usual standards, containing coherently structured and sophisticated arguments.5 Moreover, the second speech evidently responds very closely to the first, on a point-by-point basis.6 This stylized, carefully formed exchange is somewhat surprising in a historian who elsewhere in his work (20.1–2) avers that long speeches are generally inimical to the historiographical project. The debate’s very inclusion within the Bibliotheke thus warrants discussion. 2

3 Cf. Green 1999: 64. Schmitz and Wiater 2011. Noted already by Sacks 1990: 101. 5 Cf. Green 1999: 64; Konstan 2001: 90. By contrast, Pearson 1991: 25 views Nicolaus’ speech as ‘long and wearisome’. 6 Stylianou 1998: 60; Schmitz and Wiater 2011. 4

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Scholars such as Sacks have persuasively argued that in the area of speeches Diodorus was, if not responsible for their creation, at least responsible for significantly adapting them from his sources and repurposing them in his own terms and with his own language.7 Through editorial or authorial control, Diodorus made speeches intellectually and linguistically consistent with values and ideas he chose to articulate, even if not necessarily endorse, in other areas of the Bibliotheke. Although Quellenforscher have traditionally doubted Diodorus’ own input to the debate at 13.19–33 and have preferred to see it as excerpted, for the most part unchanged, from some earlier historian,8 this particular debate contains many of the hallmarks of Diodoran thought and language, confirming his editorial input at the very least.9 Regardless of original authorship, the most plausible explanation for the debate’s inclusion is that Diodorus conceived of it having a particular value or utility, either historiographically or ethically, and so integrated it in his overarching project. This question of purpose is one to which I return more properly in section 9.5. Examining the speeches in their own terms, beyond the Quellenforscher’s lens, is illuminating. An examination of structure, style, and argumentation reveals that the primary model for the debate between Nicolaus and Gylippus is Thucydides’ Mytilenian Debate between Cleon and Diodotus (Thuc. 3.36–49). The redolence of this model is so persistent throughout the exchange at 13.19–33 that I have labelled it the Athenian Debate. The significance of this modelling has yet to receive detailed discussion,10 though examining the use and adaptation of the Mytilenian Debate affords an opportunity to frame the meaning of the debate at 13.19–33. We can establish a rough correspondence between the speakers and speeches of the Mytilenian and Athenian Debates. The speech of Gylippus (D.S. 13.28.2–32) seems to be modelled on that of Cleon (Thuc. 3.37–40), just as the speech of Nicolaus (13.20–7) is on that of Diodotus (3.41–8).11 The relative lengths of the speeches remain the same, with Diodotus and Nicolaus

7 Sacks 1990: 93–108 (101–4 for the debate in question); cf. Sulimani 2011: 122–4, esp. 123–4, that this very debate falls within the permissible strictures of including oratory within historical works that Diodorus established in the proem to Book 20 (20.1–2). 8 Authorship of the speeches has been ascribed variously to Timaeus, Ephorus, or Philistus (or occasionally imaginative combinations of these). See Brown 1958: 75; Meister 1975: 38–9; Pédech 1980: 1709–34; Pearson 1986: 350–65; 1987: 145–6, 151; 1991: 25–6; Vanotti 1990: 3–19; Stylianou 1998: 60–1. 9 cf. Sacks 1990: 101–4. 10 The Mytilenian Debate as a model has been briefly suggested by Pesely 1985: 320; Stylianou 1998: 61; Konstan 2001: 90; cf. Romilly 1979: 157, already noting that in his speech in the Athenian Debate Gylippus pursues the cause of severe punishment, ‘comme le faisait Cléon à Athènes’. 11 Konstan 2001: 148 n. 33 suggests that Diocles, the initial proposer of the motion for retribution against the Athenians, is Cleon’s double here; but there are sufficient grounds for seeing Gylippus as the one modelled on Cleon.

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afforded longer speeches than their opponents, but the crucial structural difference between the debates is that the order of the speeches and their eventual outcomes are inverted. Unlike his exemplar Diodotus the moderate words of Nicolaus are placed first and sway the audience only temporarily, while the Cleon-inspired Gylippus in second place ultimately wins the day. The Athenians are consequently punished harshly where before the Mytilenians had been punished leniently. This inversion indicates that although a Thucydidean framework is employed, and some of its themes and meaning transferred, the Athenian Debate presents a very different scenario from the Mytilenian, and the priorities of the two speakers are correspondingly different in certain important respects. Nicolaus is aligned with Diodotus, both of whom are also otherwise unknown figures.12 After introducing his own misfortune and his hatred of the Athenians (13.20.1–4), Nicolaus asserts that he will make his counsel purely about what is σύμφορον, ‘expedient’—although he does also state that ἔλεος towards the unfortunate is at issue, as is the δόξα of the Syracusan state (13.20.5). This parallels Diodotus’ assertion (Thuc. 3.44.2–3) that he will advise what is σύμφορον, a refinement of Cleon’s concern with justice as well as expediency (τά τε δίκαια…καὶ τὰ ξύμφορα: 3.40.4). However, while Diodotus concerns himself solely with expediency, as was appropriate for the deliberative context, and carefully avoids Cleon’s insinuations of the weakness attached to gentle virtues and the discussion of justice that more properly belonged to forensic speeches before the law-courts,13 Nicolaus goes on to speak in favour of a range of moderate sentiments. The moderation Nicolaus urges is expressed predominantly through the idea of φιλανθρωπία, but ἐπιείκεια (fairness), ἔλεος (pity), συγγνώμη (forbearance or pardon), εὐγνωμοσύνη (fair judgement), and even ὁμοπάθεια (shared feeling) all occupy important places in his speech and are to a certain extent subsumed into his overarching concept of φιλανθρωπία. While for Diodotus gentle or moderate virtues are incompatible with, or irrelevant for a deliberative evaluation of, what is σύμφορον, since he evaluates expediency in terms primarily of financial benefit,14 for Nicolaus they are intrinsically part of it. Thus we see inspiration from but also a remodelling of the terms of Diodotus’ argument for expediency: a self-interest originally defined in economic terms, as was appropriate for a deliberative speech before an assembly, becomes defined in ethical terms, thus departing from the strict deliberative mode of discourse adopted by Diodotus in which considerations such as pity, sympathy, and

12 Konstan 2001: 148 n. 33; cf. Hornblower 1991: 432, on the unlikeliness that Diodotus was truly unknown. 13 On the restrictions that were customary for the different types of speeches in Athens (deliberative, judicial, epideictic), and their role in the tactics of the two speakers of the Mytilenian Debate, see Harris 2013b: 94–109. 14 cf. Kallet-Marx 1993: 143–4; Kallet 2001: 10.

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fairness, not to mention justice, had no proper place.15 More discussion of didactic purpose will follow in section 9.5, but it is to be noted as significant that humane treatment of other states is made to be expedient and is made to be an issue of state: it is thereby asserted to be not just part of a formula for successful future rule in Nicolaus’ argumentation but also a proper part of a state’s political decision-making. Gylippus begins his speech with an anti-rhetorical pose (13.28.2–3), decrying the subsceptibility of the Syracusans to logoi and then claiming that he will speak with παρρησία (frankness). He endorses the superiority of erga over logoi in terms of how formatively they should influence decision-making. However, despite his self-presentation as a plain speaker and his emphasis on actions, not words, guiding political thought, his ensuing arguments are anything but plain and unsophisticated. This exemplifies the same kind of ‘rhetoric of anti-rhetoric’ employed by Cleon in the Mytilenian Debate,16 involving the criticism of the sophisticated arguments of rhetores and public suggestibility towards them but nonetheless also, subtly, the weaving of his own complex rhetorical web to elicit popular support. Gylippus, like Cleon, also offers counsel in terms of justice, but does so more restrictively, without also arguing on the basis of expediency.17 In this Gylippus, like Cleon before him, addresses the assembly with an oratorical mode that was more appropriate to forensic speeches before a law-court, where justice, not public policy, was the proper issue; but the attempt to conflate deliberative and forensic discourse that was characteristic in Cleon’s speech concerning Mytilene is lacking in Gylippus’ speech, as there is no argument for advantage in the latter.18 As with Nicolaus and Diodotus, the premises of Gylippus’ speech are evidently modelled on those developed by Cleon but do not replicate them exactly. However, what unites both Nicolaus’ and Gylippus’ strategies is the departure from the traditional norms relating to different oratorical contexts. Neither conforms entirely to the propriety of deliberative oratory before an assembly, although it is evident that Gylippus departs from it most radically; in this we can see an exaggerated representation of the strategies employed by the Thucydidean Cleon. Beyond those detailed above, there are a number of close engagements, both textual and thematic, that indicate that the Athenian Debate was based on a close but also fluid and adaptive reading of the Mytilenian Debate.19 But most 15

16 Harris 2013b: 94–109. cf. Hesk 2000: 248–58. References to justice and injustice pervade Gylippus’ speech: see e.g. 13.28.2, 29.3, 30.5, 31.3, 32.3. 18 Harris 2013b: 94–109. 19 e.g. Nicolaus and Diodotus both stress haste as inimical to good decision-making (Diod. Sic. 13.23.5; Thuc. 3.42.1). Nicolaus’ articulation of Delphic gnomai (13.24.5) parallels the use of gnomic statements in Diodotus’ speech (cf. Tompkins 1993, with references). In both speeches of the Athenian Debate (Diod. Sic. 13.22.4, 27.3, 28.3, 31.3), as in the Mytilenian (Thuc. 3.39.2, 40.1, 44.2), a major point of concern is the extension of συγγνώμη, which is appropriately 17

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suggestive is a section from Gylippus’ speech referring to the Mytilenian affair itself: So, when there exists in these men rapacity (πλεονεξία), devious design (ἐπιβουλή), and arrogance (ὑπερηφανία), who in their right mind would extend pity (ἐλεήσειεν) towards them? For how, indeed, did the Athenians treat the Mytilenians? Once they had conquered them, though they wished no injustice towards them but simply desired their freedom, they voted to slaughter those in the city. A cruel and barbarous act (ὠμόν τε καὶ βάρβαρον τὸ πεπραγμένον). And one that they perpetrated against Greeks, against allies, against men who had often been their benefactors. Let them not be aggrieved now if, having done these things towards others, they themselves meet with an equivalent retribution (παραπλησίας…τιμωρίας). For it is most just (δικαιότατον) that, having established the law for others, they should not be aggrieved at being treated in the same terms. (D.S. 13.30.3–5)

The allusion to the Athenian decision on Mytilene serves as a historical example to highlight Gylippus’ argument that the Athenians do not deserve pity on the basis of their own history. But the allusion also serves a textual purpose as a reminder of the model being employed,20 pointing to the parallelism of the situations at work in the Mytilenian and Athenian Debates yet also to their obvious differences. Instead of Mytilenian history being under judgement, and two speakers debating its future, now it is the Athenian past, the argumentative force of Nicolaus’ and Gylippus’ opposing conceptions of which will dictate how the Syracusans decide on Athens’ future. In this centralization of a discussion of the past, rather than of the future, we see another sign of the two speakers eschewing deliberative norms and falling into a pattern more common to forensic speeches, in which past actions are (naturally) the determinant focus.21 The selectivity of Gylippus’ historical presentation, in which he suppresses the ultimate outcome of the Mytilenian affair in favour of emphasizing the original Athenian decision, also indicates that a distortion of the Athenian past is at work in Gylippus’ speech, though this was a common enough rhetorical technique.22 There is irony in Gylippus’ attempt to shore up support for the motion of harsh retribution by condemning the like motion of his model Cleon on Mytilene, especially when the conception of reciprocal pity on which it is based is rooted in Cleon’s speech in the Mytilenian Debate:

discussed in terms of desert. Gylippus attempts to resurrect (and argue for the rightfulness of ) the temper of the Syracusan assembly (Diod. Sic. 13.28.2) just as Cleon did with the anger of the Athenian (e.g. Thuc. 3.38.1): both are to be connected to the use of tactics from forensic oratory, in which urging the judges’ anger was fairly normal (see Harris 2013b: 99–100). There are many more parallels between the two debates to be noted. 20 21 Recognized by Konstan 2001: 90. See again Harris 2013b: 94–109, esp. 95–6. 22 Cf. Perlman 1961: 150–66; Pownall 2004: 38–9.

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Indeed pity (ἔλεος) is right for those like us who grant it in return (ἀντιδίδοσθαι), but not for those who will not reciprocate pity (μὴ…ἀντοικτιοῦντας) and who of necessity have eternally been our enemies. (Thuc. 3.40.3)

Cleon’s conception of reciprocal ἔλεος, well known enough beyond his lifetime to be satirized in Menandrian comedy,23 is clearly reanimated in Gylippus’ speech, which denies a future without Athenian enmity. But this is Gylippus’ opposition to Nicolaus’ earlier argument for extending pity to the captives, which was based on Athenian benefactions towards humankind, including their introduction of laws for society (13.26.3). Nicolaus had not only interpreted Athenian history differently, not sharing Gylippus’ pessimistic view of the Athenian capacity to reciprocate, but had also suggested that it would be a fitting display of χάρις, in light of their benefactions, to extend pity towards the Athenians (13.27.1). This notion of exhibiting χάρις in response to benefaction is typical in Diodoran thought, permeating the whole Bibliotheke,24 which suggests his authorial alignment with Nicolaus’ position. Moreover, setting aside the appeal to pity with which it is associated, this strategy of suggesting that the Syracusans reward past Athenian benefaction, rather than punish their misdeeds, refers to one of the roles of the (Athenian) assembly to recognize and honour euergesia,25 and represents one of the instances in which Nicolaus does conform, albeit selectively, to the proper oratorical context. Set in the context of Gylippus’ appeal for punishment, and of his denial of the tenability of the reciprocity of pity, both more properly at home in the law-court,26 we thus see in the Athenian Debate the same tensions between different oratorical strategies and their proper contexts that are distinctive in the Mytilenian Debate. The Mytilenian Debate offers a commentary on the politics of the Classical Athenian state as well as the efficacy and value of its democratic institutions, particularly its decision-making processes and the susceptibility to harmful rhetoric of its almost ideological insistence on extensive deliberation in the assembly. These are issues that are also at various points animated in the debate between Nicolaus and Gylippus, which sees the ultimate triumph of the kind of harmful rhetoric represented by Cleon in Thucydides and which exposes the same tensions between different oratorical approaches that are found in the Mytilenian Debate. But as well as exemplifying another aspect of the Athenian Debate’s Thucydidean modelling, the point of conflict over the extension of pity discussed above is emblematic of the extent to which the

23 e.g. Men. Misoumenos 716–18 (Arnott): Ἑλληνικὸν καὶ πανταχ[οῦ] | γινόμ[ε]νον ἴσμεν. ἀλλ᾿ ἐλεεῖν ὀρθῶς ἔχει | τὸν ἀ[ν]τελεοῦνθ᾿ (‘We know that it is a Greek custom, happening everywhere. But pity is only right when pity is given in return’). 24 25 Cf. Sacks 1990: 78, 103; Sulimani 2011: 54, 295. See Harris 2013b: 107. 26 Cf. Antiph. 1.26, that a woman (accused of killing her husband) does not deserve pity because she herself showed none to her victim.

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speeches of Nicolaus and Gylippus hinge not just on conflicting arguments and different oratorical styles but also on diametrically opposed conceptions of the Athenian state. In these opposing visions the idea of φιλανθρωπία figures centrally as an evaluative term, and tracing how this concept was constructed in their speeches, and the Classical models to which these constructions were indebted, is the focus of the next two sections of this chapter.

9.3 THE SPEECH OF NICOLAUS Nicolaus treats a range of topics in his attempt to persuade the Syracusans to deal with the Athenians humanely. Among other things he expounds on the expediency of lenient punishment (13.20.5) and the benefits of moderate treatment shown by positive exempla such as Cyrus and Gelon (13.22.2–4). He appeals to the mutability and overmastering power of τύχη (13.21.4–5), ideas of being and acting in a ‘human’ way (ἄνθρωπος or ἀνθρώπινος), and the common ‘weakness’ (ἀσθένεια) of being human (13.21.4, 24.4). He invokes customs and Delphic gnomai which had mutual currency among the Greeks (13.24.5–6). More immediately of interest to his audience, he argues that Syracusan fame, reputation, and power—past, present, and future—are at stake in deciding the fate of the Athenian prisoners of war (13.20.5, 21.7, 22.5). Throughout all of these points the Athenian state itself is a recurring point of reference, but the culminating two chapters of his speech (13.26–7) see an intensified evaluation of it. It is also, not coincidentally, in these two chapters that φιλανθρωπία is discussed most extensively. The discussion in the last two chapters of Nicolaus’ speech turns exclusively to Athens when, as mentioned above, he suggests that it would be fitting for the Syracusans to display their χάρις to Athens for its various benefactions to humankind: For if it is true of any other, it is the dignity of the city of the Athenians that is worthy of being given respect, and we might distinguish our gratitude for their benefactions towards mankind (χάριν…ἀπομερίσαι τῶν εἰς ἄνθρωπον εὐεργετημάτων). For it is they that were the first to give a share (μεταδόντες) in cultivated food (τροφῆς ἡμέρου, i.e. grain) to the Greeks, which, though receiving it from the gods in exclusivity (ἰδίᾳ), they made communal to all in need of it (τῇ χρείᾳ κοινὴν ἐποίησαν). It is they that discovered laws, on account of which the common life (ὁ κοινὸς βίος), from being a wild and unjust existence (ἐκ τῆς ἀγρίας καὶ ἀδίκου ζωῆς), became a gentle and just society (εἰς ἥμερον καὶ δικαίαν ἐλήλυθε συμβίωσιν). It is they that were the first in protecting those seeking refuge, causing laws concerning suppliants to prevail among all mankind. Since they were the originators of these, it would be unworthy of us to deprive them of them. And these things are directed towards all of you (καὶ ταῦτα μὲν πρὸς ἅπαντας); but

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I will remind some of you in particular of their acts of humanity (ἰδίᾳ δ᾽ ἐνίους ὑπομνήσω τῶν φιλανθρώπων). (D.S. 13.26.2–3)

The last phrase of this section occurs before specifying further benefactions such as education and initiation in the Eleusinian Mysteries, and it indicates that the preceding list of benefactions are to be considered acts of φιλανθρωπία. In other words, Nicolaus lists past Athenian benefactions which demonstrate their φιλανθρωπία and then afterwards highlights some further philanthropic benefactions that continue to be immediately relevant to the Syracusans of the present day. Thus here the discovery and distribution of grain, laws, and ordinances on suppliants are understood to be actions that are philanthropic in character. Central to this understanding is the indiscriminate, universalistic nature of the benefactions as being granted to all Greeks. This is a conception of φιλανθρωπία that agrees with the word’s earliest (reliably identified) usage in the Aeschylean Prometheus Bound,27 in which Prometheus’ gift of fire to mankind is characterized as stemming from his φιλάνθρωπος τρόπος, his ‘mankind-loving character’ (PB 11, 28). This connection between φιλανθρωπία and benefaction and gift-giving recurs in a number of other Classical sources,28 and agrees more broadly with Diodorus’ own presentation of the benefactions of gods and culture heroes in primitive ages.29 In all of these instances the connotation is not simply universal benefaction but, specifically, benefaction crucial to the establishment of civilized society. This theme of the civilizing power of philanthropic benefactions recurs in a passage in Plutarch’s Life of Cimon: But Cimon’s unenvying nature (ἀφθονία) surpassed even the kind hospitality and humanity (φιλοξενίαν καὶ φιλανθρωπίαν) of the Athenians of old. For they, and the city rightly had a great pride in this, granted to the Greeks grain for cultivation, spring waters…and taught men the kindling of fire, of which they had a sore need. Proclaiming his house a common prytaneion for citizens (οἰκίαν τοῖς πολίταις πρυτανεῖον ἀποδείξας κοινόν), and in the country allowing strangers to take and use the choicest of ripened fruits and as many fair things as the season bears, in a certain sense he brought back to life the mythical communality of the age of Cronus (τρόπον τινὰ τὴν ἐπὶ Κρόνου μυθολογουμένην κοινωνίαν εἰς τὸν βίον αὖθις κατῆγεν). (Plut. Cim. 10.5–6)

27 There is some speculation that Epicharmus used the word, as Plutarch attributes to him the lines οὐ φιλάνθρωπος σὺ γ᾽ ἐσσ᾽: ἔχεις νόσον, χαίρεις διδούς (‘you are not philanthropic: you have a disease, you take pleasure in giving’: Mor. 510c). But it is possible that Plutarch himself inserted the word φιλανθρωπία. On this issue, cf. Sulek 2010: 400 n. 6. 28 e.g. Ar. Pax 392, where Hermes is addressed as ὦ φιλανθρωπότατε καὶ μεγαλοδωρότατε δαιμόνων. 29 Cf. Sacks 1990: 55–82; Sulimani 2011: 87–104.

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In Plutarch we find the same idea that mythical Athenian benefactions are demonstrations of φιλανθρωπία, although he also appropriates the archetypal Promethean gift of fire. Cimon’s own indiscriminate benefactions, establishing his house as a common prytaneion and giving fruit to any stranger, represent, microcosmically, those of his legendary ancestors, but are also seen as greater than them. His actions not just provide hospitality but also foster κοινωνία, ‘communality’, on a level only matched in mythical ages past. Thus Cimon’s actions are represented by Plutarch as indiscriminate and universalistic, resonating with the central openness of the idea of φιλανθρωπία that we have seen in Diodorus. Moreover, Plutarch’s presentation of Cimon’s restoration of κοινωνία to the present day βίος is an idea remarkably similar to the Diodoran emphasis on Athenian benefactions resulting in the transformation of the κοινὸς βίος into a συμβίωσις. In both authors, communality and shared bonds across society, perhaps across humankind, are results of the acts of φιλανθρωπία; and in this vein it is significant that, in Diodorus, Nicolaus first uses the term συμβίωσις in reference to his family (13.20.2), and then to human society, thereby constructing a parallel between familial bonds and those shared by humanity as a whole. By thus emphasizing that its benefactions are essential for life, both Diodorus and Plutarch create an embedded place for Athens as a central agent in the evolution of human society. Foregrounding Athens as a beacon and begetter of civilization in this way had an intrinsic cultural significance in the Classicizing environments in which Diodorus and Plutarch were writing, but more significantly both suggest that the legendary φιλανθρωπία of Athens can be replicated in later ages. Plutarch’s Cimon demonstrates this through his own conferring of communal benefits, and Diodorus’ Nicolaus calls on his fellow Syracusans to imitate Athenian demonstrations of φιλανθρωπία in their treatment of the prisoners of war from the Sicilian Expedition. Legendary Athenian φιλανθρωπία is thus established as an exemplary model, an inspiration and a measure for philanthropic acts in later ages. This similarity in Plutarch’s and Diodorus’ conceptions of Athenian φιλανθρωπία has the additional implication that the centralization of a philanthropic Athens in a Classicizing discourse occurred even in the late Hellenistic age (compare too the epigraphic evidence discussed in the Introduction to this volume, pp. 15–16), prefiguring its later popularity in the Imperial period.30 Diodorus, however, evidently had a more all-encompassing estimation of Athenian contributions to the evolution of society, as his enumeration of Athenian benefactions consists not just of sharing the art of cultivating grain but also of laws, ordinances on suppliants, and, in the next section of Nicolaus’ speech (for which see pp. 190–3), education and religion. This list of legendary benefactions ultimately has its roots in Athenian democratic ideology, as

30

cf. Schmitz 2011: 235–51.

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articulated explicitly in the funeral orations,31 as well as other texts such as Isocrates’ Panegyricus, in which we find a striking parallel with Nicolaus’ presentation of Athens: Firstly, the initial thing our nature was in need of was provided by our city…For when Demeter arrived in our land, wandering after the abduction of Core, and was kindly disposed to our ancestors from their services to her (that may not be heard except by her initiates), she gave a twofold gift, the greatest of all gifts: that of fruits of the earth (καρπούς), which were responsible for transforming us from a bestial existence (θηριωδῶς ζῆν), and the mystic rite…In such a way was our city not only beloved by the gods but also humane in its actions (οὐ μόνον θεοφιλῶς ἀλλὰ καὶ φιλανθρώπως) that, having been given possession (κυρία) of these blessings, she did not begrudge (οὐκ ἐφθόνησε) them to others, but gave a share (μετέδωκεν) in what she had received to all. (Isoc. 4.38–9, excerpts)

In Isocrates, as in Diodorus, it is the Athenian sharing of bounty that is a crucial contributor to civilized society: it is grain in Isocrates, law in Diodorus, that enables the elevation of humankind above the level of beasts. That these benefactions provide the things beneficial for life is also noted in Hyperides’ epitaphios, in a wording (τῶν εἰς τὸν β[ίο]ν χρησίμων: 5.45–6) that quite precisely parallels Diodorus’ own emphasis on utility for life that is recurrent in the Bibliotheke.32 More significantly, Athenian benefaction in Isocrates is specifically phrased as a philanthropic act (φιλανθρώπως), just as it is understood in Diodorus. Evidently in both writers, therefore, φιλανθρωπία has a transformative power, fundamental to the development of civilization and to distinguishing men from beasts. There is a clear appropriation occurring here, with the Athenian ideology of benefaction centralized in Nicolaus’ account. It is entirely fitting, in the Athenian Debate, to find such an expression of Athenian ideology, albeit a selective one drawn primarily from Isocrates and the epideictic genre of the epitaphioi. However, it should be noted that Diodorus in other places in the Bibliotheke shared an essentially similar conception of the power of φιλανθρωπία to separate and distinguish between men and beasts, of the role of φιλανθρωπία in the field of cultural achievement, and also of the inherent condescension of extending φιλανθρωπία to others that is implicit but distinctive in Isocrates.33 This overall convergence, suggesting a basic level of 31 Lys. 2.18–19; Pl. Menex. 238e; Hyp. Ep. 5.34–6; Dem. 60.5. On grain specifically cf. Soph. OC 668–719; Pl. Crit. 110e. 32 On utility in Diodorus, Sacks 1990: 23–36. Also cf. Isocrates’ statement in the Antidosis (15.276) that the orator should formulate proposals (ὑποθέσεις) that are φιλανθρώπους καὶ περὶ τῶν κοινῶν πραγμάτων. 33 See e.g. 3.7.3–8.3, 3.35.7–9; cf. Christ 2013: 203, that in both Xenophon and Isocrates, ‘philanthrōpia is an ideal aristocratic attribute that is manifested primarily in the generosity and humanity of kings, potentates, and generals toward those less powerful than themselves’.

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compatibility between Diodoran thought and selected parts of Athenian democratic ideology (of the kind instantiated by Isocrates, in this instance), suggests that we should consider certain aspects of Diodorus’ reception of Classical Athenian thought in light of his broader editorial principles: that is, in light of an editorial process which selectively evaluated and drew intellectual content from a variety of sources and reanimated this content in various places in the overall work, integrated with ideas drawn from elsewhere. In this vein of editorial choice, the significance of Diodorus’ estimation of Athenian φιλανθρωπία lies not simply in how it constructs legendary benefaction as its principal frame of reference for the concept. Equally significant are the frames of reference it deliberately avoids incorporating, specifically the political and military, rather than cultural, understandings of φιλανθρωπία that can be found most prominently in the Demosthenic corpus. In these, Athenian ideological self-definition as the state which generously aids all others, often protects them militarily against external powers such as Sparta and Macedon, is expressed through the idea of φιλανθρωπία.34 This is part of the mainstream of Athenian democratic ideology, and it aligns with the protective ideologies asserted frequently in the funeral orations, a semi-official series of articulations of Athenian history and democratic identity.35 The reason why Diodorus, through the speech of Nicolaus, opts not for this mainstream but rather the more restrictive Isocratean φιλανθρωπία is to be connected to the historical context in which the Athenian Debate is set. The events of the Sicilian Expedition, in which Athens acted as aggressor, problematize, if not compromise entirely, this idea of a philanthropic Athens as protector of weaker states.36 Indeed, as we shall see in the speech of Gylippus, the conception of Athenian political and military φιλανθρωπία instantiated by Demosthenes could be a potent weapon against Nicolaus’ arguments for clemency for Athens, as it exposed a disparity between the ideology and practice of Athenian foreign policy. However, given the consonance of the Isocratean paradigm and Diodorus’ broader worldview, it was not simply the case that the kind of φιλανθρωπία found in more mainstream democratic ideology was inapplicable in the historical context. As Gylippus’ speech makes clear, Diodorus was fully aware of this, but instead deliberately, and meaningfully, chose the cultural and (as we shall see) paideutic strand

34 e.g. Dem. 16.9 (defending Megalopolis and/or Messene against Sparta) and [Dem.] 7.30–1 (defending non-allied states against Philip of Macedon). Most striking is the assertion, at 23.156, that ‘the salvation of all men’ (ἅπαντας ἀνθρώπους σῴζει) lies in the φιλανθρωπία of the Athenians. 35 Cf. Loraux 1986; Grethlein 2010: 105–25. 36 Cf. Wiater’s comments, Chapter 10 in this volume, on the problematic nature of using the Classical Athenian model as a paradigm, in that it also evoked Athens’ negative imperialist image.

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in his praise of the Athenian past—something he shared with his nearcontemporary, Dionysius of Halicarnassus.37 This epideictic, Isocratean strand of Athenian democratic ideology that we find represented by φιλανθρωπία in Nicolaus’ speech is not simply harmonious with Diodorus’ own views, but is also made to function as an effective part of the overall rhetorical strategy of his speech. One of the most significant ideologies of the funeral orations and Isocrates’ Panegyricus was that of the continuous nature of the Athenian past. The legendary past lauded in the epitaphioi and in the Panegyricus was assimilated to the present day by the speakers through an emphasis on the continuity of Athens’ heroic and selfless actions, an ideology that was central to the Athenian self-creation of a democratic identity.38 The weight placed in the speech of Nicolaus on the power of the Athenian past to reveal contemporary Athenian character evokes this same continuity and uses it to reinforce the plea for clemency. Beyond rhetorical strategy and authorial alignment, however, the transmission of this discourse speaks to Diodorus’ broader estimation of the cultural significance of the Athenian past. Indeed, the appropriation of such democratic ideologies, and their integration in an overarching notion of φιλανθρωπία, should be understood as a key part of Diodorus’ establishment of Athens as an exemplary model for the present day. Thus φιλανθρωπία figures centrally in Diodorus’ evaluation of the Athenian past in Nicolaus’ speech but also in his evaluation of the potential of this past to provide direction and instruction in a later age. The understanding of φιλανθρωπία as consisting of benefactions also aligns with the word’s normative usage in the political discourse of the later Hellenistic period, particularly in civic honorific epigraphy,39 and so it is presented in such a framework as to be intelligible in Diodorus’ own age, underscoring its didactic potential. There are additional resonances for this presentation of legendary Athenian history within Diodorus’ Classicizing environment. It is significant that Roman contemporaries of Diodorus such as Lucretius and Cicero centralized essentially the same deeds in their own judgements of Athens’ contributions to the world. Athens of celebrated name (praeclaro nomine) was the first to spread fruitbearing crops (frugiparos fetus) among suffering humankind, and also to reinvigorate life and establish laws (recreaverunt vitam legesque rogarunt)… (Luc. DRN 6.1–3) …men from Athens, whence humanity (humanitas), instruction (doctrina), religion (religio), grain (fruges), laws (iura), and institutions (leges), it is thought,

37 On Dionysius’ use of Athens, and indeed the Isocratean paradigm of Athens, see Wiater, Chapter 10 in this volume. 38 39 Cf. Loraux 1986; Grethlein 2010: 105–25. Cf. Gray 2013c.

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arose and were distributed across the whole earth (ortae atque in omnis terras distributae). (Cic. Flac. 62)

The Lucretian passage opens Book 6 of De rerum natura after the denouement of the anthropology of Book 5. The pinnacle of that anthropology was mental clarity (DRN 5.1455–7), and the above description of Athenian gifts to mankind precedes the description of the further benefaction to mankind of Epicurus (DRN 6.4ff.), whose philosophy provided the greatest of all contributions, that of soothing human suffering. Thus in Lucretius, Athens is made to have a uniquely determinant role in human evolution. This is evidently similar to the evaluation of the Athenian past outlined in Nicolaus’ speech, and it is tempting to connect this to Diodorus’ own anthropology of human society in the first book of the Bibliotheke (1.7–8). (Is Diodorus writing Athens centrally into the history of human evolution with Nicolaus’ speech, just as Lucretius was with the opening of Book 6 of De rerum natura?) The Ciceronian passage stressing the multiplicity of Athenian contributions to the world, as in Nicolaus’ speech, also indicates the extent to which human civilization, even Roman, is owed ultimately to Athens.40 These comparisons confirm that Athens occupied a significant position in the intellectual thought of the first century BCE as a formative agent in the evolution of civilization, and not just among Greek authors such as Diodorus. Rather, the shared nature of this conception with Latin authors supposes that Athens had come to have, by the first century, a culturally universal stature as a paradigm and as an exemplar; and it is in this intellectual-historical context that Nicolaus’ praise of Athens should be read. The next section of Nicolaus’ speech, continuing with Athenian demonstrations of φιλανθρωπία through benefaction, affirms the understanding of Athens as a universal paradigm: As many of you as have partaken (μετεσχήκατε) of speech and education (λόγου καὶ παιδείας) in that city, grant pity to those that offer their country as a common school for all mankind (δότε τὸν ἔλεον τοῖς τὴν πατρίδα κοινὸν παιδευτήριον παρεχομένοις πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις). As many of you as have partaken (μετεσχηκότες) of the most holy mysteries, save your initiators. Those partaking of their humanity (μετεσχηκότες τῶν φιλανθρωπιῶν), give gratitude (χάριν) for the benefaction (εὐεργεσίας). Those aspiring to partake (μέλλοντες μεταλήψεσθαι) of it, do not in anger (τῷ θυμῷ) deprive yourselves of that hope. For what land will be open to foreigners for an education suitable for a free person once the city of the Athenians is destroyed (ποῖος γὰρ τόπος τοῖς ξένοις βάσιμος εἰς παιδείαν ἐλευθέριον τῆς Ἀθηναίων πόλεως

40 Livy’s account, at 3.31.8, may be meaningful here, in which a Roman embassy goes to Athens to transcribe Solon’s laws and otherwise to acquaint themselves with the ‘institutions, customs, and laws’ (instituta, mores iuraque) of the Greeks.

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ἀνῃρημένης)? Swift is the hatred resulting from their mistaken action, but great and many are their achievements (εἰργασμένα) that should evoke goodwill (εὔνοιαν). (13.27.1–2)

These further Athenian acts of φιλανθρωπία, the provision of λόγος, παιδεία, and initiation in the holy mysteries of Eleusis, are immediately relevant to Nicolaus’ audience, many of whom continued to partake of them. This passage also foregrounds a notion that was more implicit in the preceding one, that Athenian demonstrations of φιλανθρωπία provide not just the basis for civilized society but also exemplary instruction in ethical virtue, principally ἔλεος: the extension of pity that is inherent to Athens’ establishment of laws and ordinances on suppliants ought to be replicated in the current decision on the Athenian prisoners. This again stresses the exemplary power of Athenian φιλανθρωπία. More striking is the Classicizing presentation of the Athenian past through the foregrounding of the provision of παιδεία, and particularly the characterization of Athens as a κοινὸν παιδευτήριον for all mankind. I would suggest that the phrase κοινὸν παιδευτήριον has an intellectual history in the Thucydidean funeral oration of Pericles, in which Athens is termed the παίδευσις of Greece (Thuc. 2.41.1).41 This coheres with the resonance of topoi from the epitaphic genre in the preceding list of Athenian benefactions, and it evokes the open, generous, free-natured Athens of the Thucydidean Pericles to underline Nicolaus’ own construction of Athenian openness. However, the evocation of Pericles’ παίδευσις implicitly transposes with it the immediately preceding sentiment of his epitaphios, in which Pericles argues that ‘only we [the Athenians] assist others not from a reckoning of expediency, but in the belief of freedom and in a fearless spirit’ (καὶ μόνοι οὐ τοῦ ξυμφέροντος μᾶλλον λογισμῷ ἢ τῆς ἐλευθερίας τῷ πιστῷ ἀδεῶς τινὰ ὠφελοῦμεν: 2.40.5). That this idea is contradicted at various points in Thucydides—not least in the Mytilenian Debate, in which expediency is evaluated by both speakers as a guiding principle of Athenian foreign policy—is a moot point.42 Rather, it is the kind of Athenian exemplarity envisioned by the Thucydidean Pericles, not the extent to which this vision was subsequently enacted, that Nicolaus is evoking. By introducing this Periclean version of Athenian exemplarity, which is contingent on the certain belief in freedom (τῆς ἐλευθερίας τῷ πιστῷ) rather than the unsure calculation of expediency (τοῦ ξυμφέροντος…λογισμῷ),43 Nicolaus subtly undermines the value of the parameters of expediency that he had asserted at the outset of his speech. Thus through reference to the 41 Cf. the description of Athens as a ‘prytaneion of Greece’s wisdom (Ἑλλάδος…τὸ πρυτανεῖον τῆς σοφίας)’ at Pl. Protag. 337d. Also, education or training (παιδευθῆναι) is provided by Athenian example in the Persian Wars at Pl. Menex. 241b–c. 42 43 Cf. Gomme 1956: 124–5. On this point, see Hornblower 1991: 307.

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Periclean notion of Athens as παίδευσις, Nicolaus signifies that he has expanded upon the fairly narrowly defined framework of symbouleutic advice adopted at the outset to incorporate a more universalizing assertion of the character of the democratic Athenian state. Indeed, the exposition of this character is embedded as a fundamental part of his argument in this part of his speech: for every asserted quality of Athens, there is a corresponding plea for clemency or warning against its opposite. Again we see that a Classical Athenian democratic ideology has been appropriated, here one which stresses Athens’ unique educational provision—both a sign and product of its ‘free’ nature—and its exemplarity for other states. This appropriated ideology is integrated, as were the other legendary Athenian benefactions, into a notion of φιλανθρωπία, thus presenting indiscriminate access to παιδεία as part of the city’s beneficent humanity.44 The notable distinction from the Periclean παίδευσις is in the qualification of this indiscriminate access: in Diodorus, Athens is not simply the education of Hellas, but a school for all mankind. Athens is thus a more universal fount of education than in Pericles’ speech, in all probability a reflection of the reality of Diodorus’ own era, in which other peoples, notably the Romans, openly partook of Athenian παιδεία. In this sense the Athenian past is given a universalized exemplarity that aligns with the world of the first century. Παιδεία is also central in Classicizing discourses in the Imperial period,45 and so here we have another prefiguration of the more entrenched Classicism of later periods. We can compare this also with the openness of Athens that is envisioned in parts of Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ work, such as the contest between Fufetius and Tullus in Book 3 of the Antiquitates Romanae (3.11.4–5) and the educational paradigm evoked in places in Book 1 (e.g. 1.6.5),46 which again suggests the popularity in first century thought of the idea of Athens’ cultural and paideutic exemplarity. While translators of the Thucydidean passage have often rendered παίδευσις as ‘school’, perhaps reflecting modern conceptions of the prestige of the Classical Athens, the word is better understood as referring to a process of education.47 However, in Diodorus we do see an interpretation of παίδευσις in line with the modern imputation of ‘school’, since παιδευτήριον must mean simply a building in which παιδεία takes place. This act of interpretation, solidifying Athens into a permanent location of learning as the world’s schoolhouse, seems to be based on the central role of παιδεία in Classicizing conceptions of Classical Athens as well as the reality that people from around

44 Learning as associated with or a type of φιλανθρωπία is already rooted in Plato’s Euthyphro (3d), wherein Socrates fears whether people might think, because of his φιλανθρωπία, that he poured out his thoughts to all listeners freely—although here this indiscriminate, universalistic gift of learning is ambiguously regarded, perhaps even seen as dangerous. 45 46 Cf. e.g. Borg 2004. On these details see Wiater, Chapter 10 in this volume. 47 Cf. Hornblower 1991: 308.

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the oikoumene partook of this παιδεία in Diodorus’ own era. Thus an ideology of Athens serving as a paradigmatic example for others in Thucydides becomes institutionalized παιδεία in Diodorus. Through this reconfiguration Diodorus establishes Athens as always having been a παιδευτήριον πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις, enabling Greeks and non-Greeks to partake of Greek education and culture. This understanding, especially when we also consider the Diodoran phrase ἐλευθέριος παιδεία, perhaps also illuminates the Ciceronian passage above, in which the orator describes humanitas as one of the Athenian boons to the world: that is, perhaps we can understand Cicero’s use of humanitas as meaning a liberal and beneficial παιδεία, thus a humanitas closely conceptually related to φιλανθρωπία, emphasizing the same provision of education that falls within its semantic range in Diodorus.48 That the word παιδευτήριον is late Hellenistic is evident from the fact that Diodorus represents the first extant usage in Greek literature. The only other near-contemporary usage, in fact, is in Strabo’s Geographica, in a passage which likewise testifies to the educational paradigm of Athens in first century thought: The barbarians situated above have been permanently tamed (ἐξημερουμένων… ἀεὶ), having been turned from making war towards citizenship and agriculture (πρὸς πολιτείας καὶ γεωργίας) by Roman domination, and so there is no longer the same attention paid to these men by the inhabitants of Marseilles. This is clear in its state in the present time. For all men of taste (χαρίεντες) direct themselves to speech and to philosophy (πρὸς τὸ λέγειν…καὶ φιλοσοφεῖν), and so much has the city, from a short while ago, become a school for the barbarians (τοῖς βαρβάροις…παιδευτήριον), and provided the Galatians with philhellenism (φιλέλληνας), that they even draw up contracts in the Greek language (ἑλληνιστί). And in the present day it attracts the most distinguished (τοὺς γνωριμωτάτους) among the Romans, with those who are eager to learn going there instead of to Athens (ἀντὶ τῆς εἰς Ἀθήνας ἀποδημίας ἐκεῖσε φοιτᾶν φιλομαθεῖς ὄντας). (Strabo 4.1.6 [246])

In this passage the civilizing power of Greek παιδεία is explicit: the Galatians dwelling around Marseilles have turned to a life of πολιτεία and γεωργία after Roman conquest and their subsequent partaking of Greek education. Here we have the same inter-cultural transmissibility of civilized life via Greek education that is signified through the word παιδευτήριον in the Diodoran passage above. The use of Athens as a point of reference in demonstrating the impact of this ‘school’ indicates the dominance, in first-century thought, of the concept of Classical Athenian education as an instrument of civilization; it 48 Cf. Gell. NA 13.17, who distinguishes between φιλανθρωπία and humanitas, suggesting that the former meant ‘an indiscriminate benevolence (benivolentiamque…promiscam) towards all men’ and the latter was closer to the Greek idea of παιδεία, i.e. eruditionem institutionemque in bonas artes (‘instruction and training in the liberal arts’).

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also perhaps reveals a local Marseillan ideology about the nature of its school, that it provided so profound an education as to supplant for many noble figures that provided by Athens. The Greek identity transmitted via this education crucially informs the presentation of this school’s success: the barbarians became so philhellenic that Greek was the language of their everyday business. This notional establishment of an alternative Athens in the Romanized Gallic West, while challenging the unique cultural primacy of Athens, nonetheless reinforces this primacy: the παιδευτήριον at Marseilles is still measured by the yardstick of Athenian education, which implicitly undermines the attempt to surpass it.49 The question posed by Nicolaus evidently remained suggestive of how Athenian παιδεία was viewed in first-century thought: ‘For what land will be open to foreigners for an education suitable for a free person once the city of the Athenians is destroyed?’ (ποῖος γὰρ τόπος τοῖς ξένοις βάσιμος εἰς παιδείαν ἐλευθέριον τῆς Ἀθηναίων πόλεως ἀνῃρημένης;). In the next section of his speech Nicolaus discusses the justice of punishing all the captives uniformly, when there might be among them those that acted unwillingly, or those individually more deserving of ἔλεος (13.27.2–3). This engagement with the discourse of justice, another departure from the discourse of expediency, is to be connected to his emphasis at the outset on the issue of ἔλεος for the unfortunate (13.20.5). There follows a specific consideration of the case of Nicias, one of the Athenian generals: What do I say about Nicias, who from the beginning proposed policy on behalf of the Syracusans, was the only one to speak against the expedition to Sicily, and has always acted with care (φροντίζων), as our proxenos, on behalf of the Syracusans resident in Athens? It would be wrong for Nicias who pleaded our cause in Athens to be punished, and so not receive humanity (φιλανθρωπίας) for his goodwill (εὔνοιαν) towards us but instead meet with unbending retribution (ἀπαραιτήτῳ…τιμωρίᾳ) for public service to his state (κοινοῖς); and for Alcibiades who incited the war against the Syracusans to escape retribution at the hands of both us and the Athenians, while not giving the pity that is universal (μηδὲ τοῦ κοινοῦ τυχεῖν ἐλέου) to the man who has become by common agreement the most humane of the Athenians (τὸν δ᾽ ὁμολογουμένως φιλανθρωπότατον Ἀθηναίων γεγενημένον). (D.S. 13.27.3–4)

Here we see an intensification in the discussion of φιλανθρωπία. The parties behind the ‘common agreement’ (ὁμολογουμένως) are unclear, but what does seems clear from Nicolaus’ argument is that Nicias should receive φιλανθρωπία because of his actions on behalf of the Syracusans. Although specified as showing his εὐνοία, we might assume that Nicias’ actions 49 Compare the use of Athens as a yardstick for Rome by Dionysius of Halicarnassus, including in the education imparted to the author by the latter (1.6.5), for which see Wiater, Chapter 10 in this volume.

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constitute acts of φιλανθρωπία towards the Syracusans and so are contributory to the assessment of him as φιλανθρωπότατος.50 Nicolaus does, however, highlight a key tension between Nicias’ pro-Syracusan agenda and his current position as commander of the Athenian forces against Syracuse. Nicolaus is of the opinion that the φιλανθρωπία owing to Nicias’ past actions and advocacy on behalf of Syracuse outweighs the punishment merited by his actions against Syracuse. In this way the singular case of Nicias becomes an analogy for deciding the fate of all the Athenian captives. Should their past φιλανθρωπία mean punishment is remitted through a reciprocal demonstration of φιλανθρωπία, or should their more recent transgressions elicit τιμωρία? Nicolaus’ essential position is that φιλανθρωπία is insuperable. In this section of Nicolaus’ speech we also see a more considered assessment of the ethical relationship between φιλανθρωπία and ἔλεος. Ἔλεος is evidently fitting for the man that is φιλανθρωπότατος. This reinforces the sense of Nicias’ case being an analogy for all the Athenian captives, as Nicolaus has already implored for ἔλεος for all Athenians on the basis of their demonstrations of φιλανθρωπία (13.27.1–2). Pity, then, is owed on account of demonstrations of humanity. But pity must also be considered in terms of justice, hence the preceding discussion of desert (13.27.2–3). Nicolaus does not deny Athenian wrongdoing, but instead attempts to qualify the intention behind it for many of the captives: perhaps it was unwillingly done, perhaps it was coerced. In his advocacy of pity for the Athenians Nicolaus is compelled, because of the issue of desert, to make a case for extending pity that goes beyond intrinsic moral or ethical value. Thus he emphasizes Athenian φιλανθρωπία, both in the larger terms of Athenian history and in the specific, emblematic case of Nicias. This is not pity in its own right, therefore: it is a calculated pity, measured and deserving for the φιλανθρωπία of the state and people under judgement. By extension, the Athenian cultural and educational φιλανθρωπία established up to this point, which provided the whole world, including Syracuse, with the necessities of civilized life, should outweigh political and military concerns in the Syracusans’ decision-making. Before turning to the speech of Gylippus it is worth briefly highlighting Nicolaus’ other uses of φιλανθρωπία. In most instances it is similarly connected to reciprocity and to a measured series of responses to Athenian actions. The Athenians put their faith in Syracusan εὐγνωμοσύνη when they surrendered, thus they ought not to be deceived of φιλανθρωπία (13.21.6): here φιλανθρωπία is seemingly the ideal result of ‘fair judgement’, and is connected to suppliant status. Leading states that are under one’s hegemony φιλανθρώπως elicits affection and assistance in further accumulating power (13.22.1): φιλανθρωπία is not measured here in terms of desert but in terms of prospective self-benefit, Cf. Cyrus’ characterization as ψυχὴν δὲ φιλανθρωπότατος, at Xen. Cyr. 1.2.1, with its educational overtones. 50

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an echo from the discourse of expediency in the Mytilenian Debate. Conversely, it is not possible to receive φιλανθρωπία in the future if one has treated other states ἀνημέρως (13.23.4). In varying degrees of emphasis, in all these instances of measured action φιλανθρωπία is invoked as a future guide of conduct. But there are also usages which advocate φιλανθρωπία in future conduct in a way that is not measured or based on reciprocity. Thus Nicolaus advises the Syracusans to showcase that they have defeated the Athenians not just in arms but also in the exercise of φιλανθρωπία, and allow themselves the fame of a superior humanity (13.22.6: see section 9.5). Here there is a rivalrous dimension, betraying the Diodoran notion that a reputation for φιλανθρωπία is beneficial for a state, a sense that is reinforced when Nicolaus advocates that demonstrating φιλανθρωπία now is an opportunity to develop φιλία with the Athenians (13.25.1). Thus, in addition to characterizing the Athenian state on the basis of its cultural and educational contributions to the world, φιλανθρωπία also functions in Nicolaus’ speech as a considered option in the Syracusans’ political conduct. In this we see a partial adherence to the deliberative norms of a speech before the assembly, and further nods to the framework of the Mytilenian Debate, but Diodorus’ treatment also demonstrates how, for him, φιλανθρωπία was an essential part of both historical judgement and a state’s political decision-making.

9.4 THE SPEECH OF GYLIPPUS The speech of Nicolaus, while not unsophisticated, is altogether less guileful than the speech of Gylippus (13.28.2–32), who attempts to negate Nicolaus’ visions of φιλανθρωπία. As discussed in section 9.2, Gylippus begins his speech with an anti-rhetorical pose: I am greatly amazed, men of Syracuse, that you have given judgement so quickly, about deeds by which you have suffered greatly (περὶ ὧν ἔργῳ κακῶς πεπόνθατε), and about which you have afterwards been instructed by words (περὶ τούτων τῷ λόγῳ μεταδιδασκομένους). For if you, having taken a stand and submitted to dangers against men marching to the destruction of your country, have relaxed your tempers (θυμοῖς), for what reason should we, having met with no injustice, exert ourselves? Grant me by god, men of Syracuse, the forbearance (συγγνώμην) of setting forth my counsel with frankness (μετὰ παρρησίας): for I am Spartan, and I speak with the words of a Spartan (Σπαρτιάτης γὰρ ὢν καὶ τὸν λόγον ἔχω Σπαρτιάτην). (13.28.2–3)

The dichotomy between logoi and erga is conventional, and is repeated later in his speech (13.32.2). Worth noting, however, is the use of the verb

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μεταδιδάσκειν to suggest ‘instruction afterwards’, as opposed to the kind of prior debate or instruction prided in Athenian democratic ideology.51 This is a point which identifies Gylippus’ opposition, both political and ideological, to the ideals of Classical Athens, and which insinuates that Nicolaus had, using facile logoi after the fact, convinced the Syracusans to suppress the punishment dictated by the erga. The claim to speaking with παρρησία is another attempt at negation, an implicit accusation that Nicolaus had not been speaking honestly. But Gylippus’ further clarification of his claim to παρρησία as a Spartan speaking with the words of a Spartan is problematic. It was a major part of Athenian ideological self-definition against Sparta that Spartans, unlike Athenians, did not possess παρρησία.52 Apart from Gylippus’ claim, the only instance in which a Spartan speaks with παρρησία in Diodorus is in fact in Athens (12.6.3). In Diodorus more broadly, παρρησία is not just a marker of freedom within a given society, in the basic sense of freedom of expression and also the broader sense of having a status of full social rights, but is particularly associated with figures such as poets and philosophers, whose παρρησία carries an intellectual weight.53 It is also a historiographical ideology in Diodorus, referring to the historian’s duty to judge figures from history for the didactic benefit of his readership.54 Gylippus does not satisfy any of the usual Diodoran criteria for παρρησία. Unless it should be seen as an indicator of how democratic Diodorus thought the Syracusan state was in 413 BCE, similar to the Athens in which Spartans could speak with παρρησία, then Gylippus’ claim to παρρησία is intellectually dishonest, highlighting which for the reader was perhaps Diodorus’ intention. Either way, it is an effective rhetorical gambit with which to open Gylippus’ speech, as the claim to a habitual Spartan openness through the idea of παρρησία negates Nicolaus’ emphasis on the uniqueness of Athens’ openness and free-natured society. This opening reference to a Spartan exemplum, however counterfactual, thus undermines the potency of the Athenian paradigm established by Nicolaus. Gylippus’ first engagement with the notion of φιλανθρωπία occurs in an argument denying the status of suppliants to the Athenians, for which Nicolaus had earlier argued: But they have ceased to be called enemies and have become suppliants: on what basis has this concession of humanity been granted to them (πόθεν αὐτοῖς ταύτης τῆς φιλανθρωπίας συγκεχωρημένης)? For those who initially devised the usages ordained mercy (ἔλεον) for the unfortunates but retribution for those committing injustices out of depravity (διὰ πονηρίαν). In which of the two categories are we to set the captives? In that of the unfortunates? But what fortune coerced them into 51 52 53 54

See e.g. Thuc. 2.40.2; cf. Hornblower 1991: 305; Hesk 2000: 167. Cf. e.g. Dem. 20.106, with Kremmydas 2012: 213–14. Rights: e.g. 1.78.2, 3.53.2, 4.74.2, 18.69.3–4. Intellectuals: e.g. 9.2.2, 15.6, 15.7.1, 15.52.2. Cf. Sacks 1990: 34–5.

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committing the first wrongdoing, into making war against the Syracusans, abandoning the peace praised by all men, to arrive at your city with the aim of destruction? Therefore let those who willingly chose an unjust war endure its harshness with strong spirit, and do not let those who, if they had conquered, would have preserved an unaltering savagery (ἀπαραίτητον…ὠμότητα) towards you, but now that they have been beaten, beg exemption from punishment through the humane norms of supplication (τοῖς τῆς ἱκεσίας φιλανθρώποις). (13.29.3–5)

Here Gylippus twice acknowledges that granting suppliant status is an act of φιλανθρωπία. This confirms Nicolaus’ earlier characterization that the Athenian development of ordinances on suppliants is to be considered an aspect of their φιλανθρωπία. Ἔλεος, too, is again made into a product of φιλανθρωπία in the sense that it is typically extended to those of suppliant status. But Gylippus attempts to deny the φιλανθρωπία of suppliant status to the Athenian captives, thus also precluding that they receive ἔλεος at Syracusan hands. Gylippus’ reference to the people who first devised laws on suppliants is clearly in agreement with Nicolaus’ praise of Athens for this institution, but he uses this fact to subvert the claim to suppliant status: the Athenians do not merit this designation, even by their own laws, since they are not unfortunate but merely unsuccessful in their wrongdoing. Thus it is on legalistic grounds that Gylippus negates the extension of the φιλανθρωπία of suppliant status to the Athenians.55 Gylippus next engages with the notion of φιλανθρωπία in describing Athenian treatment of other cities, immediately after citing Athens’ past judgement on Mytilene (13.30.3–5: see section 9.2): And what do I say about the Melians, whom they besieged, forced to surrender, and slaughtered from the youth upwards; and the Scionaeans, with whom they shared kinship (συγγενεῖς) but who shared a common fate with the Melians? The result was that two peoples that fell foul of Attic anger (Ἀττικὴν ὀργήν) did not even have anyone to attend to their dead. It was not Scythians that did this, but the people that lay a claim to excel in humanity utterly destroying these cities by popular decree (ὁ προσποιούμενος φιλανθρωπίᾳ διαφέρειν δῆμος ψηφίσμασι τὰς πόλεις ἄρδην ἀνῄρηκεν). Consider what they would have done if they had sacked the city of the Syracusans: for men who treated their kin so savagely (ὠμῶς) would devise a still more severe punishment for those with whom they share no kinship. (13.30.6–7)

Gylippus contends that the Athenians themselves claim to surpass others in φιλανθρωπία, that it is asserted in their self-identity. Nicolaus had earlier identified φιλανθρωπία with the Athenian state, effectively integrating it into 55 On the grounds of Gylippus’ arguments in the context of ancient rationales for denying supplicant status, the thrust of which is that Athenian actions represent a ‘war crime’, see Naiden 2006: 144–6.

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the ideal of Athens he developed. But nowhere had Nicolaus specifically identified an Athenian claim to φιλανθρωπία, much less a φιλανθρωπία superior to other states; he had, though, identified ἡμερότης as a claim that Athens boasted (13.23.7), perhaps a variation on the Isocratean stress on a distinctive Athenian πραότης.56 Although he is perhaps commuting this ἡμερότης into φιλανθρωπία for the sake of his arguments, it seems more likely that Gylippus, in response to Nicolaus’ attempt to do the same, is referring selectively to Classical Athenian ideological projections. Here Gylippus seems to refer not to the Isocratean φιλανθρωπία of benefaction that Nicolaus had evoked, but rather to the kind of political and military φιλανθρωπία that was a distinctly Athenian virtue in Demosthenes,57 by which Athens was characterized as the protector of, never the unlawful aggressor towards, other states. In so referring, he suggests the hypocrisy of this ideology of ethical political and military φιλανθρωπία by adducing actions that are demonstrably contrary to it: the total destruction of Melos and Scione, not to mention the decision regarding Mytilene. This selective use of an opposing ideological standard, contingent on an understanding of φιλανθρωπία that is entirely different from Nicolaus’, is reinforced by reference to an Athenian terminology of decision-making. He asserts that the Athenians did not just destroy Melos and Scione, but that they did so collectively, through ψηφίσματα, decrees formulated on the basis of a majority vote in the assembly. Thus he argues that the enactment of values contrary to φιλανθρωπία was a democratic one, made by the entire people of Athens, and by extension that the very nature of the democratic apparatus condemns all the Athenian captives: just as their decisions are made collectively, so too should the punishment for their unjust acts be shared. Thus, in response to Nicolaus’ Isocratean ideology of φιλανθρωπία, Gylippus marshals a different ideology, exemplified by Demosthenes, as well as the actual practice of Classical Athenian democracy, as rhetorical weapons against the Athenians. Through these arguments Gylippus’ speech instantiates another dimension of the Athenian Debate’s construction of two very different pictures of Classical Athens. It might also be said that this ideological contest reproduces the continuing debate over, and reinterpretation of, civic virtues of the kind to which Demosthenes himself had contributed in the fourth century.58 Gylippus does not just negate, however, Nicolaus’ construction of Athenian φιλανθρωπία by evoking an opposing paradigm. Rather, by imputing a habitual ὠμότης, Gylippus goes further and characterizes Athenian actions as

56

See e.g. Isoc. 10.37, 12.56, 14.17, with Christ 2013: 204 and n. 12; cf. Dem. 22.51, 57; 24.196. Christ 2013: 202–22, esp. 204: he makes the point that, unlike Demosthenes, Isocrates does not attempt to develop the idea that φιλανθρωπία is a characteristic Athenian virtue. 58 See Christ 2013: 202–22, esp. 218–20. 57

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fundamentally antithetical to φιλανθρωπία.59 This has ramifications beyond the parameters of this specific debate and the rebuttal of Nicolaus, as twice Gylippus connects Athenian ὠμότης to a non-Greek character. When referencing the original Athenian decision to destroy Mytilene, he calls it a ‘cruel and barbarous act’ (ὠμόν τε καὶ βάρβαρον τὸ πεπραγμένον: 13.30.3–5), and when describing the Athenian atrocities at Melos and Scione as representing savage treatment (ὠμῶς) towards their kin, he asserts that ‘it was not Scythians that did this, but the people that lay a claim to excel in humanity’ (οὐ Σκύθαι τοῦτ᾽ ἔπραξαν, ἀλλ᾽ ὁ προσποιούμενος φιλανθρωπίᾳ διαφέρειν δῆμος: 13.30.7). This association of ‘savagery’ with uncivilization and non-Greekness crucially problematizes, even denies, the exemplarity of Athens established by Nicolaus: Athens cannot be a paradigm of Greek culture and identity if it does not even exemplify these in its actions. The logical corollary of Gylippus’ point, that φιλανθρωπία connotes Greekness, fits well in a late first-century context in which Diodorus’ near-contemporary, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, also understood Hellenic identity as rooted not just in ethnicity but also, and perhaps more importantly, in actions which demonstrate a civilized Greek character.60 The connotation of Greek identity that was imbued in the term φιλανθρωπία illustrates its force as an evaluative terminology and as a rhetorical strategy. Moreover, Gylippus’ use of φιλανθρωπία in this way is also to be connected to his Demosthenic modelling, as it is well-rooted in Demosthenes’ denial of φιλανθρωπία to expansionist foreign powers that he considered to be nonGreek, for instance in his characterization of Philip of Macedon’s pretence at φιλανθρωπία obscuring his underlying, real ὠμότης (18.231).61 This understanding of φιλανθρωπία as a performative assertion of Greek identity, and conversely ὠμότης of barbarism, thus illustrates another layer of Gylippus’ indebtedness to Classical Athenian models opposed to those evoked by Nicolaus. Gylippus’ speech does share a conception of φιλανθρωπία with Nicolaus’ inasmuch as he characterizes pity for suppliants and the granting of suppliant status as acts or extensions of φιλανθρωπία, which agrees with Nicolaus’ characterization of the legendary Athenian development of suppliant laws. However, what is lacking in Nicolaus’ speech, despite the persistence and

59 On ὠμότης as antithetical to φιλανθρωπία, see Dover 1974, 202–3; Kremmydas 2012: 377–8; Christ 2013: 209; Canevaro 2016a: 370–2. The clearest articulation of this opposition is perhaps Dem. 20.109, in reference to Theban treatment of Orchomenus: μεῖζον, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, Θηβαῖοι φρονοῦσιν ἐπ᾽ ὠμότητι καὶ πονηρίᾳ ἢ ὑμεῖς ἐπὶ φιλανθρωπίᾳ καὶ τῷ τὰ δίκαια βούλεσθαι. 60 See Wiater, Chapter 10 in this volume. In particular, at Ant. Rom. 14.6.3–6, we see a very similar association of ὠμότης and barbarism as antithetical to φιλανθρωπία in an assessment of both Athenian and Spartan actions in the Classical period. 61 See also Christ 2013: 206–7 and n. 21. Interestingly, at Dem. 16.16–17, Sparta is the state characterized as pretending to φιλανθρωπία.

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lexical variety of his plea for moderation, is an assertion that the Athenians possessed φιλανθρωπία in the sense of humane ethics in their political and military behaviour. Instead, his assertion of Athenian φιλανθρωπία is anchored in a framework of cultural and educational achievements and benefaction that derives from figures such as Isocrates. When Gylippus adduces past harshness in Athenian treatment of other states such as Melos and Scione, he thus exploits the gap in Nicolaus’ argumentation by utilizing φιλανθρωπία in a way that does constitute political and military ethics as its principal framework, in a way that derives from figures such as Demosthenes. In using this countertradition of φιλανθρωπία, however, Gylippus does not just take a different tack in his strategy but also minimizes the importance of the cultural and educational φιλανθρωπία established by Nicolaus. So, it seems to be the argument, although the Athenians might have had a philanthropic character in their legendary past, their recent past proves that they are entirely lacking in the virtue in its more important and more fundamental sense. By extension there is also an attack on the epitaphic ideologies that are resonant in Nicolaus’ speech, that the legendary Athenian past and the Classical Athenian present are a continuum, which Gylippus negates by exposing their disparity with the actual practice of Athenian imperialism. That he does all this through a construction of φιλανθρωπία again reaffirms the term’s evaluative power in reference to the Classical Athenian state.

9.5 J UDGING THE ATHEN IAN D EBATE Throughout his work Diodorus is ambivalent about the value of democracy. He sometimes praises democracy, especially in exemplary cases in which it functions well such as Thurii (12.11). He generally seems to think more positively of democracies than tyrannies in Syracusan history in particular,62 as indeed he prefers them to oligarchies, such as the regime of the Four Hundred in Athens of 411 BCE (13.36.2–3); he explicitly comments that proponents of the suitability of oligarchy to the circumstances of 411 were proven wrong. Zeus is the figure to bring democracy and ἰσότης to the world in one place in the Bibliotheke (5.71.2), part of a narrative of culture heroism which is allegorically connected to Zeus’ slaughter of mythical monsters troubling mankind such as the Giants; here democracy is implicitly connected to ideas of human civilization. These examples are not indicative of a permanent and exclusive disapproval of democracy, and it seems that Diodorus does not deny in theory the positive functioning of democratic states. 62

e.g. 11.68.5–6, 11.72, 16.11.3–5, 16.70.4–5.

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In practice, however, Diodorus seems to perceive an inherent potential fallibility to the democratic system. When he criticizes democracy, he does so with what might be called an elite perspective, in that he suggests that the popular dimension of democracy problematizes the work of government and decision-making. Thus he opines that in democracies directionless citizens march into the ekklesia and ‘cause ruin’ (λυμαίνονται) to πολιτεία (1.74.7), here to be understood as ‘government’ or ‘administration’, referring to decision-making processes. He speaks of the Peloponnesian states after the demise of the Spartan hegemony acting ‘foolishly’ (ἀπειραγάθως) now that they were democracies, unused to making decisions democratically, even creating false charges against prominent citizens (15.40.1–2). Similarly, when Athenian δημοτικώτατοι came to office in the turbulent period of conflict between Cassander and Polyperchon they put to death many leading citizens, notably Phocion (18.65.4–6). Perhaps most revealing is Diodorus’ comment, when the Rhodians decided to retain statues of Antigonus and Demetrius even though they had been besieged by them in 305 BCE, on the praise that accrued to the Rhodians on account of ‘the high-mindedness and steadfastness of this decision in a democracy’ (μεγαλοψυχία καὶ τὸ βέβαιον τῆς ἐν δημοκρατίᾳ κρίσεως: 20.93.7). Clearly, in Diodorus’ eyes, wisdom was not typical of democratic decision-making, or perhaps more precisely was unusual in a democracy put to the test by difficult circumstances. Similarly, he speaks of the appointment of Dionysius of Syracuse as strategos autokrator as the result of the masses opting for the worse course of action, ‘as they typically do’ (ὥσπερ εἰώθασιν: 13.95.1). This last example connects Diodorus’ generally poor view of the decisionmaking ability of the masses with the further criticism that democratic states facilitate the rise of dangerous demagogues. He considers it almost axiomatic that certain men rise to positions of dominance in democracies and come to tyrannize the people (19.1.1–8). Thus Agathocles gains power in Syracuse by pretending to support democracy, using this pretence to win popular support as a basis for furthering his ambitions (19.5.4–5, 19.9.1–3). Even wellintentioned public figures are apt to become demagogues: Hamilcar became corrupted by his popularity among the masses and became induced to demagoguery (25.8), as indeed Gaius Gracchus became corrupted by the depth of his popular support in his attempt to establish democracy (34/5.25). Moreover, demagoguery compounds the inherently poor decision-making ability of the demos, unduly influencing policy, often with ruinous consequences. Thus Diodorus speaks of δημαγωγοί inciting charges against wealthy and wellregarded citizens in Argos, leading to a protracted internal conflict (15.58.1). The use of the Mytilenian Debate as a model for the Athenian Debate can be considered very much in light of Diodorus’ views on democracy. What is at issue in the Mytilenian Debate is not just the fate of Mytilene but also the nature of decision-making in a democracy and the propriety of certain types of

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rhetoric to different contexts.63 In both Cleon’s and Diodotus’ speeches a major point of concern is the subsceptibility of the Athenian people to making bad decisions as a result of external influences, especially populist rhetoric, and in both there is a tension between different oratorical styles. The Athenian Debate and its outcome are ultimately the logical extensions of these points. Through the Cleon-inspired and principally forensic rhetoric of Gylippus the Syracusans make the decision to punish the Athenians harshly, an inverse of the clement Athenian decision on Mytilene which had resulted from the triumph of Diodotus’ principally deliberative rhetoric. The extensive use of the Thucydidean model makes implicit the idea that the Mytilenian Debate could easily have resulted in a similar outcome, and did not only because of the persuasive power of one man’s arguments. The inverted outcome that results from the Athenian Debate, in which the Syracusan people change their mind twice, swayed first by Nicolaus’ arguments and then by Gylippus’, likewise exposes the subsceptibility of the democratic process to harmful rhetoric. This modelling on the Mytilenian Debate makes it clear that Syracuse is not the sole target for this criticism and that the same inherent fallibility extends to Athens. In its use of the Mytilenian Debate, the Athenian Debate can thus be seen as a specific criticism of the integrity of democratic decision-making and the processes behind it. The very same openness and free nature of democratic Athens lauded by Nicolaus was also the fertile ground for the disproportionate influence of rhetoric and, by extension, demagogues. Despite the encomiastic vision of the Athenian past forwarded in Nicolaus’ speech, the debate develops a subtle criticism of Classical Athens’ form of government. The qualities that Nicolaus beseeches the Syracusans to demonstrate are the very same principles endorsed, repeatedly, and with no great degree of variation, throughout the Bibliotheke. Φιλανθρωπία, as well as ἐπιείκεια, is a virtue frequently lauded by Diodorus in his analyses of political behaviour.64 Συγγνώμη, too, is recurrently endorsed in preference to τιμωρία by Diodorus, and is often a product of ἐπιείκεια;65 he even ascribes to Pittacus of Mytilene the gnomic pronouncement that συγγνώμη τιμωρίας αἱρετωτέρα (‘pardon is preferable to retribution’: 9.12.3).66 One argument in particular from Nicolaus’ speech (13.22.7–8) parallels Diodorus’ own assessment of Rhodian actions in Book 20 of the Bibliotheke (20.93.6–7): in both cases, the theme is how others will regard one party attempting to conquer another that had acted reasonably towards it, and in the latter case Diodorus notes that the reasonable actions were done intelligently (συνετῶς) for this very reason of external perception, paralleling the issue of δόξα stressed from the outset of 63

64 See again Harris 2013b: 94–109. Sacks 1990: 42–54; cf. Sanders 1987: 162–3 n. 25. e.g. 9.12.1–2, 15.92.5, 16.20.1–2, 17.76.1–2. 66 The aphorism recurs persistently in Diodorus, e.g. 21.9, 21.14.3, 31.3.1, 32.27.3; cf. Sacks 1990: 104. 65

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Nicolaus’ speech (13.20.5).67 Nicolaus’ praise of Gelon (13.22.4) is mirrored in Diodorus’ own assessments elsewhere (e.g. 11.22–3). Nicolaus’ assertion of Athenian contributions to the κοινὸς βίος is also interconnected with the universalistic understanding of κοινὸς βίος throughout Diodorus’ work.68 More unique notions, such as ὁμοπάθεια in particular, which is not used in any prior extant work but occurs as a possible fragment of Aristotelian thought in Athenaeus,69 are nonetheless seamlessly worked into the recurrent idea of the application of humane treatment on universalistic grounds: ἔλεος is due ‘on account of the common shared feeling of nature’ (διὰ τὴν κοινὴν τῆς φύσεως ὁμοπάθειαν: 13.24.2). Overall it is fundamentally clear that Diodorus’ own views lie with the humane treatment advocated in Nicolaus’ speech. But this authorial alignment is perhaps contributory to the critique of democracy. The failure of Nicolaus’ words, and Diodorus’ perspective, marks the extent of the openness of democratic decision-making to rhetoric that is harmful to it. This is not to say, however, that in Nicolaus’ failure, and by extension in the failure of his Isocratean model, we are to read a pessimistic view of contemporary political cultures and of the potential of states to act in accordance with Diodoran political ethics. Diodorus used exempla of praise and blame to instruct his readers, and in so doing attempted to provide a consistent notion of causation for the rise and fall of empires that would serve as a didactic model.70 This notion of causation, articulated throughout the Bibliotheke, shares an essential basis with Nicolaus’ arguments, which pinpoint specific actions which could result in a future Syracusan hegemony. Nicolaus’ speech thus applies to the specific circumstances of 413 BCE Diodorus’ broader instructive agenda, and in this way we can read Nicolaus as the mouthpiece for Diodoran political ethics. The failure of the Syracusans to heed this advice marks their unsuitability to empire, and the denial of an imperialist future for Syracuse further affirms the extent to which democratic decision-making was harmful to a state. However, although the case of the Athenian Debate is thus negatively instructive, this exemplum had the potential for a positive outcome. Had Nicolaus’ arguments been heeded and had Athens been treated clemently, Syracuse would have risen to a greatness characterized by their own demonstration of φιλανθρωπία. As Nicolaus urges: Do not begrudge (μὴ φθονήσητε) our county being acclaimed among all mankind (περιβόητον…παρὰ πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις), that it triumphed over the Athenians not only in arms but also in humanity (οὐ μόνον τοῖς ὅπλοις, ἀλλὰ καὶ τῇ φιλανθρωπίᾳ). (13.22.6) 67

Also cf. 27.17.1, a generalizing assertion on the effects to reputation of harsh treatment. See Sacks 1990: 11 n. 12, 64, 81, 106. 69 Athen. 15.675a; cf. Konstan 2001: 90, arguing that the notion of a κοινὴ ὁμοπάθεια might owe something to Stoic thought. 70 cf. Sacks 1990: 42–54; 1994 213–32. 68

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This was an opportunity, then, not just for the Syracusans to enact the moderate politics endorsed by Diodorus, but also for them to eclipse, through this enactment, the φιλανθρωπία that Nicolaus had constructed as the defining characteristic of Classical Athens. The universality of the acclaim that would have accrued to the Syracusans parallels the very same universality of the Athenian paradigm, as represented most strikingly in the characterization of Athens as a παιδευτήριον πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις. Syracuse could very well, therefore, through this one momentous act, have transcended Athenian exemplarity itself and enjoyed a similar universal stature and reputation in the culture of Diodorus’ era. This is a bold assertion by Diodorus of the power and significance of his own political ethics, yet it is simultaneously, as with the invocation of the Athenian paradigm in the παιδευτήριον at Marseilles, a reification of Athenian exemplarity: the attempt to transpose the paradigm is nonetheless a solidification of its legitimacy and authority. Despite this, Diodorus’ belief in the achievability of surpassing Athenian φιλανθρωπία has significant ramifications for the future, given that he viewed the causation behind developments in world history in much the same terms throughout the whole Bibliotheke. The matter of the Athenian captives in 413 BCE could be replicated in another context, and accordingly the choice between two paths would present itself once more. In this vein we can compare the speech of Nicolaus with the depiction of Scipio Africanus in Book 27 of the Bibliotheke (27.6.1–2),71 who treated the Numidian king Syphax humanely (φιλανθρώπως ὡμίλει: 27.6.1–2), with a due regard for the power of τύχη and the nature of human life (ἀνθρώπινον βίον) and human weakness (ἀσθενεία), and exercised ἔλεος and ἐπιείκεια. Here Scipio enacts Diodorus’ views on correct political conduct, becoming a positive exemplum of Diodoran ethics. There are also fragments of a debate in which Scipio was involved (27.13–18), perhaps before the Roman Senate, which, even though fragmentary, bears striking similarity to Nicolaus’ speech. This debate seems to concern the future Roman treatment of Carthaginian prisoners of war, perhaps also the issue of prospective peace terms with Carthage,72 providing a neat parallel to the circumstances of the Athenian Debate. Essentially the same virtues advocated in Nicolaus’ speech, and described in Scipio’s treatment of Syphax, are argued by the moderate speaker, probably Scipio, in this Roman debate (27.13–17), although unlike in the Athenian Debate the moderate course of action prevails. This Roman debate thus 71

Cf. Konstan 2001: 90–1. It has been suggested that this debate was a consideration of Scipio’s treaty with Carthage at the end of the Second Punic War (see Eckstein 1987: 261; Sacks 1990: 104), which is probably true (especially on comparison with App. Pun. 57–61), but the narrative of the speeches occurs immediately after recording that the Carthaginians had been driven into Roman hands by a storm and Scipio’s declaration that the Romans must not perpetrate the same atrocities in this instance as the Carthaginians had been accused of (27.12.1–2). 72

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functions as a didactic analogue for the Athenian Debate, but one in which Rome does enact, through the advice of the exemplum of Scipio, Diodorus’ views on political conduct. The didactic value of the Athenian Debate, as illustrated through the Roman debate, remained potentially applicable to Roman politics. More recent and indeed contemporary with Diodorus’ time was Julius Caesar, whom Diodorus likewise regarded with high admiration, as he, like Scipio, enacted the virtues Diodorus considered most beneficial in political conduct.73 Conspicuously lacking in Scipio’s Roman debate, however, is the sustained emphasis on φιλανθρωπία that is distinctive in the Athenian Debate, save where the arguer against Carthage contends that φιλανθρωπία is not fitting for the perpetrator of savage deeds (ὠμότητα πράξας: 27.18.1)—an argument closely reminiscent of Gylippus’, evoking the same antithesis between φιλανθρωπία and ὠμότης. This missing emphasis on φιλανθρωπία is perhaps simply a product of the fragmentation of the narrative; but perhaps it is owing to Diodorus’ own selective judgement that the Athenian Debate provides the most extensive voiced discussion on φιλανθρωπία anywhere in the Bibliotheke. I have illustrated above the models of and argumentative force that conceptions of φιλανθρωπία had in Nicolaus’ and Gylippus’ speeches, and these suggest that φιλανθρωπία had a particularly applicable explanatory power in reference to the Classical Athenian state. Moreover, the culturally universal exemplarity that Athens was associated with in first-century thought, as also evinced by Dionysius of Halicarnassus,74 makes φιλανθρωπία, a word with essential universalistic meaning, a particularly appropriate choice for an evaluative criterion. The length of the speeches in the Athenian Debate, unmatched in the Bibliotheke, is also testimony to Athens’ exemplarity: under consideration is the fate of the city that is an emblem and progenitor of Greek civilization. Related to this is the didactic value of the debate: even a debate on Classical Athens has an instructive value in later ages, just as Athens itself was constructed as a paradigm of education. The fact that the wrong decision is made after the Athenian Debate, and the Athenian state experiences so great a punishment, is contributory to its didactic importance. This was a crucial moment in history, in which a momentously wrong decision could have been averted had Diodoran views on political conduct been enacted by the Syracusans. It is this point which has perhaps the greatest significance and resonance in Diodorus’ first-century environment. In an era of civil war, political decisions such as the one under consideration in the Athenian Debate had a much greater, worldwide impact: with the rise in power of the Roman warring elite there came a concomitant

73 74

Cf. Sacks 1990: 73–6; Konstan 2001: 91, 98–9. For which see Wiater, Chapter 10 in this volume.

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increase in the impact of their decision-making.75 Diodoran political ethics, unsuccessfully pleaded by Nicolaus in the Athenian Debate, still remained achievable for Roman politicians, as the great Scipio and the more recent Julius Caesar had demonstrated. Just like the potential of the moment in 413 BCE, in the future the Athenian paradigm could be emulated, perhaps even eclipsed. And perhaps in such an underlying didactic message there is yet another assertion of the primacy of Greek cultural identity that is mediated through the Athenian exemplum: if φιλανθρωπία is a performative assertion of Greekness, then the advice to enact this virtue is simultaneously a call for the Romans to become Greek through their political decision-making.76

75

Cf. Konstan 2001: 97. Note here Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ views on the Romans and his characterization of Rome as the new centre of the oikoumene, for which see Wiater, Chapter 10 in this volume. 76

10 Getting Over Athens Re-Writing Hellenicity in the Early Roman History of Dionysius of Halicarnassus Nicolas Wiater

10.1 INTRODUCTION Scholarly discussion of Dionysius’ historical work has—understandably— been centred on his interpretation of the Romans.1 Yet, given that this interpretation is based on the assumption that the Romans achieved and maintained a Greek character and life-style, a βίος Ἕλλην, as Dionysius puts it at 1.90.1,2 by way of constant reference to Greek customs, values, and institutions,3 the image of the Greek world that emerges from the Antiquities has so far received remarkably little attention. In fact, there is, to my knowledge, only one attempt to explore this topic systematically, namely Anouk Delcourt’s chapter on ‘Denys et le monde grec’ in her 2005 monograph Lecture des Antiquités romaines de Denys d’Halicarnasse.4 The problem with Delcourt’s discussion, as valuable and helpful as it is otherwise, is that she, like virtually all scholars before and after her, including myself, simply take it for granted that the ‘Classicist’ Dionysius had an ‘idealized’ view of the Classical Greek past: ‘L’Athènes qu’évoquent les Antiquités romaines, c’est la cité glorieuse de l’époque classique, celle que depuis Isocrate il est d’usage de 1 See, e.g., Gabba 1991; Fox 1996: 49–95; Fromentin 1998: esp. xxvii–xxxiv, xli–xlv; Pelling 2007, albeit with brief remarks about Dionysius’ Greek readers at 253–4; Peirano 2010; Wiater 2011a: 165–223; Schultze 2012. 2 Dionysius’s Antiquities are cited from Jacoby’s Teubneriana (Stuttgart and Leipzig 1885–1905, repr. 1995–97), his critical works are quoted from Aujac’s Budé edition (5 vols. Paris 1978–92). Translations of the critical works are from Usher’s and translations of the Antiquities from Paton’s Loeb, adapted as necessary. 3 See Wiater 2011a: 165–98, 168 (with further references). 4 Delcourt 2005: 129–95, esp. 157–74 on Athens; but note Peirano 2010: 43–4.

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considérer comme la championne de la civilisation.’5 This statement is surprising in light of the numerous passages (of which Delcourt is aware) in which Dionysius names and criticizes the shortcomings of the Classical Athenian political system, often combined with an emphasis on the superiority of the Roman institutions over their Greek models. Delcourt deals with these contradictions by shifting the focus of her inquiry and treating the negative elements of Dionysius’ representation of Classical Athens as a sort of ‘contrastive foil’ which somehow, she claims, enhances the positive image of Rome without diminishing that of Athens.6 In this chapter, I adopt the opposite approach: instead of trying to save the idea of an ‘idealizing’ image of Classical Athenian politics in the Antiquities, I propose to explore the implications of the numerous ambiguities and contradictions in Dionysius’ image of the Classical city. My main contention is that Dionysius’ relationship with the Classical past is informed by two contradictory forces that balance each other: on the one hand, the depiction of Rome as a new, and often more successful, Athens results, as Delcourt has well noted, in a mutual reinforcement of the prestige of both cities.7 Athens, and the Greek world in general, remain the main point of reference for the Romans throughout the Antiquities, and Dionysius leaves no doubt that they constitute the standard against which Rome and the Romans are to be measured and to which alone the Romans owe their identity as well as their historical significance.8 From that point of view, Dionysius’ representation of both Romans and (Classical) Athenians does, indeed, re-assert the importance of the Isocratean ‘master narrative’ of Athenian superiority.9

5 Delcourt 2005: 174; cf. her chapter titles p. 156 (‘Athènes et Sparte, la perfection classique’) and 157 (‘Athènes, ou l’école de l’excellence’). 6 Delcourt 2005: 174: ‘Ces comparaisons qui tournent à la faveur de Rome participent davantage, pensons-nous, du projet dionysien de valorisation de l’Urbs que d’une attitude anti-athénienne […]’. 7 Delcourt 2005: 163 (with reference to Dionysius’ using Greek alongside Roman chronologies): ‘en mêlant intimement histoire romaine et temps athénien, il tend à attribuer à l’une le prestige de l’autre’. 8 Wiater 2011a: 107–10, 218–23; cf. Delcourt 2005: 167. Dionysius maintains the distinction between ‘Romans’ and ‘Greeks’ (Ἕλληνες) throughout his work (references in Wiater 2011a: 218–20). I have done the same for the most part, but where Dionysius distinguishes between the old Athenian and the new Roman paradigm of Greekness (see section 10.2 in particular) it seemed helpful to speak of ‘Roman Greeks’ (as opposed to Greeks from Athens or, indeed, Halicarnassus). 9 See Delcourt’s statement cited on in the previous paragraph; on the central importance of Isocrates in Dionysian Classicism see Hidber 1996: 44–51; Wiater 2011a: 65–77, and 149–54, on the Antiquities as ‘Isocratean historiography’. On the ‘ “Athenocentric” conception of the world’ that emerges in the late fifth century, see Hall 2002: 202–3: ‘Athens, the new self-appointed arbiter of cultural authenticity[,] sits at the centre of Hellas and the relative position of other Greek city-states on the Helleno-barbarian continuum is measured in terms of their convergence or non-convergence with Athenian-determined cultural norms.’ On Isocrates’ role in this process see Hall 2002: 207–10; Most 2006.

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At the same time, however, I will argue, using Athens to bolster a positive image of Rome does affect the positive image of Athens and, to a certain extent, undermines it. Rome taking the place in the present world that was occupied by Athens in the past, affects Athens’ status as a cultural paradigm: Dionysius’ narrative of early Rome reinforces the Isocratean ‘master narrative’ as much as it seeks to overcome it. This process of ‘emancipation’, as it were, goes hand in hand with a new concept of Greek identity that emerges from Dionysius’ notion of the Hellenicity of the Romans. The Antiquities can be described as proposing a ‘script’10 that allows Greek immigrants like himself, who have chosen to leave behind the old, Athens-centred Greek world to live in the new, Rome-centred one, to overcome their allegiances to their Greek places of origin; instead, they are offered a narrative in which Greekness is bound up with the culture, politics, and morals of Rome, and one which allows Greeks to re-define themselves as being an integral part of a larger community that spans the entire oikoumene. Dionysius, to put it differently, invites his Greek readers to follow his own journey (in the literal and metaphorical sense) from Halicarnassus to Rome to adopt a new paradigm of Greekness that is as much indebted to their origins as it requires them to transcend them;11 he invites them to become Roman Greeks.

10.2 ‘T H E CI T Y WI T H TH E G R E A TE S T RE NOWN’: THE AMBIGUITIES OF ‘ H E LL E NI ZATI ON’ IN D I O N Y S I U S’ NARRATIVE Significantly and perhaps surprisingly, a seemingly unambiguous, positive view of Classical Athenian political institutions is found only in the speeches Dionysius attributes to his historical figures. Repeatedly, Roman politicians

10 I borrow this term from Appiah 2005: 108, who conceives of collective identities as ‘scripts: narratives that people use in shaping their pursuits and in telling their life stories’; I also draw on Richard Rorty’s concept of identity as a continuous process of re-description, e.g., Rorty 1989: xvi, 7, 27–8, 78–82. 11 As Dionysius explains at 1.8.3, his primary addressees are highly educated specialist readers who are either active politicians or experts in political theory and philosophy: καὶ τοῖς περὶ τοὺς πολιτικοὺς διατρίβουσι λόγους καὶ τοῖς περὶ τὴν φιλόσοφον ἐσπουδακόσι θεωρίαν; Dionysius acknowledges that some people might just want to read his work for amusement (καὶ εἴ τισιν ἀοχλήτου δεήσει διαγωγῆς ἐν ἱστορικοῖς ἀναγνώσμασιν), but the pleasure resulting from his narrative is merely a by-product of the variety of material which he covers and by no means the main purpose of his work. On this passage see Nicolas Wiater, ‘ΕΞ ΑΠΑΣΗΣ ΙΔΕΑΣ ΜΙΚΤΟΝ: Dionysius of Halicarnassus on the Design of his Historical Work’ (in preparation); meanwhile, cf. Fromentin 1993. Dionysius clearly envisages ‘upper-class Roman’ (Bowersock 1965: 131; cf. Luraghi 2003: 281, 283) as well as educated Greek readers (Bowersock 1965: 131; Schultze 1986: 138–9; Delcourt 2005: 65–9).

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refer to Athens and her polity as a paradigm to convince their audience of their plans. But as I will argue in this section, the seemingly uncontested superiority of Athens as historical example is often rendered problematic by the context. My discussion will be centred on two examples of Roman speakers appropriating Athens as a paradigm for Rome at crucial points of Rome’s political history: the big rhetorical agon between Tullus Hostilius and Mettius Fufetius about whether Alba or her colony Rome should lead the Latins,12 at 3.10–11, and the debate about Rome’s constitution after the expulsion of the last king, Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, at the end of the fourth book (4.72–5).

10.2.1 A Paradigm Made to Order: Athens in the Conflict between Rome and Alba Under king Tullus Hostilius, Rome’s power and prosperity have grown to such an extent as to bring her into conflict with Alba Longa, her mother city and up to that point the most powerful city among the Latins. On the brink of war between Alba and her colony, Tullus and Mettius Fufetius, the leader of Alba, learn that Veiï and Fidenae, their common enemies, are planning to exploit the conflict between Rome and Alba and eliminate their two most powerful competitors at one blow. The two leaders therefore decide to put the hostilities on hold and find an alternative way to settle the conflict about which city has the right to lead the Latins. Their first attempt to do so is the agon of two speeches at 3.10–11, in which each leader endeavours to convince the other that his own city is superior to that of the other. Athens features prominently in the second speech of this rhetorical duel, Tullus Hostilius’ reply to the case for Alban leadership presented by Mettius Fufetius. It is in order to counter one of Fufetius’ key arguments against Roman superiority that Tullus, in an Isocratean turn of phrase, invokes the ‘paradigm’ (παράδειγμα, 11.4) of Athens,13 ‘which enjoys the greatest reputation among the Greeks’. Fufetius had argued that the Romans had corrupted their ethnic ‘authenticity’ (τὸ γνήσιον, 3.10.4) by integrating too many foreigners into their citizenry. Tullus now contradicts his allegation by pointing out that Athens’ fame (κλέος) is based precisely on the fact that the Athenians generously integrated foreigners into their society (11.4), thus aligning his position with that represented by Pericles in the Funeral Oration in Thucydides’ Histories.14 12 3.7.2–11.11; 12.1: τὰ μὲν δὴ λεχθέντα περὶ τῆς ἡγεμονίας τῶν πόλεων δικαιώματα. See Richard 1993; Fox 1996: 82–92. 13 Cf. Isoc. Paneg. 39. 14 Cf. 3.11.4: κοινὴν ἀναδείξαντες τὴν πόλιν, with Thuc. 2.39.1: τήν τε γὰρ πόλιν κοινὴν παρέχομεν, καὶ οὐκ ἔστιν ὅτε ξενηλασίαις ἀπείργομέν τινα ἢ μαθήματος ἢ θεάματος; Richard 1993: 129; Fox 1996: 86.

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At first sight, the references to Isocrates and Thucydides serve to endow Tullus’ argument with authority. But the situation is much more complex. To begin with, the reference to Thucydides itself is far from unambiguous. As Dionysius’ educated reader knows, Thucydides’ Pericles is not referring to a policy of indiscriminate acceptance of foreigners into the Athenian citizenry. He is citing the Athenians’ ‘openness’ as an important factor that distinguishes them from other peoples and makes the city stronger against potential intruders, especially Sparta. The Athenians have nothing to hide, quite to the contrary: their strength is their ‘good courage’ (τῷ ἀφ᾽ ἡμῶν αὐτῶν ἐς τὰ ἔργα εὐψύχῳ) and anybody who wishes to do so is welcome to see it with their own eyes.15 Athens’ openness, to put it differently, is their strongest defence against outsiders. Moreover, as Richard rightly points out,16 Fufetius’ point of view, which is based on the primacy of direct descent and blood line as opposed to Tullus’ alternative concept of eugeneia through merit (11.5), equally represents a central tenet of Classical Athenian civic ideology, often endorsed by the Classical orators, including Isocrates, that is, autochthony,17 and the fact that at least from the middle of the fifth century, Athenian citizenship was primarily reserved for those of patrilinear and matrilinear Athenian descent.18 Given Dionysius’ central contention, that the Romans deserve their universal power because of their Greek descent (1.5.1–3), it is surprising that it is not the Roman, but the Alban leader who bases his claim to leadership in Latium on his people’s Greek ‘racial purity’19 (ἔθνος Ἑλληνικόν). Tullus not only accepts Fufetius’ accusation that the Romans have compromised their Greek descent, but even justifies it as the better policy. And both leaders cite Classical Athenian authorities (and practices) to support their views. But this is not all. The connection both leaders attempt to establish with Classical Athens is complicated further by references to Sparta. The conservatism and resistance to innovation that characterize Fufetius’ speech recall the Corinthians’ characterization of Sparta in Thuc. 1.68–71 and, through this intertextual reference, portray Alba ‘as an aristocratic state, in the Spartan mould, where the aristocracy’s ideals represent those of the state’.20 Tullus picks up on this implicit association of Alba with Sparta and counters it by 15 Richard 1993: 129 notes the different implications of the passage but does not explore them. 16 Richard 1993: 128. 17 Cf. Fox 1996: 86 n. 80: ‘It would be difficult and perverse to cite the orators for an Athens that pursued a policy of racial openness’. 18 Pericles was the first to introduce a law to that effect ([Arist.] Ath. Pol. 26,3), renewed c.400 (Isoc. 8.43); see P. Cartledge, ‘Metoikos’, DNP 8 (2000): 104–7, at 105. Occasionally, however, ‘permanent residents’ (astoi) of non-Athenian descent could be admitted into the Athenian citizen body, see Hall 2002: 204–5, and foreigners were sometimes naturalized through citizenship grants, on which see Osborne 1981–3. 19 20 Fox 1996: 85. Fox 1996: 86–7, 87 (quote).

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claiming Sparta as well as Athens as a paradigm (παράδειγμα, 11.2) for the Roman practice: Fufetius’ ‘universal law of nature’, that ‘ancestors should rule their posterity’ (τῶν ἐκγόνων ἄρχειν τοὺς προγόνους, 10.3) and, hence, Alba should rule the Romans along with the rest of Italy, is contradicted by the fact, cited by Tullus, that ‘the Spartan state claimed the right not only to rule over the other Greeks but even over the Doric nation, of which she is a colony’ (11.2). The duel between Tullus and Fufetius thus results in an impasse: both leaders have strong arguments in their favour and both cite Classical authorities in support of their positions. No wonder, then, that at the level of the narrative, the rhetorical agon remains unsuccessful and Tullus and Fufetius have to resort to the real duel of representatives of each community, the famous Stellvertreterkampf of the Horatii and Curiatii, to settle their dispute. But what is the reader to make of the situation? What conclusions are we to draw about Rome’s relationship with Classical Athens (and Sparta)? Scholars have tried to resolve this situation by pointing to the superiority of Tullus in the controversy: ‘for Dionysius’ and, we might add, his readers, ‘Tullus’ arguments are victorious’.21 Tullus certainly appears as the much superior statesman and leader, especially after Dionysius had characterized Fufetius as a man ‘without either ability to conduct a war or constancy to preserve a peace’ (5.3). From the reader’s perspective, then, Tullus’ victory appears to be confirming and, thus, implementing, the idea of Rome as the heir of Classical Athens, even Classical Greece as a whole: ‘la cité romaine incarne, aux yeux de Denys d’Halicarnasse, un hellénisme idéal qui prolonge le meilleur des valeurs grecques.’22 This approach exemplifies the kind of scholarly attitude characterized in the introduction, to attempt to salvage the idea of a somewhat simplistic, unproblematic relationship between Dionysius’ Rome and Classical Athens by glossing over the ambiguities in his narrative. I would argue, by contrast, that rather than looking for ways in which Dionysius might help his readers avoid the dilemma which his historical figures are facing, it might be more fruitful to explore its implications. Since historical tradition prescribed that the conflict between Rome and Alba was decided by the duel between Horatii and Curiatii, there was no need for Dionysius to insert such a longish pair of speeches in the first place, much less speeches which so obviously challenge the idea that the legitimacy of Roman power is beyond doubt simply because the Romans continue the political tradition of Classical Athens. The speeches, I submit, deliberately confront Dionysius’ readers with the same problem as the contemporary Romans: Tullus and Fufetius both try to prove their political superiority by demonstrating that they have a privileged relationship with

21

Fox 1996: 86.

22

Sautel 2002: 20 n. 2.

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the Classical paradigm and they both fail. Readers and Romans are equally prompted to react to this situation; what distinguishes them is the nature of their reaction. Dionysius’ Romans react by searching for an alternative solution to their political conflict; his readers, by contrast, are prompted to reflect about the issues raised by the speeches and consider the problems inherent in the historical actors’ attempt to legitimize their own position by appropriating the authority of the Classical paradigm. Such a reflection might start with the observation that Tullus’ staged victory, while certainly making him appear as the superior speaker, does not really do much to weaken the points raised by Fufetius. This is true especially for Fufetius’ statements about the dangers inherent in integrating foreigners into one’s citizen body and thus compromising one’s ‘racial purity’. For Fufetius is here raising a problem with the racial integrity of the Romans of which Dionysius himself was acutely aware and which he addresses elsewhere in his authorial voice. The question of the Romans’ ancestry, their ‘ethnic identity’, and all the implications for their συγγένεια with other tribes and peoples, especially the Greeks, was a crucial issue for him.23 After all, he dedicates the entire first book to proving that ‘one will find no nation that is more ancient or more Greek’ (1.89.2) than the Romans and still feels compelled to emphasize that: the admixtures of the barbarians with the Romans, by which the city forgot many of its ancient institutions, happened at a later time. And it may well seem a cause of wonder to many who reflect on the natural course of events that Rome did not become entirely barbarized [ἐξεβαρβαρώθη] after receiving the Opicans, the Marsians, the Samnites, the Tyrrhenians, the Bruttians and many thousands of Umbrians, Ligurians, Iberians and Gauls, besides innumerable other nations, some of whom came from Italy itself and some from other regions and differed from one another both in their language and habits; for their very ways of life, diverse as they were and thrown into turmoil by such dissonance, might have been expected to cause many innovations in the ancient order of the city. For many others by living among barbarians have in a short time forgotten all their Greek heritage [ἅπαν τὸ Ἑλληνικὸν ἀπέμαθον], so that they neither speak the Greek language nor observe the customs of the Greeks nor acknowledge the same gods nor have the same equitable laws [νόμους τοὺς ἐπιεικεῖς] (by which most of all the nature of the Greeks [φύσις Ἑλλάς] differs from that of the barbarians) nor share any other of the Greeks’ distinctive characteristics [συμβολαίων]. (1.89.3–4)

The controversy between Tullus and Fufetius, then, resumes a theme from the very beginning of Dionysius’ narrative and Fufetius presents a strong case for all those who, unlike Dionysius, do believe that the Romans are simply one of the numerous non-Greek, ‘barbarian’, tribes with whom they have mixed so 23

Cf. Wiater 2014a: 19–23.

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freely already in the earliest period of their history. In fact, Fufetius’ accusations implicitly contradict Dionysius’ own assertion at the beginning of the passage cited here, that there were, indeed, ‘admixtures’ of barbarians but that all of these ‘happened at a later time’: according to Fufetius, these ‘admixtures’ had become an integral part of Roman nature already under the third king! Moreover, Dionysius has given Fufetius a speech that could as well have been pronounced by one of those anonymous Greek historians whom Dionysius’ interpretation of the Romans as Greeks is intended to correct. These Greeks, Dionysius states at 1.4.2, hold the erroneous view that Rome: having come upon various vagabonds without house or home and barbarians, and even those not free men [ἐλευθέρους], as her founders, […] in the course of time arrived at world domination, and this not through reverence for the gods [εὐσέβειαν] and justice [δικαιοσύνην] and every other virtue [ἀρετήν], but through some chance and the injustice of Fortune, which inconsiderately showers her greatest favours upon the most undeserving. And indeed the more malicious are wont to rail openly at Fortune for freely bestowing on the basest of barbarians [βαρβάρων τοῖς πονηροτάτοις] the blessings of the Greeks.24

The controversy between Fufetius and Tullus thus belongs in the larger context of the debate about the Romans’ ethnic identity. Fufetius, not unlike an elaborate version of a fictus interlocutor, claims that even if Dionysius had been successful in proving the Romans’ Greek ancestry, this ancestry would have been corrupted not long after the foundation of the city. Furthermore, he, like the anonymous Greeks attacked by Dionysius in the above passage, connects the question of the Romans’ ethnicity with their right to rule—over the other Latins in the first instance, but the issues Fufetius addresses clearly have larger implications for the legitimacy of Roman rule over the rest of the oikoumene, and especially the Greeks. According to Fufetius, the Romans are, indeed, ‘barbarized Greeks’ who are now arrogating ‘the blessings’ reserved for the genuine, ‘pure’ Greeks. No doubt, Fufetius’ view would have considerable traction with the anonymous Greeks whose opinion Dionysius describes above. The controversy between Tullus and Fufetius addresses such views. Fufetius’ defeat by Tullus thus becomes part of the larger ‘educational programme’ of the Antiquities, to ‘re-educate’ those stubborn Greeks by ‘removing such erroneous impressions […] from the minds of many and to substitute true ones in their room’.25 And Dionysius certainly sets Fufetius up to fail: like the fictus interlocutor, his purpose is to demonstrate the pointlessness of adopting and hanging on to an attitude and opinions like his. The problem is, of course, that Fufetius’ defeat does not necessarily invalidate his views, much less make them go away. The very fact that Dionysius feels the 24

Cf. Wiater 2011a: 101–2, 185–92.

25

Cf. Wiater 2017.

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need to stage Fufetius’ defeat shows that he is well aware of the continuing force of arguments such as the ones he presents. Most significantly, adopting the ‘progressive’ view represented by Tullus has important implications for the integrity of Athens as the ‘paradigm’ for Rome which the king claims her to be. Tullus glosses over the problem of Roman ‘racial purity’ and lack of ‘autochthony’, rather than solving it, by presenting an at best peculiar view of Athenian democracy as an open society that readily bestowed citizenship on foreigners. Such a view, as Fox rightly noted, is compatible with the Funeral Oration delivered by Thucydides/Pericles,26 but is at odds with the preserved specimens of actual funeral orations as well as much of Isocratean oratory.27 In fact, it is Fufetius whose ideas represent the ‘mainstream’ image of Classical Athenian civic identity, while Tullus is forced to adapt Thucydides’ idiosyncratic version in order to make it fit his purpose. This is remarkable given that in his critical writings Dionysius severely criticizes Thucydides for the deliberately ‘un-Greek’ and, more specifically, ‘un-Athenian’ character of his work,28 while adopting the Isocratean version of Classical Athenian moral and political values.29 It is not simply the case, then, that Fufetius presents an irrational and unacceptable interpretation of the situation which is easily dismissed by Tullus’ reference to the Athenian paradigm. Rather, Tullus and Fufetius represent two competing, equally valid narratives of Classical Athenian civic identity, with Fufetius’ version clearly conforming to those texts which Dionysius himself usually values very highly. Furthermore, the reference to the allegedly authoritative Athenian paradigm is itself far from unambiguous, as the Athenian model inevitably evokes Athenian rule in the fifth century and, with it, the well-known negative image of a leadership that quickly degenerated into imperialism, exploitation, and brutal oppression of ‘dissenters’.30 It is precisely such an image of Athenian power that became prominent thanks to Thucydides’ Histories, the same text underlying Tullus’ re-interpretation of Athenian citizenship politics, and for which Dionysius attacks Thucydides in his critical writings.31 It is also frequent in Dionysius’ near-contemporary Diodorus.32 This explains why Tullus 26

Dionysius believed that Thucydides used Pericles as a mouthpiece for his own ideas in his Funeral Oration (Thuc. 18.7). 27 Fox 1996: 86 n. 80. On autochthony in the Funeral Oration, see e.g. Loraux 1981: 210–15. 28 See esp. Pomp. 3.9 (ὅπερ Ἕλληνα ὄντα καὶ Ἀθηναῖον οὐκ ἔδει ποιεῖν) and Dionysius’ characterization of Thucydides’ ‘attitude’ (διάθεσις) as ‘outspoken and harsh, revealing the grudge which he felt against his native city for his exile’ (3.15). See Wiater 2011a: 130–65, esp. 136–49. 29 See n. 9. The image of Classical Athens that informs Dionysius’ aesthetics is much more complex (and much less ‘idealized’) than is usually acknowledged; see Wiater forthcoming. 30 Fox 1996: 84–5 finds similar echoes in Dionysius’ description of Rome’s relationship with Veii and Fidenae. Cf. the discussion of Ant. 14.6.3 in section 10.2. 31 See n. 28. 32 See e.g. the speech of Gylippus in Book 13 of the Bibliotheke, esp. 13.30.3–5, discussed by Holton, Chapter 9 in this volume.

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does not rely exclusively on Athens as the paradigm for Roman practice, and especially why he does not cite Athenian hegemony as a historical parallel for Roman rulership. Instead, he avoids the problems caused by the Athenian paradigm by citing the Spartan rulership over the Dorians as the model for Roman domination in Latium, which is much less fraught with negative associations and fits much better his narrative of Roman rule as desirable progress: Spartan leadership of the Dorians makes for a much more appealing image than Athenian leadership of other Greeks. The debate between Tullus and Fufetius thus demonstrates less the power of Athens as an unambigiously positive paradigm for early Rome than it reveals the contested nature of Roman political practice and Tullus’ attempt to legitimize it through recourse to what he refers to as the most prestigious (μέγιστον κλέος, 3.11.4, already cited) Classical city. And even though Tullus might indeed appear to be ‘victorious’ (Fox), the two speeches, when read in conjunction, do raise problems, ambiguities, and risks inherent in the appeal to the Athenian paradigm that are never addressed, let alone resolved by the Roman king. Tullus emerges from the debate as superior not because of the force of his arguments but because Dionysius had already discredited Fufetius’ personality. Moreover, Tullus skilfully adapts the Athenian paradigm by replacing the emphasis on autochthony and ‘racial purity’ characteristic of much of Classical Athenian discourse with a (mis-)representation of Athenian citizenship as easily accessible for foreigners, to make it fit his particular purpose: in so doing, Tullus manages to pass off as a Greek custom what Dionysius’ Antiquities have, in fact, firmly established as a typically Roman political practice: in the course of time they contrived to raise themselves from the smallest nation to the greatest and from the most obscure to the most illustrious, not only by their humane reception of those who sought a home among them, but also by sharing the rights of citizenship with all who had been conquered by them in war after a brave resistance, by permitting all the slaves, too, who were manumitted among them to become citizens, and by disdaining no condition of men from whom the commonwealth might reap an advantage.33 (1.9.4)

33 This principle is implemented already before the actual beginning of Roman history (i.e. before the foundation of Rome), in the ‘mixing’ (ἀνακερασθέντες) of Trojans and Latins (1.60.1–2) and becomes official Roman policy with the establishment of Romulus’ asylum (2.15.3–4). Dionysius is here much closer to the ‘indigenous Italian ideology preferred by the principate’ (Fox 1996: 54) than has often been acknowledged. The idea that the Roman state owed its strength to its distinctive politics of citizenship is not limited to Dionysius: in 214, Philip of Macedon advises the Larisaei to follow the practice of the Romans, who greatly strengthened their patris by giving citizenship to their freedmen, and grant citizenship to resident Greeks (Syll.3 543, 31–4). On polyandria in Hellenistic and Imperial Greek writings, see Alcock 1993: 25–7. On Roman ‘generosity’, see Gauthier 2011: 3–34.

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As Schultze pointed out, Roman leaders and events of Roman history are cited as paradigms by Roman speakers from very early on: ‘Within a few years, the republican Romans are creating their own precedents and becoming exemplary to themselves.’34 In a similar way, Tullus is using the authority of Classical Athens to establish an essentially Roman custom as a historical paradigm. On one level, that demonstrates, as Dionysius intended, the close relationship between the two poleis. At the same time, however, ‘Classical Athens’ becomes little more than a rhetorical technique to invest a Roman historical practice with universal significance and thus to justify the Roman domination of the Latins: exemplum […] est rei gestae aut ut gestae utilis ad persuadendum […] commemoratio (Quint. 5.11.6). Anachronistically distorted to make it fit Tullus’ purpose, the Classical paradigm is reduced to an instrument of early Roman realpolitik and imperialism.35

10.2.2 ‘No’ to Athenian Democracy: The Debate about the Roman Republican Constitution The inadequacies of the Athenian model are addressed more explicitly in the constitutional debate that marks the transition from monarchy to republic (4.72–5). In this episode, which is strongly evocative of the constitutional debate in Herodotus 3.80–2,36 Brutus, Lucretius, L. Tarquinius Collatinus, and their supporters discuss what kind of government should be established after the expulsion of Tarquinius Superbus. As in the confrontation between Tullus and Fufetius, these speeches are much more than mere rhetorical decoration. They are an important part of what I referred to above as the ‘re-description’37 of Greek and Roman identities implemented by the Antiquities; they show Greek influence on the Romans at work. But their purpose is also to involve the reader in the narrative. By encouraging them to think about political and cultural concepts that form an important part of Dionysius’ and especially his Greek38 readers’ cultural heritage, they contribute to creating a conceptual framework for the readers’ attitude and interpretation of the Romans and Roman politics and culture. Inevitably, this prompts critical examination and evaluation of these core concepts and the role in Roman history that Dionysius assigns to them. The debate between Tullus and Fufetius addressed the central 34

Schultze 2012: 132. Athens is subjected to a similarly strategic rhetorical purpose at 5.65.1, where M. Valerius tries to convince the Senate to grant the people a debt relief by citing Athens, ‘the city with the greatest renown on account of her wisdom (σοφίᾳ)’. Note that Valerius, too, is compelled to complement the Greek, ‘foreign paradigms’ (τὰ ξενικὰ παραδείγματα, 65.3) with ‘local’ (ἐπιχωρίων), that is, Roman, ones (Schultze 2012: 134). 36 37 Fromentin 2006. On the concept of identity as ‘re-description’, see n. 10. 38 On Dionysius’ envisaged audience, see n. 11. 35

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question of the Romans’ syngeneia with the Greeks, its importance, foundations, and implications; the ‘constitutional debate’ is teeming with Greek political concepts (tyranny, democracy, the rule of laws, eleutheria, isonomia, etc.) in which Dionysius, through the Roman speakers, re-describes the political system of the Roman republic. Athens features twice in this debate (72.3; 74.2). As in the speeches discussed above, Roman leaders appeal to the Athenian paradigm at a crucial junction of Roman political history.39 In particular, Dionysius portrays the introduction of the principle of a one-year term for the highest Roman magistrates as inspired by the Athenian practice, cited by Brutus at 74.2: There is one thing more which in my opinion will be of greater advantage than all that I have mentioned and the most effectual means of preventing those who shall receive this magistracy from committing many errors, and that is, not to permit the same persons to hold office for life (for a magistracy unlimited in time and not obliged to give any account of its actions is grievous to all and productive of tyranny), but to limit the power of the magistracy to a year, as the Athenians do.

To a certain extent, Fromentin is right that ‘par son comportement politique […] mais aussi par les allusions que lui-même et ses amis font à la Grèce de leur temps [Athens at 72.3; 74.2; Sparta at 73.4], Brutus (et Rome avec lui) montre qu’il a “choisi son camp”, celui de l’hellénisme’.40 But applying the unifying concept of ‘hellenism’ to Brutus and his co-conspirators’ attitude and practice glosses over the heterogeneity of the individual Greek elements of which this ‘hellenism’ consists and underplays the importance of genuinely Roman elements (noted by Fromentin herself) that are ‘mixed’ with the Greek ones. Again, it is important to read Brutus’ reference to Athens within its larger context. Brutus’ speech is preceded by a debate (summarily presented in reported speech) in which his co-conspirators discuss the ‘standard’ forms of government (72.2–3): monarchy and tyranny, aristocracy and oligarchy, and finally democracy. Some of the speakers, Dionysius says at 72.3, rejected both monarchy and aristocracy and advised that Rome should: establish a democracy like at Athens; they pointed to the insolence and avarice of the few and to the seditions usually stirred up by the lower classes against their superiors, and they declared that for a free commonwealth the equality of the citizens was of all forms of government the safest and the most becoming (ἀσφαλεστάτην οὖσαν καὶ πρεπωδεστάτην τῶν πολιτειῶν).

Dionysius has given the introduction of Athenian democracy a pronounced place in the debate: democracy is the only form of government that is not introduced generically but as specifically ‘Athenian’; Athenian democracy 39 Fromentin 2006: 229. She convincingly sees the present passage as corresponding to the introduction of the constitution by Romulus at the beginning of the regal period (2.3–26). 40 Fromentin 2006: 236–7.

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holds the last, that is, most emphatic, position in the debate, and, most significantly, it is the only suggestion that remains unchallenged by a reference to its degenerated version, that is, ochlocracy; on the contrary, those proposing Athenian democracy end on a very strong note, mentioning two key elements of this type of constitution, ἐλευθερία and ἰσονομία, along with two superlative adjectives (ἀσφαλεστάτην οὖσαν καὶ πρεπωδεστάτην τῶν πολιτειῶν, 72.3) that mark Athenian democracy’s superiority over all other politeiai. Dionysius does everything, it seems, to set up Athenian democracy as the winning proposal. It is no small surprise, then, when we learn in the immediately following sentence that the suggestion of Athenian democracy did, in fact, not end the debate but brought it to an impasse, ‘the choice appearing to all of them difficult and hard to decide upon by reason of the evils attendant upon each form of government’ (73.1). At this point Brutus intervenes—in a long direct (!) speech—and resolves the situation: they must not cause upheaval (μεταβολῆς) by introducing a completely ‘new’ (καινήν, 73.1) constitution, he says with reference to the proposed Greek models. Instead, they should retain the constitution ‘which Romulus, Pompilius, and all the succeeding kings instituted and handed down to us, by means of which our commonwealth has continued to be great and prosperous and to rule over many subjects’, since it is unlikely that a better one can be found (εἰ δή τις ἄρα ἔστι κρείττων, 73.1).41 What is necessary, instead, are changes to those elements that might be conducive to the development of tyranny (73.2–3): the name of the highest magistrates must no longer be ‘kings’ or ‘monarchs’; following Spartan tradition, their number must be increased from one to two (73.4); the royal insignia, which the Romans adopted from the Etruscans,42 must be worn only at the triumph (74.1); and, finally, following the Athenian paradigm, the term of the highest magistrates must be limited to one year (74.3, previously cited). It is obvious that Fromentin’s reading (already cited), that the constitutional debate constitutes a clear expression of allegiance to ‘Hellenism’, needs to be qualified. In fact, none of the pure Greek forms of constitutions are deemed suitable for the new phase of Roman political history. Moreover, as demonstrated above, the entire debate almost appears to be designed to throw the inadequacy of the Athenian paradigm in particular into sharp relief: Dionysius clearly wants the reader to know that the Romans could have chosen Athenian democracy as the model for the Roman republic, but did not.43 Looking to the 41 On εἰ δή τις ‘if, indeed, there is a better constitution’, meaning ‘there is no better constitution’, cf. Jebb’s commentary on Soph. Trach. 27–8 (‘the tone of εἰ δή is sceptical’), cited by Denniston 1950: 223. 42 Cf. 3.61. 43 There is thus a striking contrast between Dionysius’ Romans’ negative attitude towards democracy and the spread of democracies throughout Hellenistic city-states which was underpinned by a political ideology that regarded democracies as the only desirable form of

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Greek paradigms as such is no help at all to the Romans; on the contrary, it produces an impasse. It is difficult not to read this as programmatic: as it is, the Greek political tradition is a dead end; it provides no useful guidance for the most successful and powerful city of the oikoumene. Dionysius even seems to suggest that the Greeks’ penchant for theorizing and dialectics—each ‘good’ kind of politeia immediately produces a degenerate counter-part—is part of the reason why they are no longer a viable cultural and political paradigm: this kind of overthinking, as it were, does not produce practicable results, thus leaving the Romans at a loss as to which one to choose (73.1, already cited). This contrasts sharply with the ‘pragmatic’ attitude of Brutus, who applies the same principle of ‘selective mimesis’44 to the political tradition that Dionysius and his readers apply to the Classical texts. When describing his approach as ‘reaping the benefits [τὰ μὲν ἀγαθὰ καρποῦσθαι] of the regal constitution while being rid of the evils that attend it’ (74.3), Brutus seems to be re-phrasing the core principle of literary ‘selective mimesis’ as Dionysius defines it at On the Ancient Orators 4.2: ‘Who are the most important of the ancient orators and historians? What manner of life and style of writing did they adopt? Which characteristics of each should we adopt [λαμβάνειν], and which should we avoid [φυλάττεσθαι]?’ Brutus implements exactly such a process of evaluation and selection. The result is a genuinely Roman creation, which is as original as the constitution of Romulus but also surpasses it because the selective adoption of successful political practices of other peoples

constitution (see Gauger 2005: 238; Teegarden 2014: 115–214; Ma (Chapter 13 in this volume) speaks of the ‘great convergence’; Wallace (Chapter 3 in this volume); but see Mann 2012: 18–24, on the difficulties of defining ‘democracy’). In the constitutional debate, this contradiction is certainly part of Dionysius’ programmatic attempt to bring about a change from an Athens- to a Rome-centred paradigm of Greekness, which is in keeping with the central importance of Rome that underpins his Classicist ideology; see Orat. vett. 3.1, with Wiater 2011a: 97–100; Wiater forthcoming. But criticism of Athens and a preference for democracy were, of course, by no means incompatible; in fact, as Ma (Chapter 13 in this volume) shows, the two often coexisted: democracy does not entail ‘direct descendence […] from Classical Athens’ and ‘the great convergence in polis forms was also about a certain level of forgetfulness—forgetfulness of the Classical history where Athens played such an important part’ (p. 290). Dionysius clearly is critical also of democracy in general, not only Athenian democracy specifically. This results from his suspicion of ‘the masses’, which is evident, for example, in his treatment of the ‘democratic’ king Servius Tullius (e.g., 4.8.3: δημαγωγεῖν). Such a negative attitude towards democracy is common among Latin and Greek authors and forms an interesting backdrop to the ‘great convergence’ towards democracy in Hellenistic city-states. Cf., e.g., Caelius in Cic. Fam. 8.14.3; [Sall.] Rep. 2.5, Cic. Flacc. 15 (see de Lachapelle 2010: 124 with n. 39; Scholz 2012: 47–50); Polybius often represents the masses as a danger to social order unless they are controlled by strong leaders (6.5.7, with Scholz 2012: 31–4; Eckstein 1995: 129–40, esp. 131); among the philosophers, the Epicureans rejected the θητεία ὄχλου (Epicur. Sent. Vat. 67 Arrighetti), while the Stoics preferred a ‘mixed’ constitution (SVF 3, 700) (Scholz 2012: 40–2). On criticism of Athenian democracy in the fifth and fourth centuries, see Ober 1998. 44 See Hidber 1996: 56–75; Hunter 2009; Wiater 2011a: 65–92 (here called ‘eclectic mimesis’, but as Myles Lavan points out to me, ‘selective’ is more fitting).

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(p. 221) allows Brutus to identify and remedy its weaknesses.45 We can even take it a step further than that: the cultural practice to which both Romulus’ and Brutus’ constitutions owe their existence, the ‘selective mimesis’ of Greek paradigms and, in Brutus’ case, their combination with local Italian and Roman ones,46 has become a genuinely and distinctively Roman tradition.47 And it is precisely to this tradition of political ‘selective mimesis’, and not the wholesale adoption of any one specific Greek paradigm advocated by the other speakers,48 that Rome owes her unprecedented superiority over all the peoples of the oikoumene,49 including, and especially, the Greeks. Fromentin is right that Dionysius’ constitutional debate contains a message about the importance of ‘Hellenism’ for early Rome, but this statement is not quite such a clear avowal of the Romans’ debt to Greece as she claims. Brutus’ approach, which is both successful in the debate (76.1) and lays the foundations for the continuing growth of Rome to historically unprecedented power 45 That Romulus’ constitution was itself based on a selective adoption of and improvement on Greek institutions and customs (Wiater 2011a: 174–5) does not mean it is not original. On the contrary: despite the fact that its individual elements ultimately derive from the Greek world, as a whole, Romulus’ creation is profoundly original, so original, in fact, that numerous scholars believed that Dionysius (clumsily) inserted a Roman political pamphlet into his narrative (see Delcourt 2005: 273–8, who convincingly argues that this hypothesis should be abandoned and sees Dionysius as the creator of Romulus’ Constitution). Moreover, by having Brutus refer to the constitution as that of ‘Romulus, Pompilius and all the succeeding kings’, Dionysius intimates that this constitution had by then become (and would remain) a firmly integrated element of Roman society; cf. Ducos 1989: 181–3; Wiater 2011a: 178–80. 46 While Brutus’ selective adaptation of Greek paradigms continues Romulus’ practice, the integration of these Greek with Roman and Etruscan elements implements the openness and amalgamation that was advocated by Tullus for the politics of citizenship (see pp. 212, 213). 47 It is tempting to see this as an instance of Dionysius adopting a Roman position, as defined by Cicero, Tusc. 1.1–2. See nn. 82, 84, 87, 90 for further such instances; Fox 2011 and Hidber 2011 for the influence of Cicero on Dionysius. 48 Cf. Cic. Rep. 2.2 (Scipio, citing Cato the Elder): unlike the constitutions of the famous Greek cities, the Roman commonwealth (nostra autem res publica) was not based on the design of one individual but on ‘the practical experience afforded by the passage of time’ (rerum usu et vetustate; trans. Zetzel); cf. Rep. 2.37 (Laelius). A similar view is found already in Plb. 6.10.13–14, who, like Dionysius’ Brutus, emphasizes the importance of selective adoption (emphasized): ‘the Romans while they have arrived at the same final result as regards their form of government, have not reached it by any process of reasoning, but by the discipline of many struggles and troubles (οὐ μὴν διὰ λόγου, διὰ δὲ πολλῶν ἀγώνων καὶ πραγμάτων), and always choosing the best by the light of the experience gained in disaster (ἐξ αὐτῆς ἀεὶ τῆς ἐν ταῖς περιπετείαις ἐπιγνώσεως αἱρούμενοι τὸ βέλτιον) have thus reached the same result as Lycurgus, that is to say, the best of all existing constitutions. (emphasis added)’ 49 Dionysius’ presentation of Romulus’ constitution (cf. n. 45) as the basis for the future development of Roman power makes that clear (Wiater 2011a: 178). A particularly significant example is the patron-client system which is an improved version of the division of the Athenian citizenry into eupatridai and agroikoi (2.8.1–3; 9.3). But while the original had weakened the Athenian state by causing civic unrest, Romulus’ adaptation achieves the opposite effect, stable homonoia which secures the Romans’ prosperity and power (2.3.4–6); on homonoia, see Fromentin (2006), 237: ‘cette capacité spécifiquement romaine selon Denys, à résoudre les crises sans violence, par le dialogue: par elle se manifeste, selon lui, la supériorité des Romains sur les Grecs dans la domaine politique’; Delcourt 2005: 279–87; Wiater 2011a: 104.

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after the expulsion of the kings, rather demonstrates that the Greek paradigms have value only if they are treated selectively, combined with local (Etruscan) elements and integrated into a Roman (Romulean) framework. As in the previous passages, the role of Athens in this process is neither idealized nor particularly prominent. Athenian democracy stands on a par with Spartan monarchy. Moreover, the procedure advocated by Brutus is strongly evocative of what Dionysius himself says at 1.3.1–2, that neither Athens nor Sparta (and, by implication, their constitutions) can provide the foundations for the establishment and preservation of an empire that is worth its name.50 On the one hand, then, Brutus’ speech does establish the continuing importance of Athens (and Greece in general) to the Roman state. On the other, however, Dionysius’ Brutus is dismantling the Athenian (and Spartan) paradigm by, quite literally, reducing the master narrative of an absolute Athenian superiority to pieces: the Greek paradigms remain significant only to the extent that they have something useful to offer to the new paradigm, Rome. On this basis we can now reconsider the intertextual relationship of Dionysius and Herodotus. Dionysius, I would argue, does not simply evoke the Herodotean debate as an educated allusion or to invest his own narrative with authority. It is almost as though he evokes the Herodotean paradigm to make the reader notice how much he and his Romans depart from it. Dionysius’ text reduces the Herodotean debate to a summary mention in reported speech (72.2–3). It merely paves the way for the grand constitutional speech of Brutus which overcomes the limitations of the Greek models and is alone adequate to the needs of the Romans. Like Brutus, Dionysius re-shapes the Greek (Herodotean) material after a typically Roman idea, most prominently expressed in Aeneid 6.847–53, that the Greeks’ domain is the arts, rhetoric, and debate, whereas the Romans are pragmatic in nature and, therefore, born to rule.51 Dionysius and Brutus seem to be partners in their attempt to preserve and surpass the Greek paradigm. Brutus’ concept of a constitution for the Roman republic draws on the authority of the Greek and Roman predecessors as much as it seeks to transcend them; Dionysius’ constitutional debate as a whole does the same with its Classical, Herodotean ‘model’: just like the ‘empires’ that were based on them, the Greek forms of constitutions as they

50 ‘As for the Greek powers, it is not fitting to compare them to those just mentioned [Assyrians, Medes, Persians, Macedonians, 1.2.2–3; cf. Martin 1993] since they gained neither magnitude of empire nor duration of eminence equal to theirs. For the Athenians ruled only the sea coast, during the space of sixty-eight years, nor did their sway extend even over all that, but only to the part between the Euxine and the Pamphylian seas, when their naval supremacy was at its height. The Lacedaemonians, when masters of the Peloponnesus and the rest of Greece, advanced their rule as far as Macedonia, but were checked by the Thebans before they had held it quite thirty years’; cf. 2.17.1–2; Delcourt 2005: 169. 51 For the topos and its Nachleben, see Norden’s commentary on the passage (4th edn, Darmstadt 1957) and de Lachapelle 2010: esp. 128–32.

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are debated in his Halicarnassean predecessor’s work, Dionysius’ narrative implies, have run their course. With the Romans, a new, different kind of Greek has come into existence for which the old constitutional paradigms as expounded by Herodotus are no longer adequate: they might have been good enough for the Persians, but they are certainly not good enough for the Romans.52 At the level of the narrative, the process by which early Roman society is shaped by Greek customs, values, and institutions is also a process by which formerly distinctive Athenian (and, generally, Greek) concepts and ideas are appropriated as Roman. They retain their original social and ethnic significance only inasmuch as they are, and can be, integrated into the new cultural and political framework.53 Dionysius’ text advocates a pragmatic engagement with the Greek heritage in which the cultural and political artefacts are subjected to a radical selection based on a determination of their significance and usefulness for present needs. This process is mirrored at the level of the narration, in this case Dionysius’ engagement with Herodotus. Herodotus’ constitutional debate as such has become obsolete. It is only to the extent that Dionysius successfully appropriates it for the Roman present in and through his own constitutional debate that it retains its significance as a cultural and political paradigm. The discussion in this and the previous section has shown that Dionysius’ early Romans’ attempt to justify and further the development of their city by associating it with Classical Athens reveals the serious problems inherent in such an attempt rather than resulting in an unambiguous confirmation of the early Romans’ Hellenism. Resorting to Athens as a paradigm turns out to be a two-way process which has ramifications for the image of Classical Athenian democracy and civic identity: Rome, the ‘raw material’, shapes the ‘mould’, Classical Athens, as much as the ‘mould’ shapes the ‘raw material’. In any case, there is no trace in either Tullus’ or Brutus’ speeches of an ‘idealization’ of Athens (or Sparta). Instead, both speeches represent a pragmatic, skilfully executed, yet deeply problematic, re-modelling of a significant part of the traditional image of the Classical polis: the power of Athens as paradigm goes hand-in-hand with the necessity to transcend the limitations it imposes on its use. We cannot say for certain whether this problematization of the Classical paradigm is an intended effect of Dionysius’ narrative. We can, however, advance some arguments in favour of this assumption. Dionysius’ criticism

52

Cf. Fromentin 2006: 241, who remarks that Dionysius engages creatively with the Herodotean text and that this procedure conforms to his concept of mimesis (cf. my n. 44). But her discussion does not quite draw out the implications of this observation. 53 I have found the remarks of Hall 2002 on the appropriation of ‘items with Persian pedigrees’ by Attic culture helpful here. Cf. also Miller 1997.

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of Thucydides (p. 217) shows that he was conscious of the different uses to which the Classical paradigm can be put. Moreover, as a keen reader of Classical literature, Dionysius was certainly aware that already in the fifth and fourth centuries, the orators in particular cited freely examples from Athenian history and adapted them to their strategies of persuasion. As Sharon Perlman has shown in an important study, the orators’ presentation and interpretation even of the same, often well-known events of Athenian history varied according to their interpretation of contemporary political events of which they hoped to convince their audience.54 This flexible use of Athenian history as a paradigm used to influence public opinion on concrete political issues goes hand in hand with an ongoing discussion of what exactly it meant to be Athenian, what kind of behaviour was expected of an Athenian and what sorts of privileges and responsibilities that entailed. This debate, too, resulted in an array of different answers, ranging from a predominantly positive, perhaps even idealized image of Athenian civic identity and Athens’ beneficial role in the world in the funeral orations and Isocrates’ speeches to much more critical expositions such as the Mytilenean Debate and the Melian Dialogue in Thucydides’ Histories.55 In a way, then, Dionysius’ Roman speakers are re-enacting a political-cumrhetorical practice that was characteristic of the ‘Classical’ period itself.56 Like the orators in the fifth and fourth centuries, they draw on Athenian history as a paradigm and adapt it to their needs in the process. As such, both the agon between Tullus Hostilius and Mettius Fufetius and the debate about the Roman constitution can be read as implied commentaries on the inherent flexibility of Athens as a historical exemplum. But whereas for the Athenian orators, Athenian history in whichever adaptation remains the final point of reference, Dionysius’ Romans seem to exploit this very ambiguity to overcome Athens’ categorical authority as a paradigm itself. As Romans, Dionysius’ speakers can step out of the cultural framework that limited the use of Athens in the fourth century. For example, they are at liberty to qualify the authority of Athens by availing themselves of the material provided by Spartan history, while ‘even well-known examples from her history’ were generally avoided by the Attic orators.57 Ironically, it is the same flexibility that made Athens so useful as a paradigm for the Attic orators that now allows the Romans to leave it behind. Furthermore, in both cases already discussed, the Romans’ practice of selectively adapting the Greek tradition to their needs mirrors Dionysius’ 54

Perlman 1961, with numerous examples. Cf. also Nouhaud 1982. See e.g. Loraux 1981; Walters 1981 on the funeral orations; Buchner 1958; Bringmann 1965; Too 1995 on Isocrates; Ober 1993 and 1998 on Thucydides and other critics of Athenian democracy. 56 The ‘Athenian Debate’ in Diodorus, discussed by Holton, Chapter 9 in this volume, is heir to the same practice. 57 Perlman 1961: 157–8, the quote at 157. 55

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practice of selective adaptation of the literary tradition in the construction of his own narrative: Dionysius and his Romans are united in their project of reviewing and re-valuing the material provided by Greek tradition (political, literary, and cultural) in order to create something new that, paradoxically enough, draws on the Classical paradigms only in order to transcend them. The same is true, I will argue in the next and final section, of Dionysius’ concept of Greekness as a whole which he simultaneously develops and enacts through his early Roman history.

1 0 .3 L E A V I N G A T H EN S BE H IN D: DIONYSIUS ’ ‘PRAGMATIC’ HELLENISM The expansion of the Roman empire not only brought about significant changes in the power structures throughout the Mediterranean; it also had grave implications for the Greeks’ perception of their place in the world: from the most prominent people in the oikoumene they had become one of many different tribes, cultures, and peoples tied together by Roman power.58 It is easy to imagine that this situation represented no small challenge to a Greek self-definition based on the Classical idea of the special status of the Greeks in the world. Dionysius’ Antiquities embodies this situation in all its complexity. On the one hand, Dionysius’ work sets out to preserve the Classical idea of Greek cultural and political leadership in a widely variegated world, that it is the Greeks who define the standards by which all other peoples have to be measured in order to be significant. By subjecting the Romans to this Classical Greek world-view, Dionysius denies them the exceptional status of a small, Italian people that managed to take over the world from the sidelines: the Romans owe their success to their Greekness.59 Through the same process, Dionysius uses Roman power to restore to the superior Greek culture the political significance Athens and Sparta had lost (and the loss of which the Athenians at least seemed to have accepted).60 The same spatial extent of the Roman empire, however, also made the limits of the Athenocentric world-view apparent. As Jonathan Hall points out, the latter had failed (or, rather, refused) to take account of ethnic and cultural variety even within the Greek world: conceiving of ‘Hellas as a continuous geographical entity radiating out from Athens’, Isocrates ‘downplay[ed] an alternative spatial model of a Greece cross-cut by sub-Hellenic 58 Dionysius emphasizes the unprecedented spatial expansion of Roman power at 1.3.1–2 (cited n. 50); so does Polybius (1.1.5), who conceptualized the new state of interrelatedness of peoples throughout the oikoumene under Rome as symploke (1.3.4: συμπλέκεσθαι; 4.11). 59 60 Wiater 2011a: 218–23. Borg 2011; Wiater 2011b: 89–90; cf. 2011a, 107–10.

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ethnic divisions’.61 The discourse about the bases and implications of syngeneia as it is implemented in the controversy between Tullus Hostilius and Mettius Fufetius seems to reply to this weakness by arguing for a more flexible attitude towards Greek ethnicity. Brutus’ selective and ‘pragmatic’ treatment of the Greek political tradition makes the same point for political institutions. This interpretation fits with Irene Peirano’s observations that the boundaries between Greeks and non-Greeks have become more flexible in Dionysius’ narrative: in their encounter with the Romans, it is the Tarentine Greeks who display a distinctly barbarian attitude while the Romans uphold Greek standards of behaviour.62 Dionysius even states so much in a striking comment at 14.6.3–6,63 a passage clearly reminiscent of the Tullus-Fufetius debate. Dionysius praises the Romans for not taking reprisals against the defeated Tusculans in 381 but integrating them into their polity instead, ‘giving them a share of everything in which native-born Romans [τοῖς φύσει Ῥωμαίοις] shared’ (14.6.3). ‘Thereby’, he continues, they took a very different view from that held by those who laid claim to the leadership of Greece, whether Athenians or Lacedaemonians—what need is there to mention the other Greeks? For the Athenians in the case of the Samians, their own colonists, and the Lacedaemonians in the case of the Messenians, who were the same as their brothers, when these gave them some offence, dissolved the ties of kinship [τὴν συγγένειαν], and after subjugating their cities, treated them with such cruelty [ὠμῶς] and beastliness [θηριωδῶς] as to equal even the most savage of barbarians in their mistreatment of people of kindred stock [τῆς εἰς τὰ ὁμόφυλα παρανομίας]. One could name countless aberrations [ἡμαρτημένα] of this sort made by these cities, but I pass over them since it grieves me to mention even these instances. For I would expect [ἠξίουν]64 Greeks to be distinguished from barbarians, not by their name nor on the basis of their speech, but by their intelligence [συνέσει] and their predilection for decent behaviour [χρηστῶν ἐπιτηδευμάτων], and particularly by their indulging in no inhuman [μηδὲν τῶν ὑπὲρ τὴν ἀνθρωπίνην φύσιν] treatment of one another. All in whose nature these qualities predominated [ἐπὶ πλεῖον ὑπῆρξεν ἐν τῇ φύσει] I believe ought to be called Greeks, but those of whom the opposite was true, barbarians. Likewise, those plans and actions which were reasonable [ἐπιεικεῖς] and humane [φιλανθρώπους], I consider to be Greek, but those which were cruel and beastly [ὠμὰς καὶ θηριώδεις], particularly when they affected kinsmen and friends, barbarous.

Irene Peirano reads this passage as evidence that for Dionysius Greekness was ‘not a matter of blood, but of cultural values and behaviour’.65 But this is not quite accurate. Dionysius’ main concern (very similar to Tullus’ and Fufetius’) 61

62 Hall 2002: 210. Peirano 2010: 43–4; similarly, de Lachapelle 2010: 133 n. 97. Martin 2000 and Collin Bouffier 2002 discuss Greek history in the fragments of the Antiquities. 64 65 Cary distorts the sense of this passage by omitting this word. Peirano 2010: 42. 63

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is with the appropriate behaviour between kinsmen (συγγένεια);66 Dionysius’ point is that the Athenians, by treating other Greeks as though they were inferior barbarians, are compromising their own Greekness. Dionysius, then, clearly presupposes that Greekness is constituted by blood ties and descent (φύσει, συγγένεια), but that Greek (as opposed to barbarian) nature is distinguished by a preponderance (ἐπὶ πλεῖον ὑπῆρξεν ἐν τῇ φύσει, 6.5) of certain ‘cultural values’ and types of behaviour. The problem with the behaviour of the Athenians and Spartans is that it is at odds with their Greek nature, that is, their Greekness by birth: a Greek should not behave like a born barbarian.67 Belonging to either group is fundamentally constituted by birth and, hence, blood ties; it is from them that certain high expectations of the behaviour of Greeks arise (note ἠξίουν, 6.5) that do not apply to barbarians. For Dionysius, then, ‘Greekness’ is most definitely also ‘a matter of blood’. Why else would he have dedicated the entire first book of the Antiquities to demonstrating that the Romans are ethnically Greeks.68 Nor does he imply (here or elsewhere) that barbarians can simply become Greeks by adopting Greek ‘cultural values and behaviour’. The passage reminds Greek readers of the dangers of ‘barbarization’ addressed by Dionysius also at 1.89.2 (previously cited), that Greek descent alone is not sufficient to preserve one’s Greek identity if one adopts non-Greek, ‘barbarian’, values and types of behaviour. As such, the passage also conveys the moral message that Greeks have a responsibility to live up to the expectations implied in their birth. Greek ancestry is essential, but it is not sufficient for being (or remaining) a genuine Greek. The value of this passage for the present inquiry lies in the way in which Dionysius explains the risk of barbarization by defining non-Greek elements as always already part of ethnic ‘Greekness’: born Greeks only have a natural predisposition to implementing Greek values and behaviour, but in uncomfortably numerous cases (‘countless aberrations’), this predisposition was not strong enough to suppress the beast-like and cruel urges that they share with barbarian natures. We find here again the theme of compromise and admixture that was so crucial to the speeches of Tullus and Brutus and the ‘cultural selective mimesis’ that informed their actions: the Romans did manage to integrate non-Greek elements productively into the Greek framework of their ethnicity, culture, and politics so that they lost their destructive power and made essential contributions to Roman prosperity and political success. Again, the Romans’ ‘pragmatic Greekness’ turns out to be superior to the one-sided, inflexible, and exclusive concept of Greek, i.e., Athenian, identity advocated by

Cf. Collin Bouffier 2002: 236: Dionysius is evoking ‘le discours de propagande politicomilitaire lors de la constitution des symmachies de la guerre du Péloponnèse’. 67 For the association of ὠμότης and the θηριῶδες with barbarian behaviour and nature, see e.g. D.S. 13.22.5 and 27.6 (and the entire speech of Nicolaus); 58.1–2; 27.18.2; cf. 13.29.6; 30.4. 68 Rightly, Martin 2000: 151. 66

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the Classical orators that resulted in Athenian imperialism and the ‘behavioural barbarism’ that came with it.69 Like the constitutional debate, this passage, too, shows Dionysius himself adopting a ‘pragmatic’ use of the Classical Athenian master narrative. The entire passage is clearly inspired by Isocrates’ famous statement at Panegyricus 4.50, that Athens has so far ‘outdistanced the rest of mankind in thought and in speech […] that the name “Hellenes” suggests no longer a race but an intelligence, and that the title “Hellenes” is applied rather to those who share our culture than to those who share a common blood’. The passage has often been misunderstood as advocating a concept of Greekness based solely on culture.70 But as Glenn Most has shown, Isocrates’ point is, in fact, that ‘in order to be a true Greek it was not enough to be born Greek and have Greek blood in one’s veins, but rather […] only those Greeks were true Greeks who shared the Athenian education Isocrates was willing to sell them’.71 My reading of 14.6.3 (pp. 228–9) conforms with and complements Most’s reading of Isocrates: Dionysius agrees with Isocrates on the fundamental assumption that both Greek descent and Greek culture are essential for being truly Greek. But as with the Herodotean paradigm in the constitutional debate, Dionysius evokes the Isocratean passage in order to emphasize the differences as much as the similarities. In Dionysius’ adaptation of the Isocratean concept, it is no longer the Athenians who define the standards of Greekness; on the contrary, they and the Spartans are cited here as the ones who have embarrassingly often failed to meet them. Instead, the new examples of proper Greek behaviour, whose treatment of their subjects implements epieikeia and philanthropia,72 are the Romans,73 who are demonstrating their Greek nature through their political actions. And just as Brutus’ ‘pragmatism’ involves blending Greek and non-Greek elements and Dionysius re-writes Herodotus’ constitutional debate in light of Roman ideas,74 Dionysius achieves his vision of Rome as a new paradigm by bringing Isocrates’ vision of Athenian leadership into dialogue with the negative image of Athenian imperialism that was prominent among contemporary Romans, modifying both in the process. For the very contrast between Romans and Athenians, and between Roman power based on leniency and 69 See Hall 2002: 208–9 (Isocrates identifies Greek and Athenian); on the political failure of Athens see n. 50. 70 71 e.g. Hall 2002: 209, and Peirano (cited in the main text). Most 2006: 387. 72 On philanthropia in Dionysius, see Fox 1996: 55, 60, 62, 82, 89; Schultze 2012: 133 (‘important link between φιλανθρωπία and success’); note that philanthropia is also a key word in Nicolaus’ characterization of Athens in Diodorus’ Athenian Debate, see Holton (Chapter 9 in this volume). On the Romans defining their power as based on clementia (ἐπιείκεια) or mansuetudo in opposition to the cruelty and ruthless machtpolitik of the Athenians, see de Lachapelle 2010: 128–9; Collin Bouffier 2002: 236; cf. my n. 84. 73 On the Romans as paradigms for Greeks, cf. Syll.3 543, 32–4 (my n. 33). 74 See pp. 221–3 on Brutus; pp. 224–5 on Dionysius.

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Athenian imperialism characterized by cruelty, is characteristic of Latin literature of the late Republican and early Imperial period.75 But in Roman literature the theme is predominantly used as a way of sharply distinguishing Romans from Athenians. By integrating it with his theory of the Greek descent of the Romans and the Isocratean stress on ancestry and ethics as equally important constituents of Greekness, Dionysius endows the Roman topos with a distinctly different interpretation: rather than distinguishing the Romans from the Athenians, their clementia now provides further proof that the Romans are fully realizing their Greek ancestry in both their ethics and their behaviour.76 Not only are they the worthy successors of the Classical Athenians; they have also managed to correct their flaws and mistakes which undermined their rule and hampered its growth and, in so doing, managed to create the kind of universal role that the Athenians failed to achieve.77 By thus integrating the Isocratean with the Roman image of the Athenians’ role in the world, each of which is hampered by its one-sidedness, Dionysius fashions Rome as a new political and ethical paradigm that combines the strengths of its Greek and Roman components while overcoming their weaknesses.78 Neither in this programmatic passage nor in the narrative portions discussed in the previous section, however, can Dionysius’ image of Athens be called ‘idealized’. Significantly, Dionysius (unlike, for example, Nicolaus in Diodorus’ Athenian debate) does not even attempt to salvage the Athenians’ (and Spartans’) reputation by justifying their wrongdoing.79 Instead, at all levels of his narrative Dionysius is concerned with exposing the limits of the Athenocentric Classical paradigm and overcoming them by selectively adopting and adapting (and having his Romans selectively adopt and adapt) it. Towards the end of his narrative, and certainly as early as 14.6.3–6, the Romans have themselves become paradigms of proper Greek values and 75 See de Lachapelle 2010, with ample documentation. He convincingly reads 14.6.3 as Dionysius’ reaction to this topos (‘s’inscrivant là dans la pensée romaine commune de la fin de la République’, 132). This negative image of Athenian imperialism and Realpolitik has its origins in critical representations of Athenian politics in the fifth and fourth centuries, for example, the Mytilene Debate and the Melian Dialogue in Thucydides’ History (see Ober 1993; 1998). But at Dionysius’ time it had already been fully appropriated by the Romans to define their ‘ethics of power’ in opposition to Athenian rule. It is with this Roman view of Athens that Dionysius is engaging. 76 Cf. de Lachapelle 2010: 134: ‘Rome ne se définit pas seulement par opposition aux Athéniens de l’âge classique. Selon Denys, elle atteint même parfaitement l’idéal hellénique. Auguste, en revendiquant la clémence, se situe donc dans une double fidelité à la Rome des temps anciens (Romulus) et à la véritable Grèce’. But de Lachapelle fails to take into account the Isocratean echoes in this passage and does not discuss the implications of the passage for Dionysius’ concept of Greekness. 77 On Dionysius’ view of the Athenian empire, see n. 50. 78 That does not imply, of course, that Dionysius will present an idealized, unambiguously positive image of the Romans; see Pelling 2007: 255–6. It merely provides the framework within which a chequered history of the Roman people develops. 79 Cf. D.S. 13.27.2–3, with Holton (Chapter 9 in this volume).

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behaviour,80 making the failure of the narrow Athenian model even more obvious. The transition of the political and cultural leadership from Athenian to Roman Greeks through ‘cultural selective mimesis’ is complete. This world-view has consequences for Dionysius’ Roman readers: it is their duty now (cf. ἠξίουν, previously discussed) to live up to the standards of their Greek heritage and expectations of their role as Greek leaders, and Dionysius’ Antiquities is designed to help them meet these expectations.81 But the Antiquities also presents a major challenge to those among his Greek readers whose self-definition is still based on the Classical model: Dionysius leaves no doubt that this concept of Greekness is now obsolete, as the centre of the oikoumene has shifted from Athens to Rome.82 For Greeks such as those criticized by Dionysius at 1.4.2 (cited p. 216), this was, no doubt, a provocation. But Dionysius also re-defines the failure of Athens as an opportunity especially for Greeks like himself from the margins of the Athenian empire, who under the old paradigm would have had to subject themselves to the Athenians’ definition of Greekness to count as genuine Greeks, rather than defining Greekness themselves. Rome with its openness so programmatically advocated by several Roman leaders within the narrative, offered an opportunity to become, or, at least, see oneself as, an influential part of the new centre. Dionysius presents his Antiquities as the narrative of this new era (1.5.4), offering his readers a re-description not only of Roman, but also Greek identity (1.5.1). Moreover, he presents himself as a representative of this new paradigm of Greekness and his work as its narrative representation. Historical narratives, he says explicitly at 1.1.3, reflect the authors’ characters and ways of life, ‘since it is a just and a general opinion that a man’s words are the images of his mind’: the way in which his Romans relate to their Greek heritage as well as the cultural and political values they embody thus characterize Dionysius just as much as they characterize his Romans. And in a more 80

81 Cf. Peirano 2010: 42. See 1.6.4 with Wiater 2011a: 204–5. Esp. Orat. vett. 3.1: αἰτία δ’ οἶμαι καὶ ἀρχὴ τῆς τοσαύτης μεταβολῆς ἐγένετο ἡ πάντων κρατοῦσα Ῥώμη πρὸς ἑαυτὴν ἀναγκάζουσα τὰς ὅλας πόλεις ἀποβλέπειν καὶ ταύτης δὲ αὐτῆς οἱ δυναστεύοντες κατ’ ἀρετὴν καὶ ἀπὸ τοῦ κρατίστου τὰ κοινὰ διοικοῦντες, εὐπαίδευτοι πάνυ καὶ γενναῖοι τὰς κρίσεις γενόμενοι, ὑφ’ ὧν κοσμούμενον τό τε φρόνιμον τῆς πόλεως μέρος ἔτι μᾶλλον ἐπιδέδωκεν καὶ τὸ ἀνόητον ἠνάγκασται νοῦν ἔχειν. Spawforth 2012: 23–4 reads far too much into this passage when treating it as evidence that ‘the collective leadership of the Augustan regime’ applied ‘pressure on Greeks’ to adopt their ‘Greek cultural Classicism’; Orat. vett. is not a factual description of Augustan foreign cultural politics. But Spawforth is certainly right that Augustus’ programmatic recourse to Classical political, moral, and aesthetic principles was crucial for the development of Greek Classicism as represented in Dionysius’ works, see Wiater 2011a: 15, 104–6; Crouzet 2000 on possible reflections of Augustan political and moral discourse in the excerpta of the Antiquities. (Greek) Classicism itself did not, of course, originate with Augustus, who only appropriated an already existing concept, but most likely developed out of Latin Atticism; see Wiater 2014b: 881–4 (with further literature); Canevaro (Chapter 4 in this volume) on the reception of the Attic orators, especially Demosthenes, in Hellenistic rhetorical exercises. 82

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personal statement he presents his work as a ‘thank-offering [χαριστηρίους ἀμοιβάς] to Rome, mindful of the education [παιδείας] and the other blessings I have enjoyed during my residence in it’. The παιδεία bestowed by Rome again evokes Panegyricus 4.50 (p. 230) as well as Pericles’ characterization of Athens as τῆς Ἑλλάδος παίδευσις in Thucydides’ funeral oration (2.41.1). But as at 14.6.3–6, only this time for Dionysius personally, Rome has taken over the role of paradigm from Athens: through his narrative, Dionysius emerges as a prototype of a new, ‘modern’ kind of Greek who shapes the Romans’ Greek identity as much as his Greek identity is shaped by them.83 At various points, Dionysius’ narrative testifies to this beneficial influence, the παιδεία, that the contact with the Romans has had on his moral and cultural values. 14.6.3–6 itself belongs here: unlike the Classical Athenians and Spartans, Dionysius can, with the Romans, appreciate the importance of generous treatment of the defeated. In fact, the treatment of the Tusculans appears to have been a standard example cited by Roman authors to demonstrate the maiores’ adherence to the principle of, in Virgil’s words, parcere subiectis (Aen. 6.853).84 Dionysius’ criticism of the actions of the Classical Athenians and Spartans thus demonstrates that he has adopted a traditional Roman maxim of behaviour.85 In an even more striking passage, Dionysius praises the Roman father’s absolute control over his son, including his right to sell his son up to three times for profit—‘a thing’, he adds in an aside, ‘which anyone who has been educated [τραφείς] in the lax manners of the Greeks [ὑπὸ τοῖς Ἑλληνικοῖς ἤθεσι τοῖς ἐκλελυμένοις] may wonder at above all things and look upon as harsh and tyrannical’ (2.27.1).86 Dionysius turns his readers’ reactions to his narrative into a test of the quality of their own characters and values: if they did, indeed, regard the Roman custom as ‘harsh and tyrannical’, they have to realize that they, too, lack a proper moral perspective because of their ‘lax’ upbringing.87 Dionysius’ appreciation of the custom, in stark 83 It is worth stressing that this model of Greekness only works because Dionysius is (and wants his readers to be) confident that the Romans are ethnically Greeks. 84 So much is suggested by Cicero at Off. 1.35, where he cites the Tusculans as the first of a series of examples illustrating the maiores’ principle that parta autem victoria conservandi ii qui non crudeles in bello, non immanes fuerunt. For the topos, see Gelzer (1933), 164 with n. 2, citing, inter alia, Hor. CS 51–2; Plb. 18.37.7; Liv. 30.42.17; 33.12.7; Mon. Anc. 3. Crouzet (2000: 167) argues that Dionysius is specifically adopting Cicero’s positive interpretation of this event. 85 Cf. n. 87. 86 Discussed in Wiater 2017: 250–1. Cf. further Collin Bouffier 2002: 250–1, on 20.4.3, and 237–9, on 20.13.2–3; Martin 2000: 148–9. 87 Criticism of the moral shortcomings of contemporary Greeks, especially Greeks from Asia Minor, was wide-spread among Romans in the first century BCE (Wiater 2011a: 102–3) and also informs Dionysius’ characterization of Asianist rhetoric as ‘intolerably shameless and histrionic, ill-bred and without a vestige either of philosophy or of any other aspect of liberal education […] altogether vulgar and disgusting […] an insensate harlot […] from some Asiatic death-hole, a Mysian or Phrygian or Carian creature’ (Orat. vett. 1.3–7). Spawforth’s 2012: 23 suggestion that Dionysius is adopting a Roman viewpoint here, fits well with my conclusions in the main text; cf.

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contrast, shows that his lax Greek upbringing has already been corrected through his intensive contact with the Romans. Spawforth is therefore not quite right when he states that Dionysius, by chastising the ‘Asiatic’ style from ‘Caria, Phrygia and Mysia’ (n. 87), identifies ‘with the Roman viewpoint’ so as to ‘stigmatise his own ethnicity’.88 Such a view fails to take into account that the Antiquities proposes a narrative of Greekness that seeks to overcome the old paradigms of cultural allegiance and ethnicity: it is precisely because of his long-term, direct contact with the Romans that Dionysius no longer sees himself as a Carian, Phrygian, or Mysian, but, as I would suggest putting it, as a Roman Greek. Dionysius might still be a ‘Halicarnassean’ (1.8.4), but it is his arrival at Rome that he associates with the beginning of the ‘new era’ under Augustus and that marks the beginning of his own ‘new life’ as an intellectual and historian (1.7.2).89 His journey from Halicarnassus to Rome (καταπλεύσας, 1.7.2) also describes the trajectory from ‘conventional’ to ‘modern’, that is, Roman, Greekness.90 And his detailed account of Roman morals, values and character now provides Dionysius’ Greek readers with the same opportunity for reforming their moral standards which the long-term stay in Rome provided to Dionysius himself. As a whole, then, Dionysius’ narrative is meant to represent a new type of Greekness. ‘Cultural selective mimesis’, inasmuch as it describes a characteristic approach to past (and present), represents a cultural practice shared by the narrator and his ‘narratees’, by Dionysius and his Romans: a ‘modern’ way of life that accounts for the Romans’ success has shaped Dionysius’ own Greekness and offers his readers an opportunity to re-describe their own ‘Hellenicity’ along the same lines. The Antiquities thus not only aims to redefine the Romans and their role in the world. It is also a representation of Dionysius’ own ‘Hellenicity’ and, through the process of reading, constitutes the ‘re-description’ that will substitute Dionysius’ Greek readers’ deeply ingrained and, Dionysius claims, deeply mistaken views about the Romans and themselves with the new, ‘true’ ones (1.5.1). This re-description is based on the Classical Athenian discourse of civic identity and self-definition, especially the works of its most prominent exponent Isocrates, but it also acknowledges that many aspects of this model of Greek identity are now outdated: Athens failed and so did the Classical Athenocentric model of Crouzet 2000: 166. But it is worth noting that Greeks, too, criticized the manners and character of their countrymen. Timaeus, Theopompus, and Antigonus, for example, portrayed the Greeks in Southern Italy as morally corrupt and decadent; see Peirano 2010: 44 with n. 49; Collin Bouffier 2002: 249–51 (both with further literature). As so often before, Dionysius is engaging with both Roman and Greek ideas of Greekness. 88 Spawforth 2012: 23. 89 On the symbolic significance of this passage, see Wiater 2017: 250–1. 90 Cf. Cicero’s concept of coexisting patria naturae and civitatis, patriam […] ubi nati, et illam qua excepti sumus (De leg. 2.5).

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Greekness. The Antiquities develops an alternative description of Greek identity by selecting key elements of the Classical discourse and adapting them to the new, Roman context,91 while subjecting the Romans to this ‘modernized’ Classical Greek framework. Dionysius’ Hellenized Rome, Anouk Delcourt writes, ‘marque […] la fin de l’histoire, l’avènement d’un temps perpétuel que rien ne viendra remettre en question’.92 I would argue that the opposite is the case: the Antiquities marks the beginning of a present and future in which the Roman Greeks, whose Greek identity is already showing signs of decline, will have to make a conscious effort to show themselves ‘worthy of their ancestors’ and live up to the responsibility and expectations of their Greek heritage (1.6.4).93 Otherwise, they risk losing the superiority which is based on it.94 All other Greeks, on the other hand, are only at the beginning of the process of which Dionysius presents himself as the result: the process of redescribing the Classical Athenian paradigm and accepting Rome as the new centre of their own, Greek world.95

91 Crouzet 2000: 165–6 rightly emphasizes the compatibility of the mos maiorum with Hellenistic moral discourse. 92 Delcourt 2005: 174. 93 Crouzet 2000: 162, but she wrongly denies that the Antiquities envisages the same process of moral education (albeit with a different aim) for the Greek readers. Cf. Crouzet 164–5, on Fabricius (19.5–6) as a warning to uphold the standards of the maiores; she compares the tomb inscription of Cn. Cornelius Scipio Hispanus (ILLRP 316). 94 Wiater 2011a: 201–5. 95 I would like to thank Ben Gray and Mirko Canevaro for organizing a stimulating conference and for their helpful comments and suggestions; thanks are also due to Myles Lavan and Jason König for their comments and remarks. They all have greatly improved this essay.

11 Standing up to the Demos Plutarch, Phocion, and the Democratic Life Andrew Erskine

11.1 INTRODUCTION Plutarch wrote twenty-three Greek Lives in his series of Parallel Lives (twentyfour if the unparalleled Aratus is included), ten of which were devoted to Athenians.1 Given the importance of Classical Athens in modern scholarship on Greek history this high proportion may seem self-evident to us, but it was not, I suspect, always so obvious in antiquity.2 The case of Polybius and his approach to Athens, examined in Chapter 7 in this volume by Champion, illustrates this well. When Polybius in his sixth book gathered together various constitutions with a view to comparing them with the Roman constitution, he quickly dismissed Athens (and Thebes): ‘I can see no point in spending much time over constitutions that did not follow the normal course of development and did not remain for long in their primes. Nor was their decline normal; it was as though fleeting Fortune allowed them to flare briefly into brilliance and then, just as the proverbs warn, at the height of their apparent success and with every prospect of a glorious future, they experienced a complete reversal.’3 The Athenian demos, he explained, was like a ship without a captain and 1 The ten Athenian Lives are: Theseus, Solon, Themistocles, Aristides, Pericles, Nicias, Alcibiades, Cimon, Demosthenes, Phocion. In addition there were four Spartan ones (taking Agis and Cleomenes as single Life), two Theban (of which Epaminondas is lost), the Macedonians Alexander and Demetrius Poliorcetes, Dion of Syracuse, Timoleon of Corinth (and Syracuse), Philopoemen of Megalopolis, Eumenes of Cardia, Pyrrhus of Epirus, and Aratus of Sicyon. There is a similar emphasis on Athenians in Cornelius Nepos’ On the Lives of Eminent Foreign Generals (if we exclude the section on ‘On Kings’). I am indebted to Benjamin Gray, Shane Wallace, and Robin Waterfield for help and comments during the writing of this paper. 2 Compare the introduction to this volume: the value and problems of Athenocentrism in approaches to politics and history were already being debated in the Hellenistic world itself. 3 Plb. 6.43, trans. R. Waterfield.

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consequently fundamentally unstable. It was essentially a mob that was impulsive and ill-tempered.4 Polybius then would surely have been surprised to learn that when it came to comparing Greeks and Romans almost half of Plutarch’s selection of Greeks were Athenians. We can speculate about changing attitudes to Classical Athens, but Polybius’ abrupt dismissal highlights a problem faced by many of its admirers, a problem that would persist into early modern times, and is one of the central concerns of this volume (see the introduction). On the one hand Athens was a city of culture, fine buildings and empire, home to great names, on the other from an aristocratic perspective the demos had rather too much influence.5 Since Plutarch too had a negative view of democracy as practised in Athens at its height, this could equally have been a problem for him. These men, whose lives he was writing, operated for the most part within a system that he disliked. Their achievements, therefore, had to be understood within the context of Athenian democracy.6 Their relationship with the democracy, or more particularly with the demos, arises repeatedly in the Athenian Lives. But far from being a problem Plutarch uses their handling of the demos as a way of gaining insight into the character and capability of his protagonists. One man stands out in this respect, oddly in some ways, because of all the lives that Plutarch records he seems a rather dull, priggish even, historically insignificant figure. This is the fourth-century general and politician Phocion, veteran of many battles and leader of a short-lived pro-Macedonian government in Athens. At first sight it is hard to see why he should have been chosen as one of Plutarch’s subjects. Yet, this was a man whose death earned him the right to be compared with Socrates—for a Platonist like Plutarch this was surely no minor accolade. This chapter, therefore, will begin by reviewing Plutarch’s attitude to Athenian democracy (section 11.2) before examining the way in which a statesman’s character in the Lives is illuminated by his interaction with the demos (section 11.3). Then it will consider what it was about Phocion that so appealed to Plutarch. This chapter considers three aspects of this question, first his relationship with the demos (section 11.4), then the way he evokes the memory of Socrates (section 11.5), and finally his very contemporary predicament, at once leader of a city and subject of an outside power (section 11.6). As well as offering a detailed illustration of this chapter’s broader argument about Plutarch and Athenian democracy, this discussion of the Phocion in sections 11.4–6 also sets out the background to the following chapter in this volume, by R. Dubreuil. 4

Plb. 6.44.3–9. Roberts 1994 traces the history of anti-democratic thinking in interpretations of Athens. A turning point was George Grote’s rehabilitation of Athenian democracy in his mid-nineteenth century A History of Greece; see for instance Kierstead 2014. 6 For Plutarch’s generally positive view of Athens (apart from its democracy), see Podlecki 1988. 5

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Dubreuil’s chapter uses the themes of the theatre and theatricality to gain a new perspective on politics in the Phocion, which complements the discussion here of the complex relationship between Phocion and the demos.

11.2 P LUTARCH AND ATHENIAN DEMOCRACY Plutarch displays little interest in the development of Athenian democracy. Solon’s role as its founder is referred to only obliquely, while Cleisthenes is barely mentioned. Instead, if Plutarch had to pick out a decisive moment, it would be a transformation to radical democracy orchestrated by Ephialtes, to whom unwelcome reforms are attributed in the Lives of both Cimon and Pericles.7 Nonetheless, the Athenian Lives cannot avoid covering the progress of democracy in Athens from mythical times in the Theseus through to its capitulation in the Phocion. This capitulation does not signal the end of Athenian democracy, but the Phocion is the final Athenian Life. The next occurrence of Athenian democracy is in the Life of one of the Successors, Demetrius Poliorcetes, where its appearance marks the rise of monarchy. This latter episode is treated at length and comes across almost as a parody of the faults of untrammelled democracy as Athenian politicians compete with each other to pile increasingly excessive honours onto Demetrius and his father Antigonus Monophthalmus.8 In marked contrast the constitutional reforms attributed by Plutarch to both Theseus and Solon are decidedly conservative. Theseus, given his status as a king, might be a rather unexpected founding figure in the history of Athenian democracy, but this was a tradition that was already current as early as the fourth century BCE.9 Theseus is depicted by Plutarch as resigning his kingship and establishing a democracy, but it is a very restrained democracy, overseen by Theseus himself and, despite claims of equality, one that possessed a clearly stratified social structure.10 Similarly Solon’s reforms in the early sixth century are presented as fairly moderate with due respect for the importance of property as a criterion for office-holding, one aspect that would have met with Plutarch’s approval.11 Yet, it is striking that the man

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Plut. Cim. 15.2 (cf. 10.7–8), Per. 7.6 (cf. 9.4). Plut. Demetr. 10–13, 23–4, on which Erskine 2014. 9 For the development of the democratic Theseus, see Rhodes 2014 and Walker 1995: 143–70, both of whom pick out the production of Euripides’ Suppliant Women in the 420s as a key moment. 10 Plut. Thes. 24–5, cf. also Theseus-Romulus Comp. 2. 11 Plut. Sol. 5, 16–18, although elsewhere he sees even Solon as inclining too much towards egalitarianism, at least in the arithmetic sense that underpinned democracy rather than the more conservative geometric equality that he himself endorsed, De frat. amor. 484b, cf. also Quaest. conv. 8.719a–c (there the argument is put into the mouth of Florus, but the speech meets with the 8

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held by many in antiquity, at least from the late fifth century onwards, to have been the founder of Athenian democracy is never directly credited with this achievement in the Life itself.12 The closest Plutarch comes to acknowledging it is in the synkrisis between Solon and Publicola.13 He is certainly aware of Solon’s reputation as one of the figures that shaped the democracy, but he does not choose to emphasize this. In doing so he may be correct, but the choice may reflect a desire to establish a distance between his subject and the developed Athenian democracy. Instead the emphasis is on Solon’s role in resolving the conflict between rich and poor.14 Nonetheless, Plutarch still allows himself the opportunity to include in the Life a cutting criticism of Greek democratic practice said to have been made by the Scythian wise man Anacharsis, who after attending the Athenian assembly observed that ‘in Greece the speaking is done by the wise but the decisions are made by the ignorant’.15 One man who does not figure as any kind of democratic innovator in Plutarch is the late sixth-century politician Cleisthenes, who had been seen by Herodotus as having a major role in the development of Athenian democracy. Plutarch’s relative silence on him is, however, in keeping with the general neglect of Cleisthenes in post-Classical sources.16 Those references that he does make to Cleisthenes suggest that he saw him more as an aristocratic leader than a democratic one.17 Plutarch, of course, was looking back at Classical Athens from a distance of four or five centuries as a member of the provincial upper classes living in the Roman empire, in his case as one of the land-owning elite of the small Boeotian city of Chaeronea.18 By his day, as a result of the social and conceptual developments explored in several chapters in this volume, ‘democracy’ had varied meanings, some quite new; in some contexts the word could be used to approval of the assembled diners including Plutarch); see further Aalders 1982: 43–4, Centrone 2000: 580–1. 12 Mossé 1979 on the development of Solon’s reputation as the founder of democracy, cf. Arist. Pol. 2.1273b30–42. 13 Solon-Publicola Comp. 2; his democratic credentials, however, are to the fore in Conv. sept. sap. 152a, 152d, 154d–e. 14 Cf. Pelling 2004: 98–9. 15 Plut. Sol. 5. Plutarch’s respect for Anacharsis was such that he included him among the Seven Wise Men in The Dinner of the Seven Wise Men; on Anacharsis, see the comprehensive treatment by Kindstrand 1981 and with reference to the Roman empire Richter 2011: 160–76. 16 Hdt. 6.131, cf. [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 20–2; Hansen 1994 on the neglect of Cleisthenes both in ancient times and subsequently; Anderson 2007: 117–19, however, rejects the usual interpretation of Herodotus and suggests that the phrase ὁ τὴν δημοκρατίην Ἀθηναίοισι καταστήσας means not that Cleisthenes ‘established democracy for the Athenians’ but that he ‘restored’ it (i.e. after the overthrow of the Pisistratid tyranny). 17 Plut. Cim. 15.2: aristocratic (cf. Arist. 2.1); Per. 3.1: approving remarks on the new constitution’s propensity to harmony and security, πολιτείαν ἄριστα κεκραμένην πρὸς ὁμόνοιαν καὶ σωτηρίαν κατέστησεν. 18 For Plutarch’s status and family background, Jones 1971, especially 3–19; for the Roman context, see most recently Stadter 2014.

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describe a very broad category of law-governed regimes, including some whose constitutional practices would have seemed oligarchic from the perspective of fifth-century Athens. It was more likely to be found opposed to monarchy, tyranny, or unconstitutional government of some form than to oligarchy.19 Nonetheless Plutarch was fully aware of the opposition between democracy and oligarchy in the Classical period, even if in practice the concepts may have been rather hazier than some modern observers like to think.20 Nor should we assume that so-called oligarchs actually considered themselves to be oligarchs, even if that is how their political enemies thought of them. They might represent themselves as aristocrats or even as defenders of democracy, the latter evidence of varying conceptions of democracy.21 Plutarch has to reconcile his own understanding of contemporary Greek democracy with the Athenian model. In doing this he distinguishes acceptable democratic practice from unacceptable. A key point in the transition between the two occurs in the mid-fifth century, when the Athenian political system undergoes a significant change, a change that he attributes to Ephialtes: ‘when Cimon next sailed away on an expedition, the common people (οἱ πολλοί ) ran wild: they got rid of the established political system and the ancestral customs that they had previously adhered to. Under the leadership of Ephialtes they deprived the council of the Areopagus of almost all of its judicial powers, made themselves responsible for the courts and thrust the city towards undiluted democracy (ἄκρατος δημοκρατία)’.22 This is clearly not a good thing, but Plutarch is less clear about what constitutes ‘undiluted democracy’, a phrase adapted from Plato’s Republic, where a democratic polis under bad leaders gets drunk on ‘undiluted’ freedom.23 The use of this phrase ‘undiluted democracy’ On the changing meaning and use of δημοκρατία, de Ste. Croix 1981: 321–3. For use in opposition to monarchy, tyranny, or unconstitutional government in Plutarch, see for instance An sen. 783d, Thes. 24.2, Lys./Sulla comp. 5.4, Dion 28.4; cf. Aalders 1982: 29. 20 Cf. Plut. Alc. 25.5, Per. 11.3–4, 25. 21 Cf. Thuc. 3.82.8, where the Corcyran ‘few’ prefer to describe themselves as advocates of a ‘moderate aristocracy’ (ἀριστοκρατία σώφρων); cf. also Thuc. 8.64; everyone else may have thought that Demetrius of Phalerum was tyrant or oligarchic leader (cf. Plut. Demetr. 10.2, Philoch. FGrH 328 F66) but he himself apparently claimed in his memoirs that ‘he not only did not overthrow democracy but he even strengthened it’ (οὐ μόνον οὐ κατέλυσε τὴν δημοκρατίαν ἀλλὰ καὶ ἐπηνώρθωσε), Strabo 9.1.20. Shane Wallace has drawn my attention to the phrase τεῖ δημοκ[ρατί]αι τεῖ ἐξ ἁπάντων Ἀθηναίων in the honorific decree for Callias of Sphettos of 270/69 (IG II3 1 911, lines 82–3), which could imply a conception of democracy that in some way did not include all Athenians. See also the discussions of the changing meaning of democracy in early Hellenistic Athens in Luraghi and Wallace, Chapters 2 and 3 in this volume. 22 Plut. Cim. 15.2. However disapproving Plutarch may have been of Ephialtes’ actions, he saw him as an impressive speaker and a politician of integrity; cf. Cim. 10.8, Dem. 14.1, Praec. ger. reip. 802b–c. His political actions are viewed more positively at Praec. ger. reip. 805d, which compares his ‘curbing of the oligarchic council’ (presumably the Areopagus, cf. [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 25) with the reforms of the Platonist Phormio at Elis (on which Robinson 2011: 31–2). 23 Pl. Resp. 562c–d; cf. Plut. Per. 7.6, where Plutarch, again writing of Ephialtes, uses ‘ἄκρατος ἐλευθερία’ and makes the connection with Plato explicit as he does also at Quaes. Graec. 295d (of Megara). 19

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is revealing. When Plutarch wants to use the term δημοκρατία negatively, he often combines it with an adjective like ἄκρατος (undiluted, unmixed) or ἀκόλαστος (unbridled, unchecked) or qualifying phrase such as ‘κόσμον οὐκ ἔχουσα’ (without order).24 But δημοκρατία is also used without any qualification and on these occasions there is little to suggest hostility on Plutarch’s part.25 Rather it becomes evident that Plutarch’s conception of democracy is very flexible. Particularly striking is the brief discussion of democracy in the Dinner of the Seven Wise Men, a dialogue that includes Solon among its speakers. In summing up the debate the host Periander observes that all the wise men appear to favour ‘a democracy that is most like an aristocracy’, a remark that would appear close to Plutarch’s own preferences.26 It is a democracy very much like this that Plutarch attributes to Theseus, in which the nobles have the greatest influence. In both cases Plutarch may have been thinking of the conception of democracy in his own time.27 Plutarch’s concern is less with democracy than with the demos and how it should be handled. It is the demos that is a recurring theme in the Athenian Lives. It is not democracy in itself that is seen as a problem but the extent of the demos’ influence within it. Plutarch is, therefore, correspondingly critical of those politicians whose policies and actions favour the demos and who identify themselves with it.28 They are defined by their relationship with the demos and described accordingly; they are disposed to the people (δημοτικοί ) or leaders of the people (δημαγωγοί).29 Polybius had seen the Athenian demos as a mob (ὄχλος) and characterized it in the language of emotion—he spoke of it as acting on impulse (κατὰ τὴν ἰδίαν ὁρμήν) and sharp-tempered (ὀξύτητι καὶ πικρίᾳ διαφέρων).30 Plutarch’s representation of the demos follows a similar pattern.31 He too finds the word ὄχλος a convenient term to capture the unstable and unpredictable character of the people.32 Anger (ὀργή) is often attributed by him to the Athenian people, who have particular propensity to feel anger towards their leaders. ἄκρατος: Plut. Cim. 15.2, Dion 53.2, also appearing in Ps. Plut. De unius in re publica dominatione 826f; Pyrrh. 13.3. 25 Plut. Praec. ger. reip. 816f, Arat. 48.3; see also the examples in n. 19 where it is opposed to tyranny; it is opposed to oligarchy at Per. 25.2 and Alc. 25. 26 Conv. sept. sap. 152d, 154d–f, on which Aalders 1977, esp. pp. 37–8. 27 For democracy under the Roman empire, see section 11.6. 28 See further section 11.3. 29 δημοτικός: for instance Plut. Dion 48.2. Per. 7.2, 11.3–4, Dem. 8.4, but it can also be used in a much looser non-political sense; cf. Stadter 1989: 94–5 on its meaning; δημαγωγός: Arist. 24.3, Demetr. 34.4, Alc. 19.1. Cimon’s generosity to the common people led to accusations of δημαγωγία but, says Plutarch, his disposition was in fact aristocratic and Laconian (Cim. 10.7). 30 Plb. 6.44.9; cf. 6.4.6–10, 6.57.9 for Polybius’ condemnation of ὄχλος-rule. 31 On Plutarch’s representation of the demos, see in particularly Prandi 2005 and Saïd 2005. 32 Saïd 2005: 9 n. 16 lists ninety-five instances of the term in the Lives as a whole, but it is worth noting that fifty-eight of these are in Roman Lives. Plutarch’s treatment of the Roman people is beyond the scope of this essay. There are similarities both in his characterization of the 24

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During the Peloponnesian war the anger of the people is directed successively against Pericles, Nicias, and Alcibiades, usually stirred up by rival politicians such as Cleon; after a victory on Euboea Phocion releases all his Greek prisoners of war, because he is afraid that the demos might mistreat them out of anger; at the time of the expedition to Sicily the mutilation of the Herms provokes not only anger but also fear among the masses (οἱ πολλοί ).33 Fear is prominent too when the Athenians are faced with the approach of Philip of Macedon in 338, although ‘fear’ rather underplays what the Athenians are feeling: they are terrified out of their minds (ἐκπεπληγμένοι). Nobody says a word until Demosthenes comes forward with a plan and gives them courage.34 Plutarch’s negative view of the Athenian demos comes across in other ways too. They are fickle and easily swayed by orators, so much so that on one occasion in the Life of Phocion they change their mind three times in succession, finally set on the right course by Phocion himself.35 As we have seen above, Plutarch saw fit to include in the Life of Solon Anacharsis’ pointed observation that in Athens decisions were made by the ignorant (οἱ ἀμαθεῖς). Elsewhere he has a young Demosthenes complain that the people ignore him and prefer to listen to drunk and ignorant sailors (κραιπαλῶντες ἄνθρωποι ναῦται καὶ ἀμαθεῖς).36 Plutarch, on the other hand, identified with the men of culture and education (οἱ ἀστεῖοι καὶ χαρίεντες) that were favoured by Phocion’s regime.37 The demos, therefore, was something that needed to be restrained, guided, and controlled. This comes out well in a passage from the Life of Pericles (15): Most of the time it was a willing people (demos) that [Pericles] led, by means of persuasion and instruction, but sometimes, when they were in an especially truculent mood, by tightening the reins and winning them over, he made them submit to what was to their advantage. In doing this, he was just like a doctor who treats a longstanding and complex illness sometimes with harmless pleasures, sometimes with unpleasant but effective drugs. As might be expected, all manner of passions (παντοδαπῶν παθῶν) developed in a mob that was in possession of such an extensive empire, and he alone was naturally suited to handling each of them in an appropriate fashion. His favoured tools were hope and fear, which he used like rudders to restrain them when they were over-confident and to reassure Roman people as a demos and in the essential conflict as being elite (Senate) v. demos, but there is also a significant difference: Rome is not a Greek polis. The fundamental study is Pelling 1986. 33 Against leaders: Plut. Per. 33.6, 35.4, Nic. 10.7–8, Alc. 36.3, 38.1–2, cf. Phoc. 37.1; Phocion: Phoc. 13.4 (perhaps foreshadowing Phocion’s own fate at the hands of the demos); herms: Alc. 18.4 (ὀργή and φόβος), cf. also Praec. ger. reip. 799c (εὐκίνητὸς πρὸς ὀργήν). 34 Plut. Dem. 18.1. 35 Phoc. 14; for the influence of speakers, see also Alc. 36, Nic. 7.2–3, 12, Per. 33.6. 36 Anacharsis: Plut. Sol. 5.3; Demosthenes: Dem. 7.1, following R. Waterfield’s ‘drink-besotted ignorant sailors’ rather than Perrin’s Loeb translation, which divides them up into three groups (‘debauchees, sailors, and illiterate fellows’) and so lessens the emphasis on ignorance. 37 Phoc. 29.4, cf. Quaest. conv. 5.672e.

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and encourage them when they were despondent. In this way he showed that rhetoric was, as Plato put it, something that leads the soul and its main task is the investigation of character and passions, which are like the taut strings of the soul that need to be plucked and played in tune.

Here the statesman/demos relationship is compared both to that between a doctor and his patient and to the helmsman guiding his ship. In both cases the demos is helpless without Pericles; the patient must passively submit to the greater knowledge of the doctor, while the ship analogy with its rudders of hope and fear sees him as manipulating the emotions of the people.38 Plato is mentioned in the last sentence but his influence in this chapter may run deeper still.39 The two similes of the doctor and the helmsman both owe something to analogies made by Plato.40 Furthermore, Pericles can be interpreted as representing reason controlling the irrational passions and desires of the demos in a way that recalls the role of reason in the divided soul of the Republic.41 There are differences, however. For Plato the passions were distinct from desires (ἐπιθυμίαι) and closely aligned with reason, whereas Plutarch tends to link them with desires, the irrational, appetitive part of the soul.42 That association between passions and desires is evident even within this chapter, which opens by speaking admiringly of how Pericles had abandoned his early practice of yielding to the desires (ἐπιθυμίαι) of the many and adopted instead the approach described in the quotation above. Nor is this the only place where Plutarch appears to identify the people with the appetitive part of the soul, Plato’s epithumetikon.43 Demosthenes and Nicias are both praised for opposing the desires (ἐπιθυμίαι) of the demos.44 Pericles’ dominance has important consequences. By rendering the Athenian demos obedient to him, Pericles ‘took a great city and made it into the greatest and richest (τὴν πόλιν ἐκ μεγάλης μεγίστην καὶ πλουσιωτάτην ποιήσας)’. Here is 38 The comparison between Pericles and a doctor recurs at Per. 34.3, but in this case from the perspective of the masses rejecting their doctor. The analogy with the helmsman is found in a different form at Per. 33.5–6, where Plutarch focuses on the control of a storm-tossed ship as the helmsman ignores the pleas of the seasick and frightened passengers. On the versatility of the ‘ship of state’ image, see Brock 2013: 53–68. 39 Citing Pl. Phdr. 271c–d. 40 Doctor: Pl. Grg. 521d–522b, Resp. 8.564b–c; helmsman: Resp. 6.488a–489a; see further Saïd 2005: 22–4; also Brock 2013: 54–60, 71–3. 41 Cf. Saïd 2005: 14. 42 Pl. Resp. 4, especially 430c–442d. For Plutarch’s understanding of the Platonic soul, see his De virtute morali (Mor. 440d–452d), on which Opsomer 2012 with 321 on the place of the passions. Note also Duff 1999: 72–98 with particular references to the Lives. 43 Cf., for instance, Pl. Resp. 4.439d–e, 440e. 44 Plut. Dem. 14.3 and Nic. 11.2, see further section 11.3; cf. also Praec. ger. reip. 818c, where the statesman will fight against the kind of ἐπιθυμίαι that Cleon and his followers stirred up in the people. At Phoc. 8.2 Phocion is praised for opposing their wishes and impulses (ταῖς βουλήσεσιν αὐτοῦ καὶ ὁρμαῖς ἀντιτασσόμενον); cf. also ἐπιθυμίας ὄχλων καὶ ὁρμάς at Plut. Ag. and Cleom. 1.2.

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the justification for comparing Athens with Rome; in its day Athens had pride of place and surpassed all others, democracy and the demos notwithstanding. Thucydides had considered Athens to be only nominally a democracy under Pericles, but in reality the rule of the first citizen, a sentiment that Plutarch reports and adapts. Significantly, however, in keeping with his broader conception of democracy Plutarch does not question whether Athens really was a democracy; instead he emphasizes Pericles’ aristocratic and kingly style of leadership.45 But Pericles was not the only politician to earn this kind of praise from Plutarch. Aristides, Cimon, and even on occasion Demosthenes are all at various times represented as aristocratic in their opposition to the popular will.46

11.3 HANDLING THE D E M O S It is in the handling of the demos that a politician’s character and ability are revealed. Pericles had mastered that art, although Plutarch appears uncomfortable with the idea that Pericles was said to have been committed to the cause of the people, an opponent of the aristocratic Cimon. Pericles, he argues, adopted a popular persona, because it suited him; it was ‘contrary to his own nature, which was very far from favouring the demos (παρὰ τὴν αὑτοῦ φύσιν ἥκιστα δημοτικὴν οὖσαν)’.47 In the early stages of his career he was submissive to the demos and yielded to their desires, only later when he succeeded in getting his rival Thucydides son of Melesias ostracized was he able to assert himself in the way described in the previous section.48 Plutarch even throws in (and then rubbishes) the rumour that Pericles may have been implicated in the assassination of Ephialtes.49 Plutarch, it is apparent, is inclined to view the successful Athenian politician as separate from the demos. It is as if the polis is made up of the demos and the leaders, the former dependent on the latter and lacking any real initiative, a conception of the polis that may reflect Plutarch’s own experience of contemporary Greek cities.50 One might also see a comparison here with the Roman 45 Thuc. 2.65.9, cited at Plut. Per. 9.1, cf. 16.1; for Plutarch’s own characterization, 15.2 (ἀριστοκρατικὴν καὶ βασιλικὴν ἐντεινάμενος πολιτείαν). On Plutarch’s use of Thucydides, see the contrasting views of de Romilly 1988 and Pelling 1992 and 2000: 44–60. 46 Aristides: Plut. Arist. 2.1; Cimon: Cim. 10 (esp. section 7), Per. 7.3; Demosthenes: Dem. 14.4; cf. also Cleisthenes, Arist. 2.1, Cim. 15.2. 47 Plut. Per. 7.2; on δημοτικός see section 11.2. 48 Plut. Per. 14 for ostracism of Thucydides; Per. 15.1–2 for its impact. 49 Plut. Per. 10.6–7, where Plutarch attributes the allegation to Idomeneus of Lampsacus (BNJ 338 F8), a pupil of Epicurus, a story rejected by Stadter 1989: xliii, lxxxi; for a full discussion of the scholarship on this, see C. Cooper’s BNJ commentary. 50 See further section 11.6.

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concilium plebis, where the magistrates spoke but the plebs did not. Athenian politicians too must exert their influence over the people and persuade them of a course of action.51 On the other hand, this depiction of Athenian politics may in part be the result of the biographical framework, which would tend to highlight the initiative of the protagonist. It has, for instance, been observed that when Plutarch read in Thucydides that the Athenians took this or that action he would reformulate it with an individual politician such as Pericles as the subject.52 But whatever the reason the effect is to downplay the role of the sovereign assembly. Other politicians too are to be judged on their handling of the assembly. Plutarch particularly admires a readiness to oppose the will of the people where necessary, especially in difficult circumstances. This is a point he makes explicitly and at length in his introduction to the Life of Phocion, but he does not favour opposing the demos for its own sake: An overly straight approach, one which resists the popular will in everything, is as rough and hard as the alternative—being carried along by and favouring the general populace’s errors—is risky and hazardous. But the kind of administration and guidance (κυβέρνησις) of men that makes concessions if they are obedient and gives them what will please them, but then demands in return what is in their best interests—and men do often meekly give valuable service, as long as they are not tyrannized and oppressed—that is what keeps a community safe. It takes effort and hard work, however, and involves the kind of aloofness that is rarely found in combination with a sense of fairness.53

Again the successful leader is one who will act like a helmsman (κυβερνήτης) in guiding the demos. This is regardless of political persuasion. Demosthenes is presented as aligned with the democrats, yet he is also prepared to speak his mind, often opposing the desires of the multitude.54 Nicias, who was ‘reserved and oligarchic’, likewise risked unpopularity by opposing the desires of the people.55 But in the case of Nicias it is his fundamental character weakness that wins over the people; for all his haughty demeanour he was a timid man and his popular support rested on the belief that he was afraid of the people.56 This timidity and fear run as a motif throughout Plutarch’s life of Nicias and are ultimately responsible for his downfall. When he is in Sicily on his ill-fated expedition, it is fear of prosecution that makes him reluctant to return and

51

Prandi 2005. Saïd 2005: 17–18, who nicely contrasts Thuc. 2.22.1 with Plut. Per. 33.5. 53 Plut. Phoc. 2.4–5 (trans. R. Waterfield, adapted). Translations of the Phocion are taken from Erskine and Waterfield 2016. 54 Plut. Dem. 14.3–4; for Demosthenes as democratic, see especially Dem. 8.4 and 23.3–4, but Plutarch could even see him as aristocratic in so far as he opposed the people (14.4), cf. also end of section 11.2. 55 56 Plut. Nic. 11.2. Plut. Nic. 2.3; cf. 6.1–2. 52

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superstitious fear of an eclipse that leads him to delay a planned retreat.57 Nicias’ rival Alcibiades is highly skilled at manipulating the assembly but his objective is his own interests rather than those of the state. One of his masterstrokes was to avert possible ostracism by colluding with Nicias to ensure that it was Hyperbolus, the proposer of the ostracism motion, who was expelled from the city.58 Aristides, Themistocles, Pericles, Nicias, Alcibiades, and Demosthenes are all the subjects of Plutarch’s Lives and all in various ways rise above the demos. They are distinct from it and act as statesmen or leaders, even if they are not worthy of imitation in all respects. Aristides and Themistocles may have been rivals with very different attitudes to the people, but both sought to win the people over rather than follow them and both suffered ostracism. Themistocles’ fate thus fulfilled his father’s warning that popular leaders end up like the wrecked triremes on the shore once they are no longer useful.59 Alcibiades is perhaps the most ambiguous, although in his case what is striking is his refusal to be fully aligned with any group rather than pursuing his own interests. Even he, however, can stand out against the people’s will when necessary and in a way that earns Plutarch’s approval.60 At the other end of the scale are those who are almost indistinguishable from the people, men who say what the people want to hear, as Pericles himself had done early in his career. It is in the introduction to the Lives of Agis and Cleomenes and the Gracchi that this comes out most pointedly. Plutarch, after quoting Sophocles on shepherds’ subservience to their sheep, continues: ‘This is a true analogy for the predicament of men in public life whose policies reflect the desires and whims of mobs (ἐπιθυμίας ὄχλων καὶ ὁρμάς): they make themselves slaves and followers in order to be known as leaders and rulers’.61 Prominent among these would be Cleon, who excelled at flattering the people, although Plutarch, who has nothing good to say about this politician, liked to believe that it was so obvious that the people saw through it.62 Indeed, despite his negative view of Athenian democracy Plutarch does credit the Athenian people with common sense when it counts—that when the situation demands it they would support the 57

Plut. Nic. 22–3 (drawing on Thuc. 7.48.3–4); the reader has already been alerted to Nicias’ superstition as early as chapter 4. 58 Plut. Nic. 11, Alc. 13, Arist. 7.3–4, on which Pelling 2000: 49–52. In favour of the historicity of the episode, Rhodes 1994. 59 For Aristides’ aristocratic disposition versus Themistocles’ support for the demos, Plut. Arist. 2.1; cf. Them. 5.5. Yet even Aristides is presented on one occasion as supporting greater power for the people, Arist. 22.1; on this curious story, see Rhodes 2000: 123. Winning the people over: Arist. 3; Them. 4.2, 10.1; father’s warning: Them. 2.6. 60 Cf. Plut. Alc. 25–6, especially 26.4. 61 Plut. Agis and Cleom. 1.2 (trans. Waterfield), in response to Sophocles’ lines, ‘τούτοις γὰρ ὄντες δεσπόται δουλεύομεν, | καὶ τῶνδ᾽ ἀνάγκη καὶ σιωπώντων κλύειν’ from a lost play, perhaps The Shepherds. 62 Plut. Per. 33.6, Nic. 2.3, 3.2, Praec. ger. reip. 818c.

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right person.63 Politicians in thrall to the people are not limited to Athens. In Syracuse the mob of sailors and labourers support Heracleides as he is ‘far better disposed to the people than Dion and more under the control of the many’ (δημοτικώτερόν γε πάντως εἶναι τοῦ Δίωνος καὶ μᾶλλον ὑπὸ χεῖρα τοῖς πολλοῖς).64 By the latter part of the fourth century Athens had fallen from its fifthcentury heights. Plutarch reports at the beginning of the Life of Phocion that the orator Demades described himself as overseeing a shipwrecked city, a claim that Plutarch quickly punctures by saying that Demades was but part of the wreckage.65 The idea of the ship of state, albeit in better condition, recalls Pericles and the glories of the fifth century, but if anyone was at the helm of this ship it was, says Plutarch, Phocion rather than Demades.66 Indeed it was Phocion alone of his contemporaries whom Plutarch thought merited comparison with the politicians of Athens’ fifth-century heyday.67

11.4 PHOCION THE G OOD What is striking about Demades’ metaphor is not the helmsman but the depiction of Athens as a shipwreck. This is the end of Athenian greatness as an independent city. Phocion is paired with Cato the Younger, a Roman whose life ended with the Roman Republic. There is a cluster of roughly contemporary Greek Lives each of which is paired with a Roman at the end of the Republic—in addition to Phocion and Cato there are Alexander with Caesar, Demosthenes with Cicero, and Demetrius Poliorcetes with Antony. Together they suggest that the late fourth century was the end of an era and one can read the fall of the Republic back on to Greece.68 Phocion, however, seems a strange choice for a Life. He did not make that much impact on the historical tradition. No source has much to say about his career before 340 and even the years before the death of Alexander are fairly sketchy.69 It is an irony that it was Phocion’s death that made his life memorable. Cornelius Nepos, writing in the first century BCE, did include 63

64 65 Plut. Phoc. 8. Plut. Dion 48.2. Plut. Phoc. 1. Epigraphy might suggest otherwise. Demades is named as proposer of at least six decrees in this period (see S. Dmitriev’s commentary on BNJ 227 (Demades of Athens) T38) whereas Phocion’s name is completely absent. 67 Plut. Dem. 13.4–14.2, Phoc. 7.3. 68 This is not to suggest that they were written as a group, although the majority were written later. Jones 1966: 68 argues that Alexander/Caesar is the thirteenth or fourteenth pair while Phocion/Cato and Demetrius/Antony both fall among the final eight (i.e. nos. 16–23). Demosthenes/Cicero, however, as the fifth pair is early. Eumenes/Sertorius might also be included among this cluster, although Sertorius died in the later 70s so is rather earlier than the other Romans here. 69 See the judicious remarks of Cawkwell 1979. There are, nonetheless, several modern studies of Phocion; Tritle 1988 follows Plutarch in offering a highly favourable portrait, while Bearzot 66

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him among his biographies of distinguished commanders but then paradoxically he begins by saying that despite all Phocion’s military commands his reputation rests on his virtue and continues: ‘of the one [his military career] there is no memory at all, while the fame of the other is great.’70 A few Lives earlier Nepos had said that after Iphicrates, Chabrias, and Timotheus there was no Athenian commander worthy of memory, again suggesting it was not for his military achievements that he included Phocion.71 Indeed Nepos has very little to say about his subject until Phocion reaches around eighty years of age, at which point the focus is on his rapprochement with Macedon and his resulting unpopularity. The emphasis is similar in Diodorus. There are a few passing references to Phocion’s earlier career, but Phocion does not really merit serious attention until the very end of his life when Diodorus devotes three chapters to his fall and execution.72 Neither Nepos nor Diodorus offer the very positive image of Phocion to be found in Plutarch, although both are sympathetic to Phocion’s plight at his trial. Nepos emphasizes his unpopularity and his betrayal first of Demosthenes and then of the Piraeus, while Diodorus makes clear the reasons for the popular animosity towards Phocion, namely his role in the subjection of Athens to Macedon.73 Yet Plutarch clearly admired Phocion and he was not alone. At some point Phocion had acquired the epithet χρηστός, ‘good’ or ‘worthy’, although in what circumstances this occurred is obscure.74 The epithet may simply have been alluding to a reputation for integrity but since χρηστός is one of the many words of moral approval used to designate the aristocracy, its application to Phocion may reflect an endorsement of his conservative political stance.75 Aeschines’ speech On the Embassy of 343 might be adduced as contemporary evidence for the high regard in which Phocion was held.76 Here Aeschines

1985 dismantles much of the tradition. Gehrke 1976, on the other hand, offers a more measured approach, while being generally sympathetic to Phocion. 70 Nep. Phocion 1.1: ‘huius memoria est nulla, illius autem magna fama.’ 71 Nep. Timoth. 4.4. There is no need to see inconsistency here as Stem 2012: 28 does. 72 Diodorus has only four references to Phocion before the death of Alexander: 16.42.7–9, 46.1 (campaigns in Cyprus, not mentioned by Plutarch), 16.74.1 (expels Eritrean tyrant), 17.15.2 (recommends that Demosthenes hand himself over to Alexander). On his fall and death, 18.65–67 with 18.18 briefly outlining the arrangement with Antipater. 73 Nepos is particularly negative about Phocion in ch. 2, but more favourable when describing his death, leading Tritle 1988: 4–8 to suggest two different sources, first Demosthenes’ nephew Demochares, then Demetrius of Phaleron. For Diodorus on Phocion’s role in Athenian subjection, 18.66.5–6, 67.6, although Tritle 1988: 146–9 tends not to notice the more negative aspects of Diodorus’ treatment. 74 Plut. Phoc. 10.2 offers no explanation for the epithet. The Suda s.v. Φρύνων καὶ Φιλοκράτης implausibly claims that Phocion received the name by decree after giving financial help to his fellow-citizen Phrynon, but this receives no support from the surviving corpus of inscriptions in which the term does not appear, Whitehead 1993: 63–4 (rejecting Tritle 1988: 143, who accepts the decree if not the benefaction). Cf. also D.L. 6.76. 75 76 For such terminology, Brock 1991: 163. Aeschin. 2.184; cf. Tritle 1988: 143.

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praises Phocion as a man preeminent in justice (δικαιοσύνῃ διενηνοχότα πάντων), but this needs to be understood within its context: it is a defence speech and Aeschines is introducing Phocion as one of those who will testify on his behalf.77 It was also some twenty years before Phocion courted controversy by becoming the figurehead for Macedonian rule in Athens. But it was not so much some abstract goodness that made Phocion appealing to Plutarch, it was his integrity in political affairs. He held the position of strategos more times than anyone else; yet he never sought it out but similarly did not avoid it when it was offered (and it was allegedly offered some fortyfive times). In the assembly he never went out of his way to gain the favour of the people and opposed the popular will more than anyone else. But, Plutarch says, although the Athenians would allow themselves to be entertained by demagogues, when they needed a leader they preferred a man severe and sensible who would oppose their wishes and impulses.78 Several chapters are devoted to his sayings, many of which capture the way he stood in opposition to the people.79 Agreement with the people is seen as so untypical for Phocion that it merits an anecdote itself; thus on an occasion when his proposal was greeted with great applause by the assembly, he is said to have turned to his friends and asked: ‘I haven’t just said something wrong without meaning to, have I?’.80 Phocion’s position was very different to that of Demosthenes. Where Demosthenes was represented as aligned with the supporters of democracy and opponents of Macedon, Phocion’s sympathies were oligarchic and he was said to have been friends with various leading Macedonians, notable among whom were Alexander and Antipater.81 Furthermore he made no secret of his admiration for Sparta and he even sent his son Phocus to be educated there, albeit as a remedial measure.82 After Athens’ failure in the Lamian War that followed the death of Alexander Phocion was one of the Athenian negotiators with Antipater. The price of peace was a Macedonian garrison and a new constitution, the latter justified under the familiar guise of a return to the ancestral constitution, one based on a property qualification.83 The result was the disenfranchisement of at least 12,000 citizens (or possibly as many as 22,000 if Diodorus’ figure is accepted), many of whom were apparently resettled in Thrace.84 This constitution was far more 77 Little is known of Aeschines’ relationship with Phocion, although see the suggestions of Harris 1995: 36–9. 78 79 80 Plut. Phoc. 8.1–2. Plut. Phoc. 8–11. Plut. Phoc. 8.3. 81 Plut. Phoc. 17.5–6 (Alexander); cf. Ael. VH 1.25, although note the caution of Bearzot 1984; Phoc. 28.1 (Menyllus, the garrison commander in Athens); Phoc. 30 (Antipater). Paschidis 2008a: 49–57 has a good account of Phocion’s relations with Macedonians from 322 onwards. 82 Plut. Phoc. 20; on Phocion’s laconizing tendencies, see Fisher 1994: 360–1. 83 Plut. Phoc. 27, D.S. 18.18 (where the emphasis is on Demades). 84 12,000: Plut. Phoc. 28.4; 22,000: D.S. 18.18.4–5; each has its supporters among modern scholars (cf. Sekunda 1992: 319 for Plutarch and O’Sullivan 2009: 109–10 for Diodorus). There is little agreement among scholars over which to choose, but, whichever it is, the number of

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to Plutarch’s liking. He speaks of Phocion’s new property-based constitution with admiration and positiveness not found when talking of the democracy that had preceded it: ‘His administration of Athens was lawful and he managed to keep men of education and culture (τοὺς ἀστείους καὶ χαρίεντας) continually in office, while teaching the troublemakers and agitators, who were fading into insignificance just by being denied positions of power and opportunities for disturbance, to be content with tilling the soil.’85 Finally Athens has a sensible constitution! Those ‘men of culture’ recalls a remark made about Demosthenes in that Life: ‘Although the masses (οἱ πολλοί) found his delivery wonderfully pleasing, men of culture (οἱ χαρίεντες), such as Demetrius of Phalerum, thought the artificiality of his style demeaning, vulgar, and feeble (ταπεινὸν…καὶ ἀγεννὲς…καὶ μαλακόν)’.86 On the one hand, then, there are the Demosthenic masses, on the other the cultured leaders of the new government. Notwithstanding Plutarch’s praise of Phocion’s government its opponents had no hesitation in branding it as an oligarchy.87 The new Macedonian-backed regime was not to last, however. The death of Antipater brought about a realignment of forces and the bad old ways returned. The Macedonian general Polyperchon proclaimed the ancestral constitution again but this time it was a democratic one. His aim, Plutarch says, was to bring about Phocion’s banishment, something most easily effected if ‘the disenfranchised citizens regained their political dominance, and the demagogues and sycophants once again occupied the speaker’s platform’.88 Eventually Phocion was toppled by a motley (παμμιγής) and disorderly (ἄτακτος) assembly of exiles, foreigners, and disenfranchised citizens. The phrasing here echoes Plutarch’s account of the beginnings of democracy under Theseus, but what we witness is exactly the reverse of what Theseus had intended. For Theseus had been careful to make sure that his democracy did not become disorderly or confused (οὐ μὴν ἄτακτον οὐδὲ μεμιγμένην) as a

disenfranchised was substantial (Bayliss 2011: 68–73 with n. 10). On the resettlement, Baynham 2003. Gray 2015: 220–3 compares this large-scale disenfranchisement with the expulsion of Athenian citizens in 404–3. 85 Plut. Phoc. 29.4. Without being quite so positive Diodorus 18.18.6 talks of the impact of the new constitution in similar terms: the Athenians ‘conducted their public affairs without disturbance and harvested their crops without fear’ (ἀταράχως πολιτευόμενοι καὶ τὴν χώραν ἀδεῶς καρπούμενοι), which might suggest that both drew on a common tradition. 86 Plut. Dem. 11.3 (trans. Waterfield). 87 Oliver 2003a: 41, citing the Athenian decree in honour of Euphron, IG II2 448, line 62: οἱ ἐν τεῖ ὀλιαρχίαι πολιτευόμενοι, on which see also Wallace 2014, esp. 619–20 on the way the shortlived democracy of 318/7 represented itself in ideological opposition to the regime of Phocion that had immediately preceded it. For spelling ὀλιαρχία as an alternative spelling for ὀλιγαρχία, see Gauthier 1986: 124 and Shear 1978: 134 (on its appearance in line 81 of the honorific decree for Callias). On the varying scholarly views of this regime see Oliver 2003a: 50–1 and Bayliss 2011: 63–4. 88 Plut. Phoc. 32.2.

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result of an indiscriminate multitude pouring in.89 Plutarch’s exasperation and unhappiness at this outcome is clear and becomes clearer still with his description of the noisy and chaotic assembly that later sentenced Phocion and his friends to death.90 The archons collected together whoever they could find: ‘no one was excluded—even slaves, foreigners and the disenfranchised were allowed.’ Everybody, even women, could ascend the speaker’s platform and have their say. When a member of the elite (οἱ βέλτιστοι τῶν πολιτῶν) stood up to say that slaves and foreigners should leave the assembly, a shout went up that the ‘oligarchs and haters of the demos’ should be stoned. This is no neutral account of Phocion’s fall. Plutarch’s sympathies are fully with Phocion and the defeated oligarchy in the face of a rabble that does not even want to hear Phocion’s defence.91 For a different perspective one can look to contemporary epigraphy, according to which ‘the demos returned and recovered its laws and democracy’.92

11.5 PHOC ION AND SOCRATES Plutarch describes the execution of Phocion at length and concludes the life with the sentence: ‘But what happened to Phocion reminded the Greeks of Socrates and they felt that on both occasions the city had been equally at fault and equally visited by misfortune.’ The death scenes do not directly imitate each other, but the echoes and contrasts suggest that Plutarch wrote it with Socrates and Plato’s Phaedo in mind.93 In the next chapter in this volume, Dubreuil analyses Phocion’s evocation of Socrates through the specific lens of the Platonic oppositions between theatre and philosophy, performance and sincerity, appearance and reality. This section offers a broader analysis of the relationship between the two characters, which provides important background to Dubreuil’s argument. Some parallels between the deaths of Socrates and Phocion are straightforward, so that even before Plutarch makes the comparison explicit readers will

89 Plut. Phoc. 33.2, Thes. 25.1. The Theseus was earlier than the Phocion, Jones 1966: 68. On Plutarch and Theseus, see section 11.2. 90 Plutarch’s depiction of this assembly is treated in detail in Dubreuil, Chapter 12 in this volume. 91 For the two assemblies, the one that overthrew Phocion and the one that condemned him to death, Plut. Phoc. 33.2 and 34–5 respectively. The degree of animosity to Phocion is evident also in the refusal to allow him to be buried in Attica (Phoc. 37.2–3, D.S. 18.67.6). 92 IG II2 448, lines 62–4. Such language, however, was part of an on-going re-fashioning of the past in the interests of those dominant in the present; cf. Luraghi and Wallace, Chapters 2 and 3 in this volume. 93 Cf. Trapp 1999: 489.

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have been thinking of Socrates. Immediately striking is the mode of execution; both Phocion and Socrates die from hemlock poisoning, a practice far less well attested than we might imagine. Socrates is its most famous victim and, with the exception of Phocion and his friends, all known examples of execution by hemlock date from a very narrow period of Athenian history, the years 404–399, that is to say the oligarchic regime of the Thirty Tyrants and immediately afterwards.94 Furthermore, in the face of his imminent death Phocion maintains the kind of calmness seen in Socrates; indeed his composure and greatness of spirit (ἀπάθεια καὶ μεγαλοψυχία) are commented on by those who observe him.95 A fundamental similarity between the two deaths, however, is that they are both victims of the demos. Phocion’s singular voice in opposition is on display throughout the Life as has been observed in section 11.4. Each man stuck to his principles, unswayed by popular pressure, and paid the price. That at least would have been the view of their supporters. But other similarities point up certain contrasts that make Phocion’s death read like a more brutal and inhumane version of Socrates’ fate, something that begins in the build-up to it. There is no suggestion of a proper legal process. Phocion is not even able to make himself heard above the jeering crowds and once sentenced has to make his way to the prison with his enemies abusing him and even spitting at him.96 Once in prison he is, like Socrates, surrounded by his friends but in his case his friends are condemned too and even volunteer to drink the poison first. The gaoler is a figure in both stories, but Phocion’s gaoler is far from the obliging character of the Phaedo. When the hemlock runs out, he demands twelve drachmas for another batch, leaving Phocion to proffer his final quote: ‘it seems that in Athens one can’t even die without paying.’97 Any reader familiar with the Phaedo would remember that Socrates had asked his gaoler if he might be allowed to pour some of the hemlock as a libation and had been told apologetically in reply that only the amount that is needed is prepared.98 In Socrates’ case the execution was postponed, so that it would not coincide with a religious festival, but in Phocion’s case the 94 Todd 2000: 39–40 lists four named cases and two other more general references, all but Phocion and his friends from 404–399. It is even possible that at some point the tradition added hemlock poisoning to Phocion’s death to accentuate the parallel with Socrates, a possibility raised though not endorsed by Todd 2000: 32 n. 3. This would not be the only example where death by hemlock was introduced in order to promote a comparison with Socrates. It was said that when the outspoken Cyrenean philosopher Theodorus the Atheist was charged with impiety in Athens during the rule of Demetrius of Phalerum, he was sentenced to death by drinking hemlock, D.L. 2.102. Diogenes himself and other sources make clear that he survived, and he is attested at various Hellenistic courts, O’Sullivan 2009: 152 with n. 135 and Lampe 2014: 164–7. The Socratic parallel also appears in Philo (but without the hemlock), in so far as Theodorus is there accused of impiety and corrupting the youth (Quod omn. bon. lib. 127–8). 95 96 Plut. Phoc. 36.1; cf. e.g. Pl. Phd. 117c–d. Plut. Phoc. 34.4–5, 36.2. 97 Plut. Phoc. 36.4. For Socrates and his gaoler, note esp. Pl. Phd. 116c–d. 98 Pl. Phd. 117b. Plutarch’s story would thus seem an elaboration of this, asking what would have happened if it had run out.

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execution goes ahead despite a religious festival.99 The contrast with Socrates’ trial and execution seems deliberate, yet it is not obvious why Plutarch should choose to present Phocion’s death in this way. It has literary effect, certainly, accentuating both his fall and his subsequent rehabilitation, but Plutarch may also have been concerned to draw attention to a deterioration in the condition of the demos, a descent into mob-rule that marked the end of Athens as a fully independent state (compare Dubreuil’s Chapter 12 in this volume). At the same time Phocion’s end falls short of the measured dignity of Socrates’ death, although through no fault of his own, just as Cato’s quasi-Socratic death at the end of his parallel Life is rather messier than his hero’s.100 The evocation of Socrates is something present throughout the Life, although the comparison is never made explicit until that last sentence. Plutarch’s introduction to the Life not only signals Phocion’s fate, it also recalls that of Socrates. He writes that it is generally thought that the demos is more likely to abuse ‘the good men’ when things are going well, but the opposite is the case: it is when things are bad that this happens, that is to say at times of misfortune and crisis. It is hard not to think of that good man Socrates at the end of the Peloponnesian War. Nor is it merely that the circumstances of their deaths were similar. There was a direct link between the two men through the philosopher Plato, who was both a pupil of Socrates and a teacher of Phocion.101 It is not the purpose of this essay to collect all the allusions to Socrates to be found in the Life of Phocion, but it is worth noting some of the more prominent.102 Phocion’s features, we are told, made him forbidding and gloomy, so much so that jokes were made about his frowning brows. There may be something of the philosopher in this image (see Dubreuil’s chapter for further development of this argument). From the early Hellenistic period philosophers were often depicted as intense and frowning and even before then their expressions could be the butt of jokes from comic poets, if Amphis’ enigmatic mockery of Plato’s snail-like frown is any guide.103 The philosophical, even Socratic, appearance continues in Phocion’s dress. He was well known for going about without cloak or shoes, a style that gave rise to more quips. His soldiers used to joke: how can you tell if it is a bad winter? Phocion is wearing a cloak. But Socrates too dressed in this way as Xenophon reports in

99

Pl. Phd. 59d–e, Xen. Mem. 4.8.2; Plut. Phoc. 37.1. On Cato’s death, see Trapp 1999: 490–5, who argues Cato’s messy death acts as a criticism of the Roman tradition that compared Cato to Socrates; cf. also Zadorojnyi 2007. 101 Plut. Phoc. 4.1; but elsewhere he is linked with Cynicism, D.L. 6.76, Suda, s.v. Φιλίσκος. 102 For the comparison with Socrates, see especially Alcalde Martín 1999, Trapp 1999, and Duff 1999: 141–5. 103 On intense frowns in art, see Zanker 1996, esp. 90–112. For the Platonic joke, see D.L. 3.28 (Amphis F13), on which Olson 2007: 243 with some other examples of comic poets making fun of philosophical brows. 100

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the Memorabilia, although so too did other ascetic philosophers.104 Phocion even finds himself the subject of a Delphic oracle. ‘When an oracle from Delphi was read out in the assembly to the effect that while all other Athenians were of one mind there was one who dissented from the city, Phocion stepped up and told them not to worry—that he was the one they were looking for, because he was the only one who disapproved of everything they did.’ If Socrates gets singled out by the oracle for his wisdom, then Phocion would seem to be singled out for his obstinancy.105 That Plutarch should end the Life with the comparison with Socrates is a sign that his decision to include Phocion among the Lives was not some mere whim. At the same time that concluding sentence needs to be understood in relation to the partner Life, that of Cato the Younger. Within the paired Lives the recollection of Socrates’ death is not the conclusion but the moment of transition to the Life of Cato and so signals an important point of comparison and contrast. An implicit question too is not only how does Cato measure up against Phocion but how do both men measure up against Socrates himself. Cato was another man who stood out against the current political system, although in his case it was the tyranny of Caesar rather than the demos. In his Life too Socrates is a significant presence. Cato mugs up on the Phaedo before committing suicide, but his reading of the Phaedo points out a difference between the two men. Phocion by his very nature recalls Socrates, but in the case of Cato who also adopts a shoeless regime the imitation is deliberate and self-conscious. All this affirms the Socratic character of Phocion while calling into question that of Cato.106 There is a great temptation to explore the stratigraphy of Plutarch’s text and the development of this image of Phocion, although firm conclusions are hard to reach. It is clear, however, that the comparison with Socrates did not begin with Plutarch. Hints already appear in Cornelius Nepos’ brief biography, although it is not made explicit there, while Valerius Maximus places Socrates alongside Phocion in his examples of men who show resolution (constantia).107 Phocion’s rehabilitation, and with it the Socratic comparison, probably emerged within a few years of his death, very likely during the regime of Demetrius of Phaleron, the Peripatetic philosopher and ruler of Athens. Plutarch reports that not long after his death Phocion was honoured with a bronze statue and

104 Xen. Mem. 1.6.2, cf. Alcalde Martín 1999: 161, and on Cynic asceticism Desmond 2008: 77–81. 105 Plut. Phoc. 8, Pl. Ap. 20e–21a. 106 Suicide: Plut. Cato Min. 68–70; shoeless: Cato Min. 6.3. On the Cato/Socrates comparison note Trapp 1999 and Duff 1999: 141–5. Dio Chrysostom, in Plutarch’s own day, is said to have taken Plato’s Phaedo with him into exile, together with Demosthenes’ On the False Embassy (Philostrat. VS 488). 107 Tritle 1988: 6–7; Duff 1999: 142; Val. Max. 3.8 ext. 2–3. It may be implicit too in Diodorus’ reference to hemlock (18.67.6).

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his banished bones given a public burial, events which fit most easily into that context.108 Demetrius was a former associate of Phocion, who had come to power only a year or so after the latter’s fall. In the intervening period there had been a short-lived democratic government that appears to have evoked the memory of the democracy of 403 that overthrew the Thirty Tyrants, thus casting Phocion and his associates in the role of the tyrants.109 If so, the comparison between Phocion and Socrates may itself have been a response to this as the two sides struggled in an ideological conflict over how to represent the present and how to lay claim to the past. But whether it was Demetrius or someone else who put the comparison between Phocion and Socrates into writing must remain speculation.110 My concern here, however, is not with who this was, but rather with Plutarch and what Plutarch chose to do with the material.

1 1 . 6 BE T W E E N T H E D E M O S AND THE GOVERNOR ’ S BOOTS Of all the Athenian politicians and generals whose Lives Plutarch wrote Phocion may have been the one who had the greatest contemporary resonance. On one level, his career was representative of the problems of Athenian democracy, a radical form of democracy that was securely in the past, but members of the Greek elite living under Roman rule might read into it some of their own problems and dilemmas. Plutarch’s Phocion was a man of conservative politics, who did not allow himself to be bullied by the demos, but more importantly Phocion, like them, had to deal with a ruling power. If Phocion was caught between the demos and Macedon, then Plutarch and his peers were caught between the demos and Rome. We might imagine that democracy was not an issue for Greeks of Plutarch’s day, given that the Romans encouraged oligarchic governments and had been doing so in the Greek world since the early second century BCE.111 Greek cities may have maintained democratic forms and language, notably the boule, the ekklesia, and decrees that began with the traditional formula ‘it seems good to the boule and demos’, but a change in the character of the boule into one largely permanent and with membership based on wealth meant that power

108 Plut. Phoc. 38.1. Once the city had fallen to Demetrius Poliorcetes in 307, such posthumous honours seem unlikely. 109 Wallace, Chapter 3 in this volume, section 3.3.1. 110 Tritle 1988: 29–33 favours Demetrius as Plutarch’s source; cf. also Bearzot 1985; Gehrke 1976: 195–6 is more cautious. 111 Cf. Briscoe 1967.

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lay with the boule and the propertied class.112 But while there may have been little risk of significant constitutional change, the demos itself was still a real presence, not merely part of a formulaic phrase. Recent scholarship has tended to bring it back into the picture, both in terms of the role of the assembly, which might be greater or less depending on the unity of the elite, and the demos’ capacity to riot.113 On the one hand, there is the city as viewed from Rome, in which the emphasis is on an elite who deal with the Roman governor, on the other hand there is the city as a community, in which the elite and the rest of the population are constantly interacting.114 The bulk of the population, which continued to be conceived of as the demos, could express itself through the assembly, even if political and legislative initiative largely lay with the council and the elite. To be an effective politician in a Greek city under the Roman empire still meant engaging with and winning over the demos, even if this was not such a pressing concern as it would have been in the fourth century BCE. This was something of which Plutarch was especially conscious. In his Political Precepts, a volume of advice addressed to a wealthy young man embarking on a political career, Plutarch makes numerous references to the demos. Although the essay is full of examples from the Classical past, Plutarch shows himself very conscious of the difference between past and present and it is clear that he sees the problem of the demos as being as much part of the present as the past. He repeatedly advises his addressee on how to deal with the people, variously the demos or the hoi polloi. He has much to say on the importance of persuading the people through oratory, frowns upon the use of largesse to win them over, offers suggestions for manipulating public meetings, and recommends that there is scope for humouring the people as well as opposing them.115 But there is also the sense that if handled badly the people have the potential to be dangerous. Early in the essay they are likened to a ‘suspicious and unstable wild animal’, while a little later they are characterized as stubborn and violent.116 The power of local aristocracies, however, was constrained less by the demos than by Rome itself. Plutarch is well over halfway into his essay when Roman power is explicitly introduced for the first time, but the challenge that this 112 de Ste. Croix 1981: 518–37; Sartre 1995: 217–25; Gleason 2006: 234; Schuler 2015: 252–5. For the state of democracy in the Hellenistic period, see Grieb 2008; Carlsson 2010; and the thoughtful overview of Mann 2012. 113 See in particular Ma 2000b; Zuiderhoek 2008; the exhaustive study of Fernoux 2011; and Miller 2015. For examples of civil disturbance, see Carrière 1984: 35 n. 2. 114 In this respect the mass/elite dynamic observed by Ober 1989 for Classical Athens would also be relevant for the polis under the Roman empire; cf. also the emphasis on community in Fernoux 2011. 115 Persuasion: Praec. ger. reip. 801e–2e, 803f–4a; largesse: 802d–e; manipulation: 813a–c; not emulating ancestors: 814a; humouring: 818a–d. This is merely a selection. 116 Plut. Praec. ger. reip. 800c, 801e.

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poses Greek politicians is immediately apparent. The past and present are clearly contrasted. Pericles on taking office could tell himself that he ruled free men, whereas the city magistrate of Plutarch’s day had to remind himself that as well as being a ruler he was also the ruled, subject to the authority of Rome and its representatives; above his head he could see the boots of the governor.117 The dangers presented by Rome are manifold and the thoughtless politician risks not merely the hisses and jeers of a rowdy crowd but death or exile.118 Plutarch warns against politicians who stir up the people by reminding them of past glories with the result that they forget their present subject status.119 But significantly he also warns against those who are so subservient to the Roman authorities that they cede what little independence the city still possesses. In both cases what brings a city to Roman attention is disunity, whether among the elite or in the city as a whole. Consequently Plutarch places great stress on the need to promote harmony within the state.120 Plutarch’s Phocion was a man who stood out against the indiscriminate power of the demos while at the same time protecting his city from its Macedonian overlords. As such he marked an important moment in Greek politics as Athens came to terms with its subordinate position. His stance could be seen as principled and dignified in contrast to the fawning of his political successors in the face of Demetrius Poliorcetes a few years later.121 It was a situation with which the Greek elite of the Roman empire had long been familiar. There was much about Phocion that would have resonated with them as they carefully positioned themselves between their demos and Rome. First, Phocion was a man who was an advocate of a conservative constitution, one not unlike those of the Greek cities of their own day; secondly, although he had a reputation for opposing the demos, he was respected by it, as attested by his numerous generalships; thirdly, he had to negotiate Athens’ relationship with a ruling power, in his case Macedon. It was, nonetheless, a precarious situation to be in and one that would ultimately take Phocion’s life. Significantly his death is at the hands of both; he is served up by the Macedonian Polyperchon to the ramshackle and unruly Athenian demos. We cannot and should not, however, look for exact parallels. Phocion’s conservative regime did not last long and his career ended in failure and death. 117 Plut. Praec. ger. reip. 813d–f; cf. 805a–b on the constraints under which Greek politicians operated; see further Jones 1971: 110–21; Swain 1996: 162–83. The reference to τοὺς καλτίους ἐπάνω τῆς κεφαλῆς is to senatorial footwear (i.e. that of the governor) rather than legionary boots; so Carrière 1984: 186 n. 10; Jones 1971: 133. 118 Plut. Praec. ger. reip. 813f, quoting a verse that references the very Roman punishment of decapitation. 119 Plut. Praec. ger. reip. 814a. See for example Sulla’s put-down to some Athenian ambassadors, who harp on about Theseus, Eumolpus, and the Persian Wars, Sulla 13. 120 For instance Plut. Praec. ger. reip. 815a–d, 824d–5b; note also Cook 2004 on the enigmatic examples at 814b–c. 121 Plut. Demetr. 10–13, 23–4.

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His fate, moreover, was a consequence not merely of a hostile demos but also of a split in the ruling power, something that was always dangerous for subject cities, as those caught up in the various Roman civil wars knew to their cost. Nonetheless, Phocion’s political career offered the Greek elite an opportunity to reflect on their own situation while his integrity gave them something to emulate.

12 The Orator in the Theatre The End of Athenian Democracy in Plutarch’s Phocion Raphaëla Dubreuil

As A. Erskine has shown in the previous chapter, writing the Life of Phocion was not simply a means for Plutarch to explore the ethos of a stern and unflinching man; it also allowed him to explore and construct his version of democratic politics in Athens during the second half of the fourth century.1 This article looks specifically at the way in which Plutarch represented the steady deterioration of Athenian democracy in the Phocion by focusing on the political exchanges set in the theatre. Plutarch references the theatre four times throughout this Life, twice within a political context (Phoc. 5.3 and Phoc. 34), as the location for assemblies, and twice within a theatrical context (Phoc. 19.2–3 and Phoc. 30.3), where the behaviour of actors and chorus leaders is contrasted with Phocion’s virtues. By focusing on Phoc. 5.3 and Phoc. 34, I argue that the theatre serves as a narrative link between two assemblies held in its precinct, which betray the evolving relationship that Athens had with its democratic values. Plutarch initially presents the reader with (his own) positive image of Athenian democracy, only to contrast it later with an awful perversion of the city’s values and ethos.2 In addition, the theatre functions as a moral test of political righteousness. In order to fully understand the ideological differences set by Plutarch between these two assemblies, one must explore how far certain characters and groups are ready to embrace the theatrical space. I will first briefly consider Plutarch’s representation of Phocion as an Athenian leader. I will then explore the different representations 1 I would like to thank Mirko Canevaro and Ben Gray for their insightful comments which led to the improvement of this essay. All mistakes are naturally my own. 2 This article does not concern itself with the veracity of Plutarch’s account, but rather with his narrative choices.

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of democracy, of its power dynamics and of its values, as portrayed in two assemblies held in the theatre at Phoc. 5.3 and Phoc. 34. This essay does not focus on Phocion’s character but rather on the political scenes set in the theatre, which illustrate Plutarch’s conception of the relationship between Phocion, the Athenians, and their democratic values. I would like, however, to succinctly recall what Erskine highlights in his Chapter 11 (compare section 11.4). Plutarch makes clear early on that Phocion lived at a time of ‘decline’ (Phoc. 3.3), where politicians acted against the character of the city (Phoc. 1.1).3 Yet Phocion embodies the ideals of a past Athens. He alone is similar to Pericles, Aristides, and Solon, who advocated a mixture of both military and rhetorical approaches to public office (Phoc. 7.3). This equates him with the protective goddess of the city herself; just like Athena, he was concerned with ‘war’ and ‘statecraft’ (Phoc. 7.3).4 When Phocion falls it is not the demise of just one man, but of an entire system of values. At the heart of my argument lies the conviction that Plutarch did not idly mention the theatre as a setting for political scenes, but used this space to present his picture of Athens’ gradual decline. The theatre is first mentioned to show a Phocion concerned with his rhetorical style, as he uses the backstage area to go over his speech (Phoc. 5.3). Pseudo-Plutarch retells almost verbatim this anecdote in his Sayings of Kings and Commanders but changes the setting ([Plutarch] Regum et imperatorum apophthegmata 187f).5 While the theatre is immediately set as the location for the scene in the Phocion (πληρουμένου τοῦ θεάτρου; ὑπὸ σκηνήν Phoc. 5.3), Pseudo-Plutarch forgoes any mention of it or its structure in the Sayings but reduces it to a political gathering in a nondescript environment (ἐκκλησίας δὲ γενομένης). In the context of quick anecdotes and one-liners of the Sayings, the location loses its importance, but in the narrative of the Phocion Plutarch consciously chooses to include the theatre and to play with its physical layout. The same holds of Phocion’s trial for treachery against Athens (Phoc. 34). Scholars who have tackled Plutarch’s narrative assume that the trial did indeed take place in the Theatre of Dionysus.6 The theatre, however, is mentioned in neither Diodorus Siculus (D.S. 18.66.4) nor Nepos (Nep. Phoc. 4), our two other surviving narratives 3 This perceived decay has weakened the heart of Athenian political affairs, and is exemplified by the ability of inept orators to pass laws that stand against the honour (ἀξίωμα) and custom (ἦθος) of the city (Phoc. 1.1). Plutarch compares the state of affairs in Athens to a shipwreck. On Plutarch’s metaphor of the sinking polis: Leão 2010: 187. 4 Plutarch plays on Athenian perceptions of self-identity to justify Phocion’s thought-process. 5 Ἐκκλησίας δὲ γενομένης πρὸς τὸν εἰπόντα ‘σκεπτομένῳ, ὦ Φωκίων, ἔοικας’, ‘ὀρθῶς’ ἔφη ‘τοπάζεις· σκέπτομαι γάρ, εἴ τι δύναμαι περιελεῖν ὧν μέλλω λέγειν πρὸς Ἀθηναίους’ (Regum et imperatorum apophthegmata 187f). The authenticity of this work has often been called into question. Babbitt for the Loeb edition considers this a genuine piece of Plutarchan writing (Babbitt 1931: 3), while Russell considers it a forgery, but one which drew heavily on Plutarch’s work: Russell 1973: 166. 6 Cf. Bayliss, whose main source for Phocion’s trial is Plutarch: Bayliss 2011: 147.

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of Phocion’s last moments. This could of course, be explained by the growing use of the theatre in the fourth century BCE as a venue for political gatherings. Although the customary place for assemblies was the Pnyx, the Theatre of Dionysus served as an alternative space on several occasions, particularly after the Great Dionysia. This development during the fourth century seems to have continued into the Hellenistic period, where the theatre became an important assembly space.7 Yet, where Diodorus and Nepos (to a lesser extent) might not have been compelled to mention the location of Phocion’s trial since it would have appeared either as self-evident or less important, Plutarch twice insists on the theatre as the setting for the trial (both at Phoc. 34.2). In both the political scenes that take place in the theatre, Plutarch chose to emphasize the dramatic location and as such I propose to read these two passages as a series of interrelated events, which show the deterioration of Athenian democracy throughout the narrative. The theatre first appears at an early stage in the narrative, and is included as part of a wider section on Phocion’s rhetorical style and its political effectiveness (Phoc. 5.3). This passage details the sort of democratic leader Phocion prefers to be, one who stands apart from the demos and leads it with a superior mind. Although this scene mostly focuses on Phocion, I argue that the brief mention of the demos shows it to be fully at ease with its democratic institutions and confidently partaking in one of its core activities, that of listening to orators. The way in which Plutarch suggests Phocion’s healthy involvement with democracy, however, is not to equate him with past Athenian figures but to emphasize his disregard for the theatre and its space. καὶ μέντοι καὶ αὐτόν ποτε τὸν Φωκίωνά φασι πληρουμένου τοῦ θεάτρου περιπατεῖν ὑπὸ σκηνήν, αὐτὸν ὄντα πρὸς ἑαυτῷ τὴν διάνοιαν· εἰπόντος δέ τινος τῶν φίλων ‘σκεπτομένῳ Φωκίων ἔοικας’, ‘ναὶ μὰ τὸν Δία’ φάναι, ‘σκέπτομαι εἴ τι δύναμαι τοῦ λόγου περιελεῖν ὃν μέλλω λέγειν πρὸς Ἀθηναίους.’ It is said that once as the theatre was full, Phocion was walking up and down behind the stage, his thoughts focused on himself. When one of his friends addressed him “Phocion, you seem like someone reflecting”, he said “Truly by God, I am considering how I could shorten the speech I am about to recite before the Athenians.” (Plut. Phoc. 5.3)

At first glance, Phocion appears to condone the blending of politics with theatrical production not only by agreeing to speak publicly in the theatre but also by ostensibly treating this public appearance as if it were a tragedy or a comedy, preparing himself as an actor would ‘behind the stage’. The space to which ὑπὸ σκηνήν refers seems to have been a particular section of a theatre 7 On the evidence for assemblies taking place in the theatre at Athens: Harris in Canevaro 2013: 222. On the use of the Theatre of Dionysus for assemblies in Hellenistic times: Hansen 1983: 3.

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where tools and instruments, which were used during a performance to create audio-effects such as thunder, were stored (Suda s.v. Βροντή). Plutarch’s only other example of the theatrical meaning of ὑπὸ σκηνήν comes from the Aratus, as Antigonus describes how the young Aratus, who was initially drawn to Egypt’s wealth by its ostentatious display of luxury, discovered it to be only smoke and mirrors (Arat. 15.3).8 Antigonus uses a theatrical metaphor to expose Ptolemy’s sham politics, by suggesting that Aratus peered ‘behind the scene’ to discover the mechanics used to create Ptolemy’s hologram.9 Whether to designate a specific place or to suggest metaphorically concealment, ὑπὸ σκηνήν is firmly rooted in the theatrical world, as a space where the mechanics used to improve a performance are carried out away from the public eye. Phocion’s actor-like preparation seems at odds with his general characterization in the rest of the narrative. Phocion is so un-dramatic by nature that he seems to stand in complete opposition to the world of the stage. Of this, the reader is quasi-immediately informed, as Phocion is first described as having almost never cried or laughed in public (Φωκίωνα γὰρ οὔτε γελάσαντά τις οὔτε κλαύσαντα ῥᾳδίως Ἀθηναίων εἶδεν Phoc. 4.2); these two emotive actions are the most common reactions associated with dramatic performances in Plutarch.10 He distinguishes Phocion’s way of life from the theatrical milieu by opposing for instance the simplicity of the lifestyle of his wife, who kept only one maidservant, with the demands for more extras made by an extravagant actor playing a queen (Phoc. 19.2–3) or by using the devious Demades’ expenditure as choregos as a foil to Phocion’s righteous poverty (Phoc. 30.3).11 The prominence of the theatre as a physical scene for Athenian politics in the Phocion is even more surprising when comparing it with the Demosthenes, which offers a contemporary yet alternative version of Athens’ troubled history.12 The parallel between the actor and the orator is a central theme for understanding 8 Plutarch most often uses the term ὑπὸ σκηνήν to describe the movement of going into, or the state of being in, a (military) tent (cf. Mar. 14, Alex. 12, Gracchi 4). 9 (…) νυνὶ δὲ ὑπὸ σκηνὴν ἑωρακὼς πάντα τὰ ἐκεῖ πράγματα τραγῳδίαν ὄντα καὶ σκηνογραφίαν ὅλος ἡμῖν προσκεχώρηκεν: ‘Now that he has seen that behind the stage all things there are really only tragedy and scene-painting, he has entirely come over.’ Julius Pollux, contemporary to Plutarch, also uses ὑπὸ σκηνήν metaphorically to suggest the secrets that take place in the private sphere of the household (Poll. Onom. 4.128.3). 10 They are a common audience reaction to plays (Pelop. 29.5) and feature as part of the distinctive range of reactions shown by actors when they are in character (Dem. 22.4). 11 Both Phoc. 19.2–3 and Phoc. 30.3 provide lively anecdotes on the relationship between actor, choregos, and chorus member. Both passages also serve to accentuate Phocion’s selfimposed laconic lifestyle and the desire for riches exhibited by other less favourable characters. For a discussion of this passage: Roselli 2011: 159. In both passages the increasing presence of Macedon can be felt, but while Athenian laws are completely violated in Phoc. 30.3, Athenian values are upheld and win the day at Phoc. 19.2–3. 12 On Plutarch’s Demosthenes offering a slightly different point of view on the same period: Duff 1999: 133.

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Demosthenes’ professional development and is crucial from the start of Demosthenes’ rise to fame since Plutarch identifies Satyrus the actor’s recital of a tragic text as instrumental in instigating his awakening to oratorical brilliance (Dem. 7.1–6).13 Yet, in the Demosthenes, the theatre is remarkably unimportant as an actual space. Demosthenes’ only performance upon the stage occurs in one of his dreams, and serves as a means to comment on Demosthenes’ character as well as his rhetorical skills (Dem. 29), rather than a setting where Athens’ future is decided.14 A closer reading of the Phocion passage, however, shows that far from emulating Demosthenes’ approach to public speaking Phocion’s rhetorical ability is very much in line with his usual political and moral behaviour. Nothing in Phocion’s behaviour could occasion the sort of criticism Plutarch usually reserves for the theatre, which is why such condemnation of the theatre’s immorality is conspicuously absent from this passage. Plutarch’s disapproval of theatrical writing and performance is philosophical and is influenced by Platonic discourse on tragedy.15 This denunciation partly rests on both the relationship between the actor and his audience and on the nature of acting, which is mimetic. The actor selfishly intends to manipulate emotionally his audience through a crowd-pleasing performance that imitates reality and in turn the audience’s pleasure becomes vital, to the detriment of truth and rationality. For instance, Plutarch condemns actors for expressing emotions according to a pre-conceived plot (ὑπόθεσις) rather than according to their own state of mind (Dem. 22.4), and these performers are not only conscious of the crowd’s taste (Prae. ger. reip. 799A) but are also so potent that 13 In several instances of the Demosthenes, Plutarch intermingles politics and theatre to describe and explain Demosthenes’ behaviour, such as his party-outfit at the death of Philip (although Plutarch commends him for restraining his grief in public at the death of his daughter, contrasting it with the dramatic outbursts of actors: Dem. 22.2–4). Demosthenes’ actual views on the relationship between theatre and politics seem rather negative. For example he denounces Aeschines’ histrionic past and theatrical politics in his Against the False Embassy to undermine his opponent’s worth as an orator (cf. Dem. 19.246). This tradition, which Plutarch follows, of theatricalizing Demosthenes is inherited from the biographies of the Peripatetics. They considered Demosthenes’ talent to be artificially constructed through practice rather than inherited as natural disposition: cf. Cooper 2000: 225–34. 14 ὁ δὲ Δημοσθένης ἐτύγχανεν ὄψιν ἑωρακὼς κατὰ τοὺς ὕπνους ἐκείνης τῆς νυκτὸς ἀλλόκοτον. ἐδόκει γὰρ ἀνταγωνίζεσθαι τῷ Ἀρχίᾳ τραγῳδίαν ὑποκρινόμενος, εὐημερῶν δὲ καὶ κατέχων τὸ θέατρον ἐνδείᾳ παρασκευῆς καὶ χορηγίας κρατεῖσθαι (Dem. 29.2). 15 The aim of this chapter is not to discuss Plato’s repudiation of theatre as read by Plutarch. I shall mostly address criticisms a Plutarchan reader would expect from a passage where politics and theatre blend so perfectly. De Lacy has laid down the groundwork for the study of Plutarch’s views on tragedy and his use of tragic terminology in the Lives: De Lacy 1952. While this article presents a coherent idea of Plutarch’s use of tragic terminology in both the Lives and the Moralia, De Lacy’s evaluation of Plutarch’s attitude towards tragedy is very negative. Duff offers a more positive reading of Plutarch’s views on tragedy and Plato, as tragic plots and terminology are used to create a space in which the reader can choose to evaluate morally the character of his protagonists in his own terms: Duff 2004. For a study of Plutarch’s aesthetic evaluation of mimesis, see Van der Stockt 1990: 24.

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even tyrannical figures, unmoved by the cruel fate of their enemies, weep before tragic productions (Pelop. 29.5). The passage in the Phocion, however, is remarkably devoid of any emotionality, either on the audience’s or on Phocion’s part. The spectators are only indirectly mentioned to indicate the popularity of the event (πληρουμένου τοῦ θεάτρου), while no stress is put on a particular response to Phocion’s public appearance, whether emotional or not.16 Nor is Phocion guilty of mimesis, speaking according to his own inclination rather than pretending to be someone else. Plutarch does not want his reader to concentrate on the speech, which is not reported, but rather emphasizes the manner in which Phocion approaches his responsibilities as a leading political figure. He is not interested in self-promotion but in guiding the Athenians through rational arguments, which is evident in his behaviour and his approach to writing. Phocion is shown to carry out his political duties with much intellectual and personal input. All of Plutarch’s language used to describe Phocion is geared towards depicting him as a thinking man (compare Erskine’s chapter, section 11.5). He is both seen in and identified with the act of σκέπτεσθαι, which goes beyond the simple act of thinking, as it implies a careful consideration, if not investigation, of the matter at hand (LSJ s.v. σκέπτομαι).17 Phocion’s inward thoughts create a dichotomy between the presumably noisy seating area (the theatre being full) and the quiet reflective space behind the stage. Phocion’s reflective quality is also suggested by his desire to shorten his presentation. Plutarch exemplifies his protagonist’s short but effective style, demonstrating Phocion’s preference for measured ideas rather than popularity (Phoc. 2–3).18 But this rhetorical choice is not simply a reflection of his moral worth; it is also a means for Plutarch to equate Phocion with the philosophical milieu. In an anecdote just before this passage Plutarch details Zeno’s preference for laconic speeches, hailing them as the ideal style for the good philosopher (Phoc. 5.2), a comment that cannot be innocent in the light 16

Plutarch’s treatment of the audience in this passage contrasts beautifully with the Athenians’ emotional journey during Demetrius Poliorcetes’ show in the same theatre some years later, as they are transported from fear (τὸ δέος) to joy (ἡ χαρά) in the space of one performance (Demetr. 34.3–4). 17 Plutarch uses it in conjunction with working out a problem, whether in order to gain a medical understanding of the symptoms of illness (De tuenda 129d), or to solve household problems (Quaes. conv. 702a) or even in a philosophical context (Quaest. conv. 649a). 18 For instance, one of Phocion’s speeches before the Athenians was delivered with sobriety (νήφων) (Phoc. 8.2). Phocion’s disinterest in popularity is further reinforced by the anecdote which follows this episode, where Demosthenes understands public speeches as a sort of informal contest between him and Phocion (ὁ δὲ Δημοσθένης τῶν μὲν ἄλλων κατεφρόνει πολὺ ῥητόρων, ἀνισταμένου δὲ Φωκίωνος εἰώθει λέγειν ἀτρέμα πρὸς τοὺς φίλους, ‘ἡ τῶν ἐμῶν λόγων κοπὶς πάρεστιν’ Phoc. 5.4), but his approach stands in opposition to Phocion’s focus on his audience, rather than his reputation relative to other orators. Tritle also notes that Phocion’s ethos is reflected in his rhetorical style: Tritle 1992: 4270. On the Spartan quality of Phocion’s character and speeches: Bayliss 2011: 132.

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of the emphasis put on Phocion’s rhetorical abilities. Against this background the use of περιπατεῖν is hardly accidental as ‘walking about’ would immediately invite the reader to think of the Academy, because Plato instigated the practice of ‘walking about’ to encourage philosophical thinking (cf. Pl. Ep. 348c).19 The word also subtly links this part of Phocion’s adult life back to his adolescence, where Plutarch informs the reader that both Plato and Xenocrates, a subsequent leader of the Academy whom Plutarch in other writings refers to as a περιπατητικός (Plut. Adv. Col. 1115a), supervised his education (Phoc. 4.1). Whether in speech or in behaviour, Phocion’s treatment of public speaking is in no way theatrical. As he is about to appear on stage, he embodies the political confidence of a measured Athens, whose citizens show interest in thoughtful speeches designed to guide them and to preserve the political equilibrium of their city. This stability, however, was not to survive. Although Phocion’s popularity appears unshakable throughout his life (Phoc. 8.1), Phocion’s final moment in the limelight shows that he has lost all the control he seemed to possess over the people. Where he ignored the theatrical setting of Phoc. 5.3, the crowd embraces it as it perversely takes pleasure in destroying him. As the garrison at Munychia falls, Phocion allows the unpopular Macedonian general Nicanor to escape, thus ensuring his own downfall by choosing to save one man from the wrath of the Athenians rather than allowing the majority’s opinion to prevail (Phoc. 32). This decision is perceived by the Athenians as treason and Phocion, along with his followers, is put on trial. Phocion’s last participation in Athenian politics is not that of the sharp decision-maker he has been throughout his biography, but that of an almost passive target of a tumultuous assembly. Yet, while this trial serves as a decisive reminder of Phocion’s righteousness and self-possession, it is not treated in Plutarch’s narrative only as a catalyst to showcase Phocion’s calm ethos: the theatre becomes the locus and symbol of the collapse of Athenian democracy and its values.20 καὶ προσῆν τὸ σχῆμα τῇ κομιδῇ λυπηρόν, ἐφ᾽ ἁμάξαις κομιζομένων αὐτῶν διὰ τοῦ Κεραμεικοῦ πρὸς τὸ θέατρον· ἐκεῖ γὰρ αὐτοὺς προσαγαγὼν ὁ Κλεῖτος συνεῖχεν, ἄχρι οὗ τὴν ἐκκλησίαν ἐπλήρωσαν οἱ ἄρχοντες, οὐ δοῦλον, οὐ ξένον, οὐκ ἄτιμον ἀποκρίναντες, ἀλλὰ πᾶσι καὶ πάσαις ἀναπεπταμένον τὸ βῆμα καὶ τὸ θέατρον παρασχόντες. ἐπεὶ δ᾽ ἥ τ᾽ ἐπιστολὴ τοῦ βασιλέως ἀνεγνώσθη, λέγοντος αὐτῷ μὲν ἐγνῶσθαι προδότας γεγονέναι τοὺς ἄνδρας, ἐκείνοις δὲ διδόναι τὴν κρίσιν, ἐλευθέροις τε δὴ καὶ αὐτονόμοις οὖσι, καὶ τοὺς ἄνδρας ὁ Κλεῖτος εἰσήγαγεν, οἱ μὲν βέλτιστοι τῶν πολιτῶν ὀφθέντος τοῦ Φωκίωνος ἐνεκαλύψαντο καὶ κάτω κύψαντες ἐδάκρυον, εἷς

19

For a wider discussion of Plutarch’s use of Peripatetic sources to construct the Phocion: Tritle 1992: 4296. 20 Leão also mentions the correlation between Phocion’s political end and the degeneration of polis ideals and contrasts Phocion’s arete with the general decadence of the assembly: Leão 2010: 192.

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δ᾽ ἀναστὰς ἐτόλμησεν εἰπεῖν ὅτι, τηλικαύτην κρίσιν ἐγκεχειρικότος τῷ δήμῳ τοῦ βασιλέως, καλῶς ἔχει τοὺς δούλους καὶ τοὺς ξένους ἀπελθεῖν ἐκ τῆς ἐκκλησίας. οὐκ ἀνασχομένων δὲ τῶν πολλῶν, ἀλλ᾽ ἀνακραγόντων βάλλειν τοὺς ὀλιγαρχικοὺς καὶ μισοδήμους, ἄλλος μὲν οὐδεὶς ὑπὲρ τοῦ Φωκίωνος ἐπεχείρησεν εἰπεῖν, αὐτὸς δὲ χαλεπῶς καὶ μόλις ἐξακουσθείς, ‘πότερον’ εἶπεν ‘ἀδίκως ἢ δικαίως ἀποκτεῖναι βούλεσθ᾽ ἡμᾶς;’ ἀποκριναμένων δέ τινων ὅτι δικαίως, ‘καὶ τοῦτ᾽’ ἔφη ‘πῶς γνώσεσθε μὴ ἀκούσαντες;’ ἐπεὶ δ᾽ οὐθὲν μᾶλλον ἤκουον, ἐγγυτέρω προσελθών, ‘ἐγὼ μὲν’ εἶπεν ‘ἀδικεῖν ὁμολογῶ, καὶ θανάτου τιμῶμαι τὰ πεπολιτευμέν᾽ ἐμαυτῷ· τούτους δ᾽ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι διὰ τί ἀποκτενεῖτε μηδὲν ἀδικοῦντας;’ ἀποκριναμένων δὲ πολλῶν ‘ὅτι σοὶ φίλοι εἰσίν,’ ὁ μὲν Φωκίων ἀποστὰς ἡσυχίαν ἦγεν, ὁ δ᾽ Ἁγνωνίδης ψήφισμα γεγραμμένον ἔχων ἀνέγνω, καθ᾽ ὃ τὸν δῆμον ἔδει χειροτονεῖν περὶ τῶν ἀνδρῶν εἰ δοκοῦσιν ἀδικεῖν, τοὺς δ’ ἄνδρας ἂν καταχειροτονηθῶσιν ἀποθνῄσκειν. The manner in which they were conveyed was distressing, as they were carried away by carriage from the Cerameicus to the theatre. There Cleitus brought them and held them until the archons filled up the assembly to the upmost, excluding neither slaves, nor foreigners, no disenfranchised, but allowing the bema and the theatre to be opened up to all men and women. After a letter from the king had been read, in which he said that he considered these men to be traitors and that he offered judgement to those who were free and independent, Cleitus brought forth those men. The most excellent amongst the citizens on seeing Phocion veiled their faces, bent down low, and wept. One rose up and had the courage to say that since the king had entrusted the people with such a decision, it was proper for the slaves and foreigners to depart from the assembly. The multitude, unable to hold back, cried out to throw out the oligarchs and the haters of democracy, and no one else attempted to speak on behalf of Phocion but he himself, with difficulty and scarcely audible, said ‘do you wish to condemn us to death with or without justice?’ and when some answered with justice, he spoke ‘and how will you form a judgement if you cannot hear me?’ but they did not want to hear him more and drawing closer he said ‘I agree, I have done wrong, and I condemn myself to death for my political doings. Men of Athens, however, these men are not guilty so why put them to death?’ Many replied ‘because they are your friends’, upon which Phocion withdrew and was silent. But Hagnonides read a prepared decree according to which it was necessary for the people to vote by show of hand and if they thought those men had committed wrongdoing then to sentence them to death. (Phoc. 34.2–5)

Plutarch’s treatment of Phocion’s trial in 318 BCE is remarkably untheatrical. This is only too clear when comparing it with another description of a political assembly held in the Athenian theatre over thirty years later. Plutarch’s account of Demetrius Poliorcetes’ histrionic performance in 286 BCE is loaded with dramatic vocabulary (Demetr. 34), but where one might expect the same treatment in Phocion’s trial, Plutarch uses legal and political terminology. Although Plutarch chose to explicitly compare Demetrius’ behaviour with that of tragic actors (ὥσπερ οἱ τραγῳδοί, Demetr. 34.3), using the side entrance reserved for actors to appear before his audience (πάροδος, Demetr. 34.3), he

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does not treat Phocion’s presentation before his judges in theatrical terms but employs a legal term (προσάγειν). This distinction also applies to Plutarch’s treatment of the stage in both passages. The skene, which Plutarch immediately names as the scene of Demetrius’ performance, is not mentioned in the Phocion despite the natural configuration of the theatre and its use at Phoc. 5.3, but is replaced by the bema, the podium on which political speakers performed during assemblies and trials. Unlike the skene, which invariably seems to designate an actual physical space, the bema often becomes a metonym for the act of performing speeches rather than simply referring to a real platform. Plutarch politicizes the theatre by juxtaposing it with the bema, and the speaker’s podium becomes the skene for this very real Athenian tragedy: the dramatic action is no longer mimetic but is genuine and has serious consequences for the future of Athens. It is within this dramatic context that Plutarch explores the downfall of Athenian democratic values at the end of the fourth century. I here stress the importance of values and not institutions. In order to denounce the unconstitutional nature of Phocion’s condemnation Plutarch does not concentrate on the specific legal procedures which have been illegally omitted or changed to condemn Phocion. He focuses instead on the Athenian ideals which are violated at the ultimate cost.21 At first glance, Plutarch’s description of Phocion’s demise could be straightforwardly condemned as an oligarchic reading of a legitimate democratic assembly.22 The severe treatment of the crowd, coupled with the historical Phocion’s affiliation with pro-oligarchic and anti-democratic movements at that time, has led several scholars to suggest that Plutarch was drawing on an oligarchic tradition to compose Phocion’s trial. I would like to suggest, however, that the picture he offers is more complex, as Plutarch draws on different traditions and attitudes towards

21 Plutarch’s description of Phocion’s trial forgoes any mention of the usual court procedures: no precise charges are laid against Phocion, neither accuser nor accused speak to defend their position, and no witnesses are summoned to support either cause. On the usual procedures of an Athenian judicial assembly: Todd 1993: 128. Although ballots were usually cast to decide on the trial’s outcome (cf. Harris in Canevaro 2013: 242), some cases seem to have been decided on by show of hands: Harrison 1971: 58. Bayliss also notices the omission of specific charges levelled at Phocion, which he interprets as deliberate; by not mentioning Phocion’s potential crime, Plutarch controls the reader’s perception of his innocence: Bayliss 2011: 146. 22 On Phocion’s presumed oligarchic affiliations: Green 1990: 41; O’Sullivan 1997: 134. Bayliss questions Phocion’s anti-democratic views: Bayliss 2011: 132. Green challenges the presence of slaves, exiles, foreigners, and women at Phocion’s trial as inaccurate, arguing that this was the result of an ‘oligarchic canard’ rather than historical fact: Green 1990: 43. This claim is supported by Bayliss 2011: 148 n. 32. For a discussion of Plutarch’s influences and sources on the Phocion in general: Gehrke 1976: 195–8; Tritle 1992: 4277–95; and generally Tritle 1988. Duff offers a nuanced discussion of the traditions which could have influenced Plutarch’s rendition of Phocion. By rightly pointing out the contradictions between the Phocion and the Demosthenes, set practically within the same timeframe, Duff makes a good case for Plutarch’s awareness of more anti-Phocion sources available to him: Duff 1999: 133.

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democracy to describe the different parties present at Phocion’s trial. Plutarch’s assembly is divided into two factions, which are characterized in complete conflict with each other. To the ‘most excellent ones of the citizens’ (οἱ βέλτιστοι τῶν πολιτῶν) who stand for Athenian democratic ideals, Plutarch opposes the ‘many’ (οἱ πολλοί ) composed of slaves (δοῦλοι), foreigners (ξένοι), disenfranchised (ἄτιμοι), and even women (πάσαι), in other words all those legally excluded from politics in democratic Athens.23 He does not mention, however, any other citizen faction present at this assembly, but only the very best and the very worst. While the polloi adhere to standard negative attitudes towards the demos, conforming to the anti-democratic stereotype of the anarchic mob, the beltistoi are depicted according to the ideals of the model citizen set forth by the orators. The polloi behave according to Plato’s description of a stereotypical ‘bad court’ described in his Laws. Through the voice of the Athenian stranger, Plato dismissively exposes the dangerous impositions of the ‘mean and dumb’ courts of justice (δικαστήρια φαῦλα καὶ ἄφωνα), a condemnation which he articulates with a theatrical comparison, as their tumultuous outbursts are more worthy of spectators of a show at a theatre (καθάπερ θέατρα) rather than participants in a judicial court. The Athenian concludes that this judicial behaviour threatens the stability of the state (Pl. Leg. 876b).24 Plutarch’s polloi usurp the role of judges and are oppressively loud, enforcing their misguided

23 Only Athenian citizens who had sworn the Heliastic Oath in a given year could be chosen to be members of a panel of judges: Canevaro 2013: 95. 24 πόλει ἐν ᾗ δικαστήρια φαῦλα καὶ ἄφωνα, κλέπτοντα τὰς αὑτῶν δόξας, κρύβδην τὰς κρίσεις διαδικάζει καί, ὃ τούτου δεινότερον, ὅταν μηδὲ σιγῶντα ἀλλὰ θορύβου μεστὰ καθάπερ θέατρα ἐπαινοῦντά τε βοῇ καὶ ψέγοντα τῶν ῥητόρων ἑκάτερον ἐν μέρει κρίνῃ, χαλεπὸν τότε πάθος ὅλῃ τῇ πόλει γίγνεσθαι φιλεῖ. The boisterous interjections of the assembly (thorubos) were a reality of Athenian democratic politics, as the audience would react to, interrupt, and sometimes silence a speaker. Attitudes towards the thorubos and its meaning within Athenian democracy fluctuate between condemning it as a disreputable, if not illegal practice, which impedes orators from performing their duty towards the state (Aeschin. 3.2), and celebrating it as an integral part of the democratization of Athenian politics that extended to all citizens (Demosthenes sometimes used it to his own advantage: Dem. 18.23; see Tacon 2001: 178; Balot 2004: 245). Balot considers the thorubos from the orator’s perspective, suggesting that the crowd’s interruption of the speaker limited the effectiveness of speeches but also served as a drive for competition between different orators: Balot 2004: 245 and 257. Wallace, on the other hand, sees the thorubos as an expression of the community’s power of free speech and its ability to regulate public speakers: Wallace 2004: 226. This is echoed by Tacon, who reads the outspokenness of the people in legal and forensic debates as an active means of participation in the decision-making process of Athenian democracy: Tacon 2001: 188. Whether anti- or pro-democratic, the crowd’s invectives are perceived as a form of pressure on the speaker: cf. Roisman 2004: 265; Schwartzberg 2010: 462. Tacon interprets Plutarch’s conception of thorubos in the Phocion as symptomatic of a genuine political upheaval: Tacon 2001: 189. Rowdy and chaotic assemblies are generally a symbol of unstable regimes in Plutarch, and for a good study of the contrast between a composed and an agitated political gathering, see Buszard 2005 on the Pyrrhus. The stability of Rome’s early Republican institutions is expressed through its calm Senate meeting as opposed to the defective Tarentine demagogues and their rowdy assembly: Buszard 2005: 488.

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opinions on the rest of the participants, as they decry as oligarchic the Athenian ideal of an exclusive citizen right to political participation.25 This standard criticism, by which any unpopular motion was credited with oligarchic sympathy in the fourth century, reveals the polloi’s inability to properly understand the fundamental values of their city. Their behaviour also poses another fundamental ideological problem. Their invective negates the practice of free speech, which was an integral part of the legal procedure in law courts.26 By denying the defender his right to speak, Phocion cannot practise a right that will guarantee him a fair trial, that is the right to defend his position through speech.27 In their violent invectives, Plutarch’s polloi conform to Plato’s mean and dumb judges. This analogy is further emphasized by the location of Phocion’s trial, as the theatre makes it an ideal place for a judicial ‘theatrocracy’. The presence of women and foreigners could also be proof of the theatrical nature of this judicial crowd, as some schools believe women and non-citizens could attend dramatic productions, in contrast with assemblies, which were strictly reserved for men.28 The purpose of this chapter is not, however, to either prove or disprove the presence of women and others in the seats of the theatre but rather to suggest that Plutarch deliberately emphasized the dramatic location of this scene to emphasize the inappropriateness of this trial, as it allowed for the triumph of anti-democratic, unlawful behaviour. While the polloi represent the unruly scope of mob-rule, the beltistoi behave according to the ideal of the democratic citizen who upholds the values of his city. Despite the fierceness of the mob, one of the beltistoi has the daring 25 Lamberton interprets the theatrical quality of this narrative as stemming from the melodramatic and carnivalesque conduct of the unruly mob: Lamberton 2003: 11. In my thesis I have pushed this further and suggested that the anarchic depiction of the polloi follows the tradition of Plato’s ‘theatrocracy’. 26 The demos’ inability to appreciate what is good and what is just is decried by ‘the Old Oligarch’ in his Constitution of the Athenians, as the people do not choose the good politicians, believing that they will not be beneficial for them (Ath. Pol. 2.19): on this passage and Balot’s analysis of the Old Oligarch’s views within the wider context of anti-democratic thought in the late fifth century: Balot 2006: 93. 27 Free speech in ancient democracy is covered by two ideals: ἰσηγορία, the equal chance for every citizen to speak at assemblies, and παρρησία, the opportunity to speak one’s mind frankly: for a good summation of both terms, see Saxonhouse 2006: 94. On the ideological importance of free speech for orators: Balot 2004: 236. For an alternative perspective on free speech as the principal tool through which the demos could participate in politics: Ober 1993: 482. 28 The presence of women and others in the theatre remains unresolved. Most of the evidence discussed in modern scholarship on this topic is literary and comes from either tragedy and comedy or Plato and has produced contradictory conclusions. Podlecki concludes that women could have been included in the audience, as they too would have benefited from the educational purposes of tragedy and comedy: Podlecki 1990: 42. Henderson pushes for a positive view of women spectators: no evidence conclusively demonstrates the banning of women from the theatre (Henderson 1991: 144). Roselli affirms the presence of women in the audience by reading the literary evidence alongside the social and economic role of women at Athens during the fifth and fourth century: Roselli 2011: 193–4.

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(ἐτόλμησεν) to exercise parrhesia, by denouncing the illegitimacy of this judicial court. The courage to perform parrhesia before the assembly was part of the orators’ self-depiction and central to their construction of manly virtue.29 Demosthenes, for instance, defines the ‘active citizen’ as the brave speaker capable of frank speech, who prioritizes the welfare of the city above the affection of the demos (Dem. 8.68–70).30 Phocion himself is constant in observing this practice (cf. for example Phoc. 8.2; 8.3; 9.4), and his unflinching practise of parrhesia serves to highlight his rigorous moral attitude towards his political office. Although the exemplary citizen’s attempt to denounce the undemocratic nature of this final trial avails to nothing, this act helps the reader identify this individual with the ideal citizen depicted in the ‘authentic’ sources of the traditional Athenian democracy. But the value of the beltistoi as citizens is not expressed only through their similarities with the orators: it is also shown by their compassion for the defendant’s plight. The sympathy of the ‘best citizens’ for Phocion is conveyed by their emotional response to the trial. It is by being seen (ὀφθείς) that Phocion, through his entrance into the theatre, triggers a series of emotional gestures and behaviours: they veil themselves (ἐγκαλύπτειν), bow low (κάτω κύπτειν), and shed tears (δακρύειν). Since Plutarch explicitly parallels Phocion with Socrates (Phoc. 38. 2; compare Erskine’s chapter, section 11.5), it is tempting to see this extreme emotional reaction as an allusion to Phaedo’s grief as he is unable to contain his tears before Socrates’ suicide (Pl. Phd. 117c–d).31 These two passages bear significant linguistic similarities, which strongly suggests that Plutarch is drawing on Plato; it is the sight of the main figure’s suffering (ὁρῆν in Plutarch; ἐσθίειν in Plato) which in both cases occasions the shedding 29

This has been clearly shown by Balot 2004. See also Balot 2007 on manly virtue and the courage to perform parrhesia. 30 For a discussion of this passage and the attitude it reveals towards courage and parrhesia: Balot 2004: 247. 31 ὡς δὲ εἴδομεν πίνοντά τε καὶ πεπωκότα, οὐκέτι, ἀλλ᾽ ἐμοῦ γε βίᾳ καὶ αὐτοῦ ἀστακτὶ ἐχώρει τὰ δάκρυα, ὥστε ἐγκαλυψάμενος ἀπέκλαον ἐμαυτὸν οὐ γὰρ δὴ ἐκεῖνόν γε, ἀλλὰ τὴν ἐμαυτοῦ τύχην, οἵου ἀνδρὸς ἑταίρου ἐστερημένος εἴην (Pl. Phd. 117c–d). Phocion’s identity as a second-Socrates has already been noted in modern scholarship as well as his definite philosophical tendencies. Hershbell’s study of Socrates in Plutarch mentions Phocion re-cast as Socrates in the eyes of the Greeks (Hershbell 1988: 380); Swain regards Phocion as a less complex model of the moral politician than Cato, generally able to sway the demos although failing in his final moment (Swain 1990: 200); Duff sees ‘the Socratic paradigm’ as a means to create parallels between Phocion and his Roman counterpart Cato the Younger and to highlight the moral tension between the good life but unjust death of both protagonists (Duff 1999: 143–4); Pelling reads Phocion’s philosophical drive as a brave attempt but ultimately a misunderstanding of the Socratic way of life (Pelling 2005: 115). Do Céu Fialho analyses this Socratic model throughout the Phocion as a whole, arguing for the importance of the Phaedo as Plutarch’s point of reference for this model; she does not discuss Phoc. 34.3, but does address the similarities between Phocion’s calmness during his trial and that of Socrates during his (Do Céu Fialho 2010: 202). Todd questions the veracity of Phocion’s death by hemlock as a possible invention by Plutarch to accentuate the similarities between Phocion and Socrates: Todd 2000: 32.

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of tears (δακρύειν) and the veiling of the witnesses (ἐγκαλύπτειν). Yet where Socrates dismisses the crying of his friends as womanish behaviour (Pl. Phd. 117d), Plutarch does not condemn this emotional outburst but uses it as a means to distinguish these citizens from the rest of the crowd. Cairns has shown how Phaedo’s gesture of veiling reveals his sense of shame at his emotional outburst.32 Plutarch also plays with this idea, but rather than focusing on one citizen’s misguided actions and the sense of indecency felt by the same man as a result, the dishonour is committed by one group, the polloi, but recognized and experienced by another, the beltistoi. Athenian collective shame because of unlawful conduct is a theme that runs through fourth-century oratory. Demosthenes, for instance, plays with this idea in more than one speech, by invoking the shame (αἰσχύνη) which the Athenians should feel at the passing of unlawful measures (Dem. 20.28) or by defending a decree on the grounds that it has brought no dishonour to the city (αἰσχύνη τῇ πόλει, Dem. 18.85).33 By veiling themselves, the belstistoi display their shame, which betrays their deep attachment to Athens and their anguish at her perversion. Phocion’s Socratic identity in the midst of an anarchic mob also brings to mind another Athenian mistrial in which democratic procedures were disregarded. Xenophon’s description of the unlawful condemnation of the Arginusae generals in 406 BCE (Xen. Hell. 1.7.4–35) bears certain similarities to Plutarch’s rendition of Phocion’s condemnation. Both trials represent a judicial procedure which takes place in an assembly rather than in the law courts (in the generals’ case the matter is debated in a series of assemblies (Hell. 1.7.7–9)). Xenophon also represents his assembly as divided between the people (demos) who initially decry these measure as unlawful and the many (plethos) who wish to see their desire fulfilled (Hell. 1.7.12). Both Xenophon’s and Plutarch’s mobs are misled by corrupt leaders (cf. Callixeinus at Hell. 1.7.9–10) and later repent their condemnation of innocent men (Hell. 1.7.35). Similarly to Phocion, although less prominent in the account of the episode, Socrates, as epistates of the prytaneis, stands as a lone figure refusing to act against Athenian law by remaining silent (Hell. 1.7.15).34 Not only do Xenophon’s and Plutarch’s trials share certain structural similarities, but they also hinge on an analogous concept of Athenian democracy. Harris has argued that Xenophon’s depiction of the trial demonstrates the author’s understanding of the deterioration of Athenian democracy, as the people disregarded the rule of law.35 The illegality of both Xenophon’s and 32

Cairns 2009: 48. On Demosthenes’ canny use of shame in the Against Leptines to denounce laws that contradict the ethos of the city: Canevaro 2016a: 201; 397. 34 See Pownall 2000: 507 on Socrates’ function as a figure for political virtue in Xenophon’s narrative. 35 See Harris 2013a: 344 who argues against the idea that Xenophon’s account was tainted here by oligarchic leanings. Cf. also Lang 1992: 273; Kroeker 2009: 221. 33

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Plutarch’s trials rests on the denial of the defendants lawful right to speak. The generals are not given the proper allotted time for their defence (Hell. 1.7.5) and are finally judged as a group rather than properly heard (Hell. 1.7.20), recalling Phocion’s inability to exercise his right to speak. The importance of verbal defence as a legal right is further emphasized in Xenophon’s account through the figure of Euryptolemus. His plea for the generals stresses the need for the demos to hear the defendants (Hell. 1.7.20–3).36 This, he argues, is necessary for Athens if it is to dispense justice: it must uphold the rule of law (Hell. 1.1.7.29).37 Both Xenophon and Plutarch underline the unlawful nature of the trials they describe by stressing the disregard of certain Athenian democratic values. In both examples the importance of the equal opportunity to speak as well as the expression of frankness are of fundamental importance. Just like his predecessor, Plutarch chose to depict the deterioration of Athenian democracy at a specific time using Athenian values to demonstrate its decline. In order to represent these different stages, Plutarch draws on distinctive contemporary discourses of Athenian democratic practices. The citizens faithful to their city’s ethos conform to the model speakers presented by orators such as Demosthenes, showing civic courage by practising parrhesia and feeling shame for their city’s degeneration, while the thorubos conforms to the anarchic mob of Plato’s ‘theatrocracy’. The political climate in which Phocion is put to death could not be more removed from the practices defined by the city’s democratic ideals. His demise signals the end of a certain Athens, one which valued honest speech, democratic participation, and a reflective outlook. The ease with which Phocion had influenced the demos throughout his life, while practicing parrhesia with no regard for the citizen’s desires and tastes, has ended and any attempt at frankness or truth results in failure. The catalyst of this change is the Macedonian intervention in Athenian affairs that allowed demagogues to tamper with and disregard Athenian laws to further their self-interest. Phocion’s trial is a prime example of this: although Plutarch emphasizes the role of Cleitus, the Macedonian representative, as overseer of Phocion’s trial, he is also careful to denounce the responsibility of official magistrates (οἱ ἄρχοντες) in allowing ‘undesirables’ to enter the theatre and to shout down the voice of democracy: the deterioration of democratic ideals is urged on by the Macedonians but sealed by Athenians. In this Life the theatre plays two stylistic and interwoven roles. First, it acts as a locus for Plutarch to illustrate the evolving dynamics of Athenian politics and allows him to explore the relationship between the citizens and their institutions. The deterioration of Athenian values is highlighted in the narrative of the Phocion by showing the diminishing powers of the demos. Where it had originally so eagerly anticipated Phocion’s speech, the demos now no 36 37

See Harris 2013a: 339 on the illegality of the Generals’ reduced speech time. Dobski 2009: 331 on the use of the law in Euryptolemus’ speech. See also Seager 2001: 389.

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longer has a place in its own theatre, nor an opportunity to uphold its most defining values, but is replaced with a crowd incapable of listening to reason. Second, the worth of individuals and different factions is measured, not only according to their respect for Athenian ideals, but also according to their relationship with the theatrical space itself. While Phocion (in both examples) and the beltistoi treat the theatre simply as a convenient space for an ekklesia, ignoring its original function, the polloi embrace its dramatic use and give way to their irrational desires in order to satisfy their expectations, rather than witness what is right. Plutarch’s view of Athenian democracy in the last half of the fourth century is clear: only high-minded leaders such as Phocion can and should control the crowds, as demagogues only reveal the worst sides of the people. Attention to the role of the theatre and theatricality in the Phocion thus illustrates well Plutarch’s complex, subtle handling of the dynamics of relations between the demos and its leaders, which Erskine showed in the previous chapter to be the focus of Plutarch’s engagement with Athenian democracy. It is also highly significant for the themes of this volume that Plutarch’s picture of the deterioration of the demos draws heavily on Classical Athenian antidemocratic arguments and motifs, especially Platonic ones. Plutarch was reviving and adapting Classical debates between democrats and antidemocrats, in order to reflect on general issues of political participation and leadership still relevant in the Greek cities of his own day (see Erskine’s chapter, section 11.6). Yet the question remains as to Plutarch’s position vis-à-vis Phocion’s own individual actions. 38 Should he honestly be celebrated for his unflinching opposition to the demos’ desires and even for his silence when this ensures not only his own death but also that of his friends? Or can a man really be blamed for refusing to act when the general sway of history marches against him? I believe Plutarch left us to decide.

38 On Phocion’s problematic role as a Socratic model, see Pelling 2005: 115, who compellingly points out the hidden selfishness of Phocion’s good actions towards Nicanor, which Plutarch considered destructive to the welfare of Athens (Phoc. 32).

13 Whatever Happened to Athens? Thoughts on the Great Convergence and Beyond John Ma

13.1 THE HELLEN ISTIC VS ATHENS To work on the Hellenistic always means taking an initial position on Classical Athens and its ‘legacy’—if only by ignoring both, and even though the total mass of Hellenistic evidence eventually brings the welcome, perhaps involuntary, obscuring of the Athenian material (textual, epigraphical, archaeological). This holds true for the variety of histories of the Hellenistic that we can write, with various points of focus and effects of scale. And it is particularly noticeable for one specific historiographical tradition, the ‘vitalist’ story of the polis in the Hellenistic period, where the aim is to counter any sense of decline (in comparison with any Classical Golden-Ageism), and where the focus is on documentary sources (the epigraphy of decision-making and of peer-relations, of the internal and the international) with their powerful effect of the real, refracted in a multiplicity of small or mid-range actors, each in their specific geographical, ecological, and historical context. This dimension stands opposed to the idealization of Athens as peuple-valeur self-promoted by the Athenians themselves at various points in their history and perpetuated by the Classical tradition—and simply by the sheer size of the Athenian formation.1 The postClassical is here defined as anti-Classical, or even, ideally, as a-Classical. This particular tradition is continuity-aware, and even resumptive—it holds that the world of the Hellenistic poleis resembles, in its vibrancy, the world of the Archaic communities, and sees the traits of Classical history

1 Most of the work of Jeanne and Louis Robert illustrates the vitalist paradigm (e.g. Robert 1969a); also Gauthier 1984, 1985, 1993; Wörrle and Zanker 1995; Ma 2002; Frohlich 2004; Mann and Scholz 2012; Ma 2013.

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(Athenocentrism, the violent temptation of hegemony) as an anomaly, a parenthesis.2 A sense of the vibrancy and multitude of local actors, and the complexity of their interests, characterizes Rostovtzeff ’s view of the Hellenistic world.3 It is perhaps less well known that the polis also occupies a central place in Droysen’s conception of the world after Alexander.4 In fact, the sense that Athenocentrism, in the absolute tendencies of its synecdochic claims, prevents understanding the complexity of local dynamics can already be found in an observer writing in the late second century, and hence aware of the full depth of Hellenistic history—Polybius. In an excursus on treachery, Polybius excoriates Demosthenes for the latter’s characterization of Greek and especially Peloponnesian politicians as a ‘crop of traitors and bribe-takers’, corrupt, self-interested, unpatriotic individuals, on the grounds of their support for Philip II and supposed collaboration in a general enslavement of Greece;5 for Polybius, this is a misunderstanding of the worldview of the Arcadian and Messenian leaders, who worried about Spartan imperialism and irredentism in a way which Demosthenes could not, ‘thinking the whole of Greece should look towards Athens and calling people traitors if they did not do so’. Yet this sense of a gap, an Athens-shaped hole, also makes us confront the necessity of bridging and re-embedding, if the vitalist tradition of Hellenistic history-writing is to avoid resting on merely compensatory or defensive positions. Polybius did read Demosthenes—for cultural reasons, and his annoyance and desire to correct perceptions is also a mark of the widespread impact and popularity of Athenian forensic and political rhetoric within the educational and literary landscape of the Hellenistic world.6 Polybius (5.10) himself thought that Philip II had won over Athens by favour and honourable treatment—a hugely exaggerated notion, in view of the constant tension and worsening relations between Athens and Alexander, but one that at least reflects a notion of Athens’ importance. In practical terms, despite the huge importance taken on by Hellenistic history within the study of ancient history, there should be no need to remind ourselves that Athenian history, internal and external, profoundly shaped the Classical period, in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE. The danger is that the disciplinary gap between the Classical and the Hellenistic, founded on Athenocentrism and its discontents, and the continuity-mindedness of Robertian Hellenistic history writing, might end

2 Robert 1969b, 328–34, points out how Ionian colonization might be said to resume in the Hellenistic period, with great vigour, into the Seleukid world; now Kosmin 2014. 3 Rostovtzeff 1941, e.g. 665–95, with much on Rhodes but also on other poleis, from Miletus to Thera. 4 Bravo 1988. 5 Dem. 18.43, 48, 61, 294–6 with Wankel 1976, 1248–55; Pol. 18.14 (Walbank 1967 ad loc. is rather sympathetic to Demosthenes). On Polybius and Classical Athens, compare Champion, Chapter 7 in this volume. 6 Compare Canevaro (Chapter 4 in this volume).

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up obscuring the real question of the place and impact of Classical Athens within the broader history of the Greek-speaking multi-actor civilization of the Aegean. To examine this historical relationship is the precondition to understanding the politics of Athenocentrism and Classicism—starting with the ancient politics involved, since Athenocentrism is an ancient construct, Classical but especially late Classical,7 and late Hellenistic and post-Hellenistic rather than simply post-Classical.

1 3 . 2 THE GRE A T CONV ERG EN C E One of the most striking developments of Hellenistic history, curiously ignored because of the combination of ubiquity, documentary dispersion, and the tropes of Classicism and Athenocentrism (declinism or disinterest), is the generalized convergence of the various manifestations of the city-state form, by the first half of the third century. A simple symptom of this evolution is the way in which specialists of the Archaic or even the Classical periods find the polis a mind-bogglingly difficult object to define, open to endless, endlessly refined debate (of which the recent statements about moving ‘beyond the polis’ are merely an iteration), whereas the Hellenistic specialists, if working within a Robertian, documents-centred tradition, generally have little difficulty in defining and talking about the polis as an acknowledged, institutional presence. This ease does not reflect some limitation in the sources or lack of sophistication in historiographical practice: it directly results from, and hence embodies, a massive historical reality. The late Classical-early Hellenistic convergence affected the external relations of the Hellenistic poleis, their internal structures, and their ideologies and discourses. It resulted from the combination of two evolutions in late Classical Greek history. First, the end of hegemony, subjection, and dependency as a possibility within the horizon of polis history, as a result of the stalemate in inter-polis high politics by the mid-fourth century BCE (a high politics which had largely been defined by the Athenian successes and failures of the fifth century) and the rise of large supra-local imperial states. This evolution paradoxically enabled various degrees of polis freedom, which are there to be seen in the documentary record. Local leeway and autonomy emerged out of the abolition of the possibility of hegemony for big poleis, the collaborative possibilities offered by the reinforcement of the old peerpolity networks,8 the considerable looseness in control by the supra-local 7 Compare Luraghi, Chapter 2 in this volume, on the styles of self-promotion of late Classical and early Hellenistic Athens itself. 8 Ma 2003; Low 2007 on Classical norms of international collaboration.

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states. Control and administration by the big Hellenistic royal states remained always potentially unstable because of competition between the kingdoms, which allowed the fortified, militarized, and strongly self-aware poleis to exercise agency.9 The actual interaction between ruler and ruled was mediated through an institutionalized language of exchange, reciprocity, and local worth, which allowed the poleis to extract concessions and create spaces for initiative and agency (which in fact the big supra-local states made allowances for as part of their operations, in spite of the risks of defection). The norms of reciprocity and worth remained in operation during the later Hellenistic period, when Roman hegemony adapted itself to them; indeed, the processes we call ‘Roman imperialism’ in the Hellenistic world were shaped, from 197 onwards, by the injection of Hellenistic norms from the level of the cities into high political discourse involving the Roman state—in other words, by the adoption of the discourse of the liberty of the Greeks by the Senate and the Roman officials in the field, a development which was a consequence of the great convergence.10 If it is true that the political instability lessened during the period (with notable exceptions), it is also noticeable that, after the abatement of the various processes of interference and intervention we call ‘Roman imperialism’, Roman attention and presence in the Hellenistic world also diminished in intensity, from the second half of the second century 11 BCE onwards. The end of hegemony for certain poleis generalized the possibility of autonomy for all poleis. But the end of hegemony is in fact a much broader phenomenon than just the stifling of local conquest dynamics by empires: it affected one particular type of relation which was common in the Late Geometric, Archaic, and Classical periods, namely unequal structuration into relations of domination by big poleis over subordinate or perioecic or generally dependent poleis. The dependent polis has been much insisted upon by the Copenhagen Polis Centre as proof that autonomia was not an essential part of what it meant to be a polis;12 the decline and disappearance of this category, however, is an important process in the long history of the Greek city-state, and perhaps has something to say about the nature of the polis as well. In most cases, the old dependent cities either broke loose or were integrated fully into the larger poleis, as civic subdivisions. It is true that the expansionism of middle and large poleis is a well-attested phenomenon in the Hellenistic period, but it is important to note that expansion now did not

9

Ma 2000a; Ober 2015. Gruen 1984; Sherwin-White 1984; Ferrary 1988; Kallet-Marx 1995; Dmitriev 2011. 11 Gruen 1984; Kallet-Marx 1995; Ma 2002. 12 Summarized in Hansen and Nielsen 2004 (to be read with the indispensable review by Fröhlich 2010). 10

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involve subordination, but took the form of integration through political union (sympoliteia)—which itself generated tensions and negotiations. This story is illustrated across the Hellenistic world, but with especial clarity in Boeotia, a landscape of big and small poleis, long torn between the conflicting storylines of Theban hegemony, local relations of dependency (for instance around Thespiae), and federal equilibrium—and the explosive interaction of these storylines with high politics (notably the interventions of Sparta and Athens). After the failure of the Theban project, the League transformed into a structure where the dependent cities had disappeared: as in the rest of the Greek world, they were either integrated in large poleis, as civic subdivisions, or broke away to full autonomy and a share in the political and military institutions of the League. The poleis which were once dependent poleis within the Greater Thespiae were fully autonomous—tiny Chorsiai was, at least formally, fully equal to its somewhat larger neighbour Thisbe, or indeed any other Boeotian polis, including the older hegemon, Thespiae—a formal status which at least modulated and braked power relations and economic pressures, just as law is meant to do. This development, a combined simplification and rationalization of the Boeotian polis-scape, represents a remarkable act of collaboration and restraint, a process of collective wisdom which deserves as much attention as the celebrated restraint of the Athenian democracy after the amnesty of 403.13 The second major historical development in the Hellenistic convergence was the disqualification of oligarchy and monarchical rule as solutions at the polis level, and the generalization of democracy, or a kind of democracy, in name and in institutional practice, with the result that most poleis could talk to each other because they knew what they were dealing with. This very widespread development is illustrated by the epigraphy, but already foreshadowed or reflected by Aristotle in the long survey chapters of his Politics. It involved the gradual end of militant oligarchy (as Veyne calls it), the absorption of certain oligarchical critiques of radical democracy into the mainstream of political practice, and the generalization of a ‘moderate’ democratic political culture, displayed in honorific discourse and participatory institutions. This democratic culture is based on a unitary citizen community with no censitary barriers or unequal statuses (mirroring the disappearance of perioecism), which is defined by wide access to deliberation and decision-making, judicial service and civil office, and animated by an ideology of individual devotion towards the community, within the framework of popular sovereignty. When the inhabitants of Calymnus were incorporated into Cos (around 205 BCE), they were made to swear an oath, which combines awareness of the power of a Hellenistic king with civic ideology and institutions: 13

On Boeotia, e.g. Roesch 1965; Corsten 1999; Knoepfler 1999, 2001; Mackil 2013; Mack 2014; Ma 2017.

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I will remain in the established democracy and in the restoration of the homopoliteia and the ancestral laws which there are on Cos and the decrees of the ekklesia and the diagraphai concerning the homopoliteia; I will remain in the friendship and alliance with King Ptolemy and the agreements which the damos has agreed with the allies; I will not install an oligarchy or a tyranny or any other constitution apart from democracy on any account, nor will I allow anyone who does so, but will prevent as much as possible, and I will not betray any of the forts or the akropolis neither myself nor abetting another on any account, nor will I allow Coan land to become smaller, but I will augment it according to my powers; I will be a just judge and a fair citizen, voting by hand and by ballot without favour in the matter of that which seems to me advantageous to the damos. (Tit. Cal. XIII; IG XII 4 1 152)

These practices and discourses have now been studied in detail in several test cases developed by V. Grieb or P. Fröhlich, which deserve to be part of the mainstream consciousness of ancient history and Classics in general.14 The widespread nature of this democratic culture entails a spectrum of local variations and diversity in form and expression (in Hellenistic Thessaly, citizenship grants are made with isotimia, the same full rights as other citizens, pathontessi kai drasantessi, literally ‘as subjects and as actors’, meaning both as a normal citizen and as an active magistrate—what Aristotle calls archein kai archesthai).15 But polis culture also shows broad unity (if not uniformity) on the range of issues and solutions (the Thessalian expression is about the rotation of executive power among magistrates, and hence power-sharing in the community as part of citizenship and politeia). This unity reflects central ideas about politics and community embodied in practice.16 The various elements of democratic practice ensure wide access to political power within the citizen population, in the spheres of political decision-making, legislative framing, judicial decision, administrative execution, scrutiny, and appraisal. The importance of access is visible in complex procedures, ubiquitous in the Hellenistic period, to ensure that constituencies or individuals can initiate proposals, debates, and decisions within the assembly (through ephodos, access to probouleumatic bodies, to present a prographe, an initial draft of a motion).17 The manifestations of popular sovereignty are intensely state-bound, with important consequences. One consequence is that state power is deployed to ensure populist outcomes. This is most visible in the operations of polis

14 On the generalization of democracy, see Teegarden 2014. On Hellenistic democracy, see Fröhlich 2004; Grieb 2008, Hamon 2009; Mann and Scholz 2012. 15 SEG 48.660; 57.17; on the formula, and parallels for it, see Helly 1970: 184 (adducing Arist. Eth. Nic. 1134b; also Arist. Pol. 1277b); Habicht 1970: 140–1 (the formula designates the full range of activities an individual can and must engage in when moving to take up citizenship in a new city, as pointed out by A. Wilhelm). 16 Diversity: Hamon 2009. Unity: Müller 2014 on the ‘omni-democratic’ city. 17 Generally Hamon 2009.

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finance. In the polis, as in any state structure, state authority and legitimacy are deployed to extract fees and contributions, pool resources from the economic activities of members and stake-holders in the community, and produce public goods. However, the populist nature of polis finance is very visible. It is visible in the close link between state operations, collective ownership, and communitarian ideologies of the public good. It is further visible in the specific targeting of the private wealth of citizens (and noncitizen residents) for taxation or for semi-voluntary direct payments of different kinds, liturgical, office-related, or euergetical (themselves integrated within a network of highly politicized forms of control, accountability, rewards, appraisal, and even blame).18 Finally, it is visible in the ends to which the revenue is put, namely public goods that ensure vertical integration that is ethically marked and the political institutions, already described, that ensure access, participation, and political presence beyond any sort of social elite. Another consequence of the stateness of the polis is that popular sovereignty is bound by the forms and norms that express it—namely its institutions, laws, and shared practices.19 This implies thought about the old problem of the relationship between assembly decision-making and the law. Hellenistic decrees can get struck down as anti-constitutional before the courts (or by specially appointed arbiters).20 Certain types of decrees (honours, citizenship grants), even if, or especially if, generated by initiative from below, are subject to constitutional safeguards, namely the need for motions to pass through two decision-making cycles, involving probouleutic examination by the council and deliberation and voting in the assembly—both cycles being divided by a mandatory cooling-off period (ennomoi chronoi) to prevent rash decisions and to enable the possibility of reconsideration.21 This practice is visible in a constitutional peculiarity, often misunderstood though widespread, like so many other features of the great convergence, namely the passing of decrees ‘upon the motion of the people’, gnome tou demou. The expression does not designate through loose usage (as sometimes thought) a ‘decree of the people’, nor does it reflect spontaneous elaboration of motions from the floor during assembly debate (since the motions by the people are usually brought before the Council). The expression reflects repeated decision-taking procedures: the first popular vote is duly converted into a motion for the second decisioncycle, and hence a decree, as an expression of popular sovereignty, is seen to be subject to the same institutional workings and barriers as any other motion 18 Migeotte 2014 on financial institutions and their populist nature. One consequence is that the current debates on euergetism must be displaced: they do not apply to the Classical and the Hellenistic poleis, but only once certain ideological and institutional shifts take place in the second and the first centuries BC (but see already Gauthier 1985). 19 Polis beyond institutional: see the papers gathered by V. Azoulay in Annales 2014/3 (Azoulay 2014b). 20 21 Habicht 2008. Savalli 1981.

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produced by bodies within the polis.22 The ‘motions by the people’, though a fiction of unanimity and face-to-face decision-making (it is likely that similar motions were indeed elaborated by consensus in smaller bodies), in fact reflect the equilibrium between various expressions of popular sovereignty, achieved in the Hellenistic cities of the great convergence. Autonomy, democracy: this is the polis-scape created by the great convergence, and the notion of polis eleuthera kai demokratoumene appears in Hellenistic texts23—the expression does not mean that there are poleis which are not free and not democratic, but that these are essential qualities of polis-hood in the Hellenistic period. Demokratia can in fact mean both freedom from external control, and a democratic regime: in both cases, the demos can decide. The convergence between the two concepts already appears in the reply given in 370 BCE by a reconstructed, freshly democratic city of Mantineia to the Spartan demand that the rebuilt walls be dismantled and the city dioecized: this is impossible, because it goes against the demos’ will (Xen. Hell. 6.5.3–5). This particular case shows how the defeat of Sparta in 371, and the dismantling of its system of control through oligarchical factions and local collusion, played an important part in the great convergence: it hence raises the question of the shape of the great convergence as a historical phenomenon, and of its significance. This question is important, to avoid idealizing the Hellenistic cities—which would be an ironical outcome, in view of the basic Robertian trope of engagement with the political culture of the Hellenistic poleis as a reaction against the Classicizing idealization of Athens. That the history of the great convergence was determined by the concatenation of contingent factors in high politics might be considered obvious. The various stages have already been mentioned: each one played out in specific ways that favoured the emergence and convergence of local autonomy and democratic regimes. The political history of the Classical period can be considered as the slow, if at times violent, burn-out of hegemonical or super-power politics in the world of the poleis: this entailed the end of the infernal equation by which hegemonical drive interlocked with local stasis, hence keeping oligarchy and democracy as evenly balanced regime possibilities. The great power-, money-, labour-, service- and land-grab by Alexander III of Macedon was modulated by the need to negotiate with local constituencies: these included the Greek cities of Ionia, whose autonomy and 22 Misinterpreted Rhodes with Lewis 1997, e.g. 373 n. 1, 557; the solution is elegantly, decisively laid out in Schuler and Zimmermann 2012, 584. I hope to return to the question elsewhere at greater length. 23 I.Milet 1.3.150. Generally, let us write ‘SEG, passim’—in allusion and in appropriative reply to Fustel de Coulanges’ footnote in La Cité antique, where Fustel means to document how conquest by Rome resulted in the death of the city-state: ‘Boeckh, Corp. Inscr., passim’: e.g. Fustel de Coulanges 1880, 8th edn, 443. The Karthaian decree SEG 59.930, for a good magistrate in the early third century, encapsulates all the issues discussed here.

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democracy was granted and guaranteed by the conqueror, in proclaimed contrast with the Achaemenid predecessor.24 Admittedly, this entailed contradictions with other parts of Alexander’s conduct, notably in Greece where oligarchies continued to exist; the Greek cities were generally bound in an unequal alliance structure led by the Macedonian king (the ‘League of Corinth’), and various forms of Macedonian encroachment and influence led to local signorial arrangements. This contradiction was resolved in the decades following Alexander’s death, when several dynasts (Polyperchon, Antigonus and Demetrius, and Ptolemy) proclaimed themselves as general supporters of autonomy and democracy, to obtain situational advantages over rivals who depended on locally established signorial cliques (Cassander, later Lysimachus, and in fact Demetrius himself after Ipsos). The Antigonid state which emerged in Macedonia relied on tyrants in the Peloponnese, but these arrangements crumbled when Peloponnesian cities rallied to the polis-based, autonomy-centred Achaean League. The age of Alexander, then the early Hellenistic and the high Hellenistic periods, for contingent reasons, fostered local autonomy and democracy; the Classical polis world did not undergo a signorial turn, unlike the Medieval Italian commune.25 The repeated wars and drawn-out diplomatic processes by which the Roman Republic redrew the high political map of the Hellenistic world furthered the process (driven by specific factors, social, cultural, and political, located in Rome): ‘Roman imperialism’ demolished the big supra-local actors, namely the Hellenistic kingdoms but also the big polis-based Leagues (Achaean, Aetolian) which, by the late third century BCE, had turned into hegemonic formations in their own right. Roman imperialism espoused the discourse of polis liberty and autonomy—against the kings as well as the Leagues. The tabula rasa effect of Roman intervention into the Hellenistic political system explains the late Hellenistic efflorescence of polis culture, during the nearly century-long Indian summer, from the early second to the early first centuries BCE.26 This historical process was also modulated by local variations and outcomes. The late Hellenistic intensification is very visible in areas left clear by the disappearance of control by the Antigonid kingdom or the Aetolian League: the process increased the number of free cities endowed with democratic institutions, which were often very active. A good case is late Hellenistic Delphi, freed from Aetolian control and very active as a democratic city; another case is the Thessalian cities once freed from Macedonian control.27 A confirmation of this scheme emerges from the counter-case of Crete which

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Nawotka 2003; Lehmann 2015; Wallace (Chapter 3 in this volume). On the history of the city-state of medieval and early modern Europe, see Scott 2012. 26 See n. 11. 27 Delphi: Gauthier 2000; Kyriakidis 2014 (on elitist display in Hellenistic Delphi, compatible with its democratic institutions). Thessaly: Habicht 1970; Bouchon and Helly 2013, notably 221–3. 25

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long ignored the great convergence, and hence continued to live in the tragic regime of Classical-style conflict, with wars of conquest, stasis, and polis subordination, a ‘long fourth century’ which lasted until the late second century.28 But beyond contingency and variation, the convergence of polis forms might be the result of deeper structural and cultural factors. The fifth and fourth centuries are more than just the tragic equation combining competition, failed hegemony, and stasis: the Classical period is also about the development of norms in polis life. The instability of hegemony and stasis and their imbrication was balanced by the emergence of strong bonds and norms between poleis in their international relations, as pointed out by P. Low (2007)—religious, ethical, and pragmatic norms of interaction rather than the law of the jungle. The big war of the hegemonical powers could create local dynamics of collaboration rather than conflict, as in Sicily or in northwestern Greece. The violent opposition of oligarchy and democracy can also be understood as a debate within shared parameters, about community, rule, and laws. That is to say, the Classical period saw the development of languages and avenues to describe, to think through and realize the polis, external and internal. Convergence was hence the result of experimentation, often extreme or violent, and the working through of possibilities of polis life. The actual processes, in their diversity and their unity, were distributed through the whole peer-polity network, and driven by a combination of institutionalist as well as values-centred factors. The great convergence is simultaneously a chapter in the history of state emergence and structuration, of Darwinian competition and refinement of political forms, and of the history of political ideas and discourse. The sketch given above focuses on institutional history, but of course is itself to be embedded within the whole cultural context of the late Classical and early Hellenistic period, within which Athens played a catalyzing role—this is a major theme of the present volume. In institutional terms, the omni-autonomous, omni-democratic polis of c.200 was the outcome of processes that realized the various potentialities of the polis in a stable form propagated and reinforced by the peer-polity network they created as a political koine; which is why Aristotle, writing at the precise historical moment when the convergence had engaged strongly, could give a perceptive, forwardlooking description of the matter of the polis. The over-elaboration of the picture of the polis given by M. H. Hansen (characterized notably by the privileging of forms of subordination, the down-playing of autonomy, the odd belief that most poleis lost their autonomy starting from the fifth century, and the loudly proclaimed subsequent belief that Aristotle was wrong or misleading in focusing on the monadic, autonomous polis) is the result of a static, 28

Chaniotis 1996, 1999; Ghinatti 2004; I thank Stephanie Craven for discussion of her work on Hellenistic Crete.

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over-formal typologization of contested processes, and results from exclusive focus on the Archaic and the Classical periods of experimentation and diversity around polis forms, before the consistent, durable convergences of the late Classical and the Hellenistic period. To put it simply, the Copenhagen Polis Centre simply and happily re-enacts, over thousands of pages, the Hellenistic vs Classical dichotomy which this chapter started with.29 To put it even more simply, Aristotle was right.

13.3 ATHENS AND/IN THE GREAT CONV ERGEN CE What role should we attribute to Athens in the late Classical and Hellenistic convergences? The Classical roots of the latter are clear to see; but should we look for specifically and uniquely Athenian roots? Before searching for any Athenian model, it is important to bear in mind that convergence was made possible and characterized by Athenian failures, retreats, and absences. The most obvious failure has already been evoked: the end of the possibility of hegemony in the high politics of the Greek city-states was both the repeated impossibility, in the fifth and the fourth centuries, of any successful attempt at durable hegemony by Athens, and the bankruptcy of the idea of hegemony by one Greek city-state (or complex of city-states, such as Sparta was) over other Greek states; both hegemony and the idea of hegemony proved to be deadends, and Classical-style maximizing of state self-interest only provoked defection and resistance. The last great pursuit of Athenian self-interest (before 167 BCE), the expulsion of the population of Samos and its replacement with an Athenian cleruchy, provoked widespread indignation, and created networks of support and collaboration which sustained the exiled Samians and promoted their cause; when the Athenians arrested and, in a fit of retroviolence, tried to execute Samians returning to the island in 322, a man of Chalcis stepped in to save them.30 The case of Samos provides a good

29 Hansen 2013: 35–8, underplaying the political force of autarkeia in Politics 1291a 9–10 (the polis cannot be a slave) and unable to explain Aristotle’s lack of interest in subordinate poleis or federal leagues (which Hansen insistently but mistakenly believes to entail loss of autonomy). See Fröhlich 2010 for a searching critique of the Copenhagen project and the consequences of its Hellenistic blindspot. I do not here examine the possibility that the great convergence was related to economic changes, specifically the rapid and sustained economic growth and widespread prosperity postulated by recent work: Ober 2014, 2015; Bresson 2016; on the strong cultural context, see the Introduction to the present volume by Canevaro and Gray, as well as other chapters in this volume, e.g. those of Luraghi and Canevaro, Chapters 2 and 4. 30 IG XII 6 1 42, part of a great dossier of inscriptions by which the Samians, after recovering their city and their independence, thanked individuals and cities which had helped them during their four decades of exile.

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illustration of how the Classical (or Classical-style, by 322) ruthlessness in turn fostered ethically coloured collaboration at the international level. Another feature is an Athenian absence from the full swing of the polis convergence, at the end of the fourth and during the third centuries BCE. The tone, political culture, and social landscape of late Classical Athens exhibit shifts and eddies, which are ambiguous and difficult to read as the unequivocal march of radical democracy: the intensification of democratic institutions, noted in the Aristotelian Constitution of the Athenians, coexists with measures of rationalization and centralization in fiscal administration, a re-emergence of the influence of the Areopagos, elitist or authoritarian temptations in ideology and rhetoric, antiquarian and potentially reactionary nostalgia, and increasing displays by the wealthy, which might hint at growing social inequality.31 These processes culminated in an end of Athenian democracy in 322 BCE, when the imposition of censitary limits by the Macedonian regent Antipater was driven by a combination of old-style Macedonian liking for local partisans and Athenian elitist tendencies which exploited the Athenian defeat to impose oligarchical reforms. This fate was prolonged by the ten years’ administration by a Macedonian-backed single ruler, the philosopher Demetrius of Phalerum, whose measures and ideological stance kept alive the oligarchical possibilities and stylistic choices present in Athens of the later fourth century; Athens was one of the states which underwent the signorial turn avoided and shunned by most other poleis at the turn of the fourth century. The restoration of democracy in 307 BCE had to coexist with deformations brought about by repeated periods of more or less direct Macedonian rule, down until full restoration of autonomy in 229 BCE—the time when Hellenistic Athens itself joins, with local variations quite comparable to those which generally characterized the situation of every Greek city-state, the streams of the great convergence.32 The third facet of Athenian absence is the way in which major institutional features of the great convergence seem quite different from the well-documented practices of democratic Athens. This is notably so in the case of the widespread prographe and prosodos (i.e. the possibility for initiative by bodies or individuals in the polis) already mentioned: these seem unmatched by anything in Classical Athens. Likewise, the general shape of the chancellery language of Hellenistic decrees, and the associated institutional workings, seem to converge around schemes which are cognate but not identical to the forms developed in Classical and late Classical Athens. Conversely, elements of Classical Athenian practice are unmatched in the epigraphical record of the 31

Ober 1989; Faraguna 1992; Morris 1994; Rhodes 2009; Azoulay and Ismard 2011; Hanink

2014. 32

Habicht 1997 (2006), 2003; on early Hellenistic Athens, see also Luraghi, Chapter 2 in this volume.

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Hellenistic poleis, for instance the frequency in Classical Athens of amendments from the floor, formal but also substantive or even on topics loosely connected with the main motion.33 Aristotle does not seem to have found anything particularly Athenian, or Athens-inspired, in the polis-scape which he describes in the Politics, and which stands at the beginning of the great convergence. The existence of a generalized polis-koine thus argues against the direct descent of the omni-democratic, omni-autonomous Hellenistic city-state from Classical Athens. But the pattern of absences should not be exaggerated into minimalism or denial. There are clear examples of practice in the late Classical and Hellenistic poleis that do resemble earlier Athenian practice: for instance, assembly pay, jury pay (and large popular courts before which forensic rhetoric was deployed), complex financial budgeting, and tight patterns of accountability for men involved in administering public money and generally holding public office.34 The public care for war orphans, and the ceremonial donation of hoplitic panoplies to them, attested on Thasus in the 360s BCE, evoke similar ceremonies in Athens;35 the high value granted to tyrant-slaying, attested widely in the late Classical and early Hellenistic period (at Eretria, Erythrae, and Ilion) echoes and prolongs the cult of the Tyrannicides Harmodius and Aristogeiton in late fifth-century Athens.36 This was conceptually linked with the association between oligarchy and tyranny, particularly significant in post-403 Athens, before it appears in other poleis. Other general features which Athens pioneered are the prevalence of public epigraphy, probably (if not unproblematically) related to a culture of accountability and democratic transparency, and the practice of civic honours for benefactors (with such precise institutions as the proclamation of honours in the theatre, the ‘greatest honours’ including honorific statues for leading politicians, and the generalized assumption of competition for honours between civic leaders as a way of managing the place of elites within popular-sovereignty).37 Many other contributions to this volume trace in detail through what avenues and with what effects Athenian influences (self-consciously highquality oratory, philosophy, and literature as well as institutions) spread to the rest of the Greek world;38 the picture set out in this chapter offers a general historical framework of interaction, not in itself Athenocentric, within which these processes of reception of Classical Athens can be situated. The first determinant factor, already explored above, is the existence of the city-state 33

Lewis 1984; Rhodes with Lewis 1997. The subject of justice in the Hellenistic poleis still needs in-depth study. Budgeting: Migeotte 2014. Accountability; Fröhlich 2004; Migeotte 2014. 35 Fournier and Hamon 2007; Arrington 2014. Athens also provided a model for ephebeia in the Hellenistic cities: Chankowski 2010. 36 Fehr 1984; Shear 2012b; Azoulay 2014a; Teegarden 2014. 37 Gauthier 1985; Ober 1989. 38 See, for example, Konstan on Athenian comedy (Chapter 5, this volume). 34

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civilization or koine linked by peer-polity interaction, within which good ideas and practices are diffused rapidly and across the board, in debates and constant experimentation and refinement, at least since the sixth century 39 BCE. The second feature is that within this koine, the Athenian polity did develop a number of practices and ideas (say between the 440s and 360s BCE), at the same time that it practised a form of imperialism that both helped and delayed the diffusion of such ideas. It is the city-state koine, and its evolution towards potential receptivity to ideas developed in Athens and released from the moment of the end of Greek imperialisms (including, crucially, that of Athens, which only went into rapid and terminal decline in the 350s) that forms the background for the contingent choices of the very late Classical and early Hellenistic period (namely support for autonomy and democracy rather than oligarchies or signorial regimes). Indeed, the incipient great convergence itself nudged the choices of the dynasts in certain directions: the early Hellenistic poleis made their own good luck. Hellenistic culture, at all levels, was clearly aware of Athenian culture and politics, though the full cultural and literary history of the multipolar Hellenistic age still remains to be written. The politics of Classicism, within which the literature of Classical Athens plays a major part, will be examined below; what was being read and listened to by the cities of the Hellenistic poleis remains unclear, though a fragmentary, second-century library catalogue found on Rhodes contains titles from late Classical Athens, including works by Demetrius of Phalerum.40 But when Hellenistic citizens listened to the proclamation of honours at the Dionysia in their theatres, or when they debated about the merits and entitlements of elite liturgists (as in second-century Aegiale), or implemented complex measures balancing the need for accountability and the rights of individual citizens (as in the gymnasiarchal law of Beroia), it is doubtful whether they thought about how the genealogy of such practices included Classical Athenian innovations, let alone whether they tried to re-enact Classical Athenian practices.41 In other words, the great convergence in polis forms was also about a certain level of forgetfulness—forgetfulness of the Classical history where Athens played such an important part. The Robertian turn, discussed at the start of this paper, itself reflects this Hellenistic forgetfulness. When commenting on a famous Hellenistic decree from Istrus, the Roberts summarized a clause by insisting on Hellenistic normalcy—‘on couronne le navarque aux Dionysies (la fête banale qui ne manque dans aucune cité grecque et dans laquelle on proclame le plus souvent les honneurs décernés par la ville)’— which is synchronically correct, but elides the important role Classical Athens had in developing drama and promoting its political role in negotiating the 39 40 41

Robinson 1997; 2011. Maiuri 1925, no. 11. See the Introduction to this volume, p. 15. IG XII 7 389 (Aegiale); SEG 43.381 (Beroia).

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place of elites.42 Whereas Hansenian complexity results from retrojecting onto ancient realities the limitations of the modern divide between students of the Classical vs specialists of the Hellenistic, Robertian anti-Classicism aims to shape the modern gaze by replicating a Hellenistic attitude, lived in political practice.

13.4 BEYOND THE G REA T CONVERGENCE: CLASSICISM, P LUTARCH, PAUSANIAS The great polis convergence did not represent the end of history. Its actualization was marked by constant local variation, often in relationship to general norms, but also with the tendency towards local processes of re-divergence, though always within the limits of the koine of peer-polity interaction. Convergence may also have given rise to local distortions, with winners and losers; this is particularly true of originally non-Greek regions and communities which joined into the Greek city-state civilization through processes of cultural and political assimilation. But all these developments were consistent with the convergence; of greater moment were two further factors. The first was evolution within polis culture itself. From c.150 BCE onwards, the cardinal form of the Hellenistic poleis, the honorific decree, might show the re-emergence, or simply the invention, of forms of elitist behaviour (e.g. multiple benefactions, the displaying of economic resources), and of forms of community recognition for such behaviour. Such ‘grand decrees’, for instance in late Hellenistic Priene, Colophon, Pergamum, or Pagai, though showing continuity with late Classical and Hellenistic forms and language, seem a new phenomenon, in their prolix celebration of individual achievement and character.43 The question is whether these forms, which clearly fit within earlier civic protocols, represent the successful embedding of elites within the civic community, or whether these forms themselves are the tools and sites of elite entrenchment. At the same time, the actual language and content with which good citizenship is debated evolves, with the emergence of new, humanitarian-centred concerns, which play against some of the communitarian protocols which the Hellenistic polis had inherited from the Classical period. As shown by Gray, humanitarian tendencies eroded civic exclusivity and particularism, and sometimes also civic egalitarianism, and hence represented yet more distancing from the particular obsessions of the Athenian model. Such tendencies may have been counteracted by the intensification of civic procedure and ritual, which 42

BE 61, 44; on proclamations at Athens, Wilson and Hartwig 2009. For the complex political thought of some such later Hellenistic decrees, see Gray, Chapter 8 in this volume, section 8.4. 43

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enacted democratic values; the ‘grand decrees’ celebrating individuals co-exist with terse, simple decrees in the old style, and also with hyper-procedural decrees which insist on due process and democratic distributiveness rather than individual achievement, thus working as ‘anti-grand/non-grand decrees’ by emphasizing the communitarian force of the decree as a poetic form.44 The second factor was the impact of the turbulences of the terrible first century BCE, characterized by pressure from Roman hegemony, slowly becoming more uniform, and the direct devastations of the civil war between factions and individuals within the Roman power elite, drawing on the ferocious possibilities of Italian manpower but also on the resources of the communities in the eastern provinces. The moment of rupture was constituted by the First Mithradatic War (88–85 BCE),45 a complicated conflict, fought in Greece and Asia Minor between the Roman Republic (itself represented by conflicting officers in the field, including the future dictator Sulla, because of civil war in Rome) and the last great Hellenistic king, Mithradates VI of Pontos. The aftermath illustrates the various forms of pressure which the poleis came under, political and economic. Political pressure took the form of the direct presence of Roman armies, the intensification of administration and exaction, and the impact of the settlement of Greece and Asia Minor, where many communities had sided with Mithradates; the aftermath of the settlement, which decided on vital issues of status and taxation, was characterized by uncertainty, because of the constitutional upheaval in Rome which meant that Sulla’s decisions needed ratification by the Roman Senate. The effect of this uncertainty can be measured by the changes in the political discourse of the relations between the Greek cities and Rome, and by the increasing reliance of the cities on well-connected citizen diplomats who could mediate between their communities and Rome. Both developments would weigh heavily in the subsequent history of the poleis. The harshness and danger of the Sullan moment is well captured by many sources, epigraphical and literary.46 Among the literary sources, Plutarch gives a vivid sense of the hardship involved, for instance in his account of the sack of Athens by Sulla’s troops in 86 BCE, or in the dark tale set in Plutarch’s hometown, Chaeroneia, in winter 88/7 BCE, when a young Chaeroneian, Damon, murdered a Roman commander stationed in Chaeroneia and turned bandit after being condemned by the Chaeroneian authorities. (Damon was subsequently lured back and killed by his fellow-citizens.) The tale of civic conflict is woven with another story, that of dependency and powerlessness in the face of Rome: the Chaeroneians condemn one of their own to placate the Romans; 44 Gray 2013c; first-century Lampsakene decrees as anti-grands décrets: I.Lampsakos 7 with BE 54, 209 p. 160; Bertrand 1990; Habicht 1995, 88, on deliberately terse honorific decrees. 45 Kallet-Marx 1995; Campanile 1996. 46 Choix d’inscriptions de Delphes no. 207; I.Aphr. 8.2.

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they avoid reprisals thanks to a Roman patron, Lucullus; they appeal to him again when a neighbouring city, the big polis of Orchomenus, accuses them before the proconsul of Macedonia (almost certainly with a view to taking over Chaeroneia’s territory and perhaps even Chaeroneia itself).47 The grimness of these times looms large in other Lives of Plutarch. In his account of the sack of Athens by Sulla and the capture of Megara (Cassius had left some lions in Megara, laid up against his aedileship), we read that when the city was captured by the formidable Caesarian Fufius Calenus, the citizens are said to have set the lions loose in the hope that they might check the Caesarian legionaries; horribly, if understandably, rather than trying to maul armoured, shielded, Montefortino-helmeted, gladius-armed infantry, the lions turned on the easier prey of the anoploi Megarians, and devoured them ‘as they ran around’, a sight even the Roman legionaries found awful, before they duly rounded up the beasts and handed them over as war booty to Caesar. Equally grim is Plutarch’s account of the treatment of Rhodes and Lycia, notably Xanthus, by Brutus; the press-ganging into Antony’s fleet of ‘travellers, muleteers, harvesters and ephebes [the latter no doubt on armed tours of the countryside] out of Greece, who had endured so much’; or the ransacking of Asia Minor by Antony; and the conscription of free Chaeroneians as corvee labour by Antony’s troops and administrators, before deliverance and simply survival.48 The terrible events of the short first century BCE (88–31) are not a construct, and the picture is also found in the epigraphical sources (much sparser than during the high Hellenistic period) and in other literary sources. But it is important to notice how the story is framed in Plutarch. In the severely hourglass-shaped history that characterizes the Damon episode, the period between the migration and 86 BCE is taken up by one sentence—the death of the Peripoltadai ‘in the Persian invasions and the Galatian struggles’. The one event remembered is the Persian wars, glibly mentioned (when in fact Chaeroneians Medized along with Orchomenus and the other Boeotians), and the Greek fight against the Galatians in 279 BCE, where, indeed, Boeotians did play a part, and which was compared to the Persian Wars in Hellenistic times already (this assimilation clearly appears in Pausanias). This concentration on the Classical (apart from its particular function in the Damon tale) is characteristic of Plutarch’s historical view. His Lives, and his historical memory, on the Greek side, concentrate on the Classical period, between the Persian Wars and the emergence of Macedonia as top power; within this period, Plutarch spends most time on the most Classical city, Athens (with Sparta and the Thebes of Epaminondas, Pelopidas, and Pammenes receiving some attention). This historical framing is accompanied by a sense, at times made explicit, of

47

Plut. Cim. 1–2; Ellinger 2005.

48

Plut. Brut. 8.3.4; Ant. 62.1; Millar 1984.

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the inherent qualitative superiority of the Classical period in moral, cultural, and political terms. Conversely, there is little sense, or awareness, of the Hellenistic polis in cultural and political terms—except as a period of decline from the Classical (a sense confirmed by the Philopoemen). Hence Plutarch seems to have no awareness of, or interest in, the history of Hellenistic Boeotia and its successful, active League, which had a political and military life of its own—apart from mentioning an unsuccessful series of revolts against Demetrius Poliorcetes, and the rallying of the local politician Peisis to Demetrius (Dem. 39–40). This story of military defeat and domination, and local collaboration, is also the picture of Hellenistic Athens, given in the same context of Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius, as well as in his Life of Phocion, examined in detail in this volume by Erskine and Dubreuil, Chapters 11 and 12: the behaviour of the Athenians is portrayed as shocking servility in a shipwrecked state—especially as concerns ruler cult and honorific practice. Athenocentric Classicism (with an interest in the archaic), and the concomitant downgrading and forgetting of the Hellenistic characterize Plutarch, who was contributing to a lively late and post-Hellenistic debate about Classical Athens and Athenocentrism, explored by Gray, Holton, Wiater, and Erskine, Chapters 8–11 in this volume: the pre-Robertian Classicism which I started this paper by analysing is hence itself an ancient cultural practice, which has a complicated genealogy and politics, which several chapters in this volume seek to bring out. The characteristic of the various sites that shaped the particular type of Athenocentric Classicism represented by Plutarch is the cumulation of refusals to engage with the peer-polity koine that generated and was sustained by the late Classical and Hellenistic convergences: a trend that started in high Classical, hegemonic Athens, was perpetuated in the nostalgic, often violent irredentism of late Classical Athens, and was picked up, for political reasons of their own, by supra-local big powers of the Hellenistic age, namely the Hellenistic kingdoms (especially at Alexandria) and ultimately Rome itself.49 The adoption of this type of Athenocentric stance in the Roman East combined with late Hellenistic elitism (and its proclaimed loyalty to Rome), and with the sense of rupture established by the first-century miserabilism so prominent in Plutarch: the result of the equation is a particular political position, characteristic of elite figures in the poleis of the eastern provinces of the Roman empire. Yet other histories were possible, even in Roman Greece. Pausanias, over half a century after Plutarch, tells a story of early Hellenistic Athens that picks up the threads of the local civism and freedom that was the essential part of the great convergence (1.26.1–2). A bronze statue on the Acropolis offers

49

Sifting continues into Byzantine period: Kaldellis 2012. On the reinvention of Athens in the Hellenistic and Roman period, see Martzavou 2014.

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Pausanias the occasion for a short narrative of Athenian liberation, with emphasis on the uprising of 287 BCE: There stands Olympiodorus, who received fame on account of the greatness of the deeds which he accomplished, and not least because of the time when he accomplished them, for he gave resolution to men who had known continuous defeat and who could conceive of no hope at all for the future…[There follows an account of Athens under Macedonian control.] Later, a few men recalled their ancestors, and considered to what state had fallen the glory of the Athenians, and straightaway elected Olympiodorus as their general. He led them against the Macedonians, and the old and young too, hoping to gain success in war by enthusiasm rather than might; when the Macedonians sallied out he defeated them and, as they fled to the Mouseion, he captured the fort…This is the greatest deed of Olympiodorus, apart from those he accomplished when he recovered Piraeus and Munychia; and when the Macedonians mounted an incursion against Eleusis, he ranged the Eleusinians and defeated the Macedonians. Earlier, when Cassander invaded Attica, Olympiodorus sailed to Aetolia and convinced the Aetolians to send troops to the Athenians’ aid, and this alliance was chiefly responsible for the Athenians escaping the war with Cassander. So Olympiodorus has honours on the Acropolis and in the prytaneion, and also a painting in Eleusis; and the Phocians who hold Elateia set up a bronze [statue of] Olympiodorus in Delphi, for he helped them too, when they revolted from Cassander.

The narrative (perhaps based on an inscription or local historiography, and perhaps going back to a decree passed in the assembly) reflects early Hellenistic Athenian patriotism and reaffirmation, as paralleled in contemporary epigraphical documents.50 The monument for Olympiodorus stood on the south side of the Acropolis facing the Mouseion hill—the site of the ‘greatest feat’ of this civic leader, and the scene of the Athenians seizing the initiative in their day of freedom (as expressed in the contemporary funerary epigram for a young man who died in the assault). It stands in contrast to Plutarch’s image of powerlessness. Pausanias’ narrative of Olympiodorus does not celebrate Athenian exceptionalism, but an Athenian case of a widespread phenomenon in the early Hellenistic period, the desperate attempt of a local community to regain its freedom; as such, it is an episode in the imperfect participation of Hellenistic Athens in polis convergence. The mention of the Phocians’ resistance against Cassander, and of Olympiodorus’ help, makes this clear: it puts the uprising of 287 in parallel with other incidents, and also underlines the importance of collaboration between poleis, a major feature of the peer-polity aspects of the great convergence. The reality 50

IG II2 662, 666, 667; 5777a (also in ISE 13); Shear 1978; Paus. 1.29.13. The atmosphere of civic pride and affirmation was prolonged into the following decades, which saw Athenian participation in the effort to defeat the Galatians—and the final episode of the Chremonidean War (Habicht 1997, 95–7, 125–42; also Habicht 2006, 112–13, 143–61). See also Luraghi, Chapter 2 in this volume.

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was messier than Pausanias’ narrative allows for: Olympiodorus, though a famous civic military leader, was coopted by the Macedonian king Demetrius, who appointed him archon in 294/3 and 293/2, for two (illegal) consecutive tenures. But the selectivity of the Pausanian narrative probably reflects ancient choices in how to remember and commemorate Athenian history: forgetfulness was the price to pay for the creation of a narrative which precisely eschewed the (self-)pity and sense of decline that marked Classicism and its own narrative of Athenian diminution after the Classical period. The Hellenistic lived on in Pausanias’ account—or, to be precise, the particular version of the Hellenistic centred on local specificity and agency, which lies at the heart of this essay. C. Habicht (1985) has shown how Pausanias’ awareness of Hellenistic history is specific, accurate, and detailed, as can be confirmed through confrontation with documentary sources, especially the epigraphical. This is not to make Pausanias into a proto-Habicht or a proto-Robert; rather that the particular tradition, documentary and civic, which the Robertian turn was based on is picked up in Pausanias’ catholic account of Greece and Greekness. But this tradition is only one of many in Pausanias: philo-Atticism, pan-Hellenizing narrative, a sense of speciallocalism as an alibi or substitute for autonomy, an interest in the archaic, religious antiquarianism, art-historical periodizations, all jostle in this astonishing text. This diversity is that of the cultural landscape of the Greek world in the Roman Empire: if not political autonomy (unsustainable in the face of Roman administration and law), the democratic political culture and sense of local agency and local knowledge which had characterized the Hellenistic convergence survived, often modified to work as forms of cooptation or situatedness within empire, as did that convergence’s local literary and artistic forms, alongside Classicism, Atticism, and Athenocentrism. Diversity raises the question of the ultimate winning-out of a particular kind of Athenocentric Classicism—an event which determines the shape of modern Classics and the position of Athens within it; and diversity means the story of the formation of the Classical canon is complex. One cause was the Late Antique end of the Greek city-state. This removed the historical structures that had sustained the cultures of peer-polity, and hence laid these cultures open to the forgetful ravages of time or to antiquarian curiosification (a process which in fact had already started during the Hellenistic period and continued in Republican and Julio-Claudian Rome). The other factor is developments in high culture throughout the Roman and Late Antique periods, culminating in Byzantine selectivity when faced with the Greek heritage out of which it chose the elements of the actual canon. All the same, the story of the constitution of Classicism can be written: the difficulty lies less in questions of availability of evidence than in problems of perception and values for the modern Classicist.

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13.5 WHATEVER H APPENED TO ATHENS? RECEPTION AND REFLEXIVITY Writing the history of the Hellenistic period in its relationship to the Classical, and in its subsequent prolongations, is also a story of memory and its lack, and hence of reception. The Hellenistic city-states lived a culture that was grounded in forgetfulness of Classical Athens; Roman-era elite positions were based on forgetting the Hellenistic, before the first-century watershed, a process facilitated by remembering the Classical in explicit terms. But forgetfulness also was compatible with subtler forms of remembering: the koine of the citystates in the great convergence remembered Athens in enacting, refining, and living political forms which often had developed in the hothouse of radical Athens; the Roman-era and Rome-inspired turn to Athens came in reaction to Hellenistic developments and their political potential, which continued to exist, in fragmented and muted forms, throughout Roman Greece and Asia Minor. The lenses of forgetfulness and remembrance not only distort, but also have the power to flip, magnify, or keep at bay. Bringing closer, skipping over, turning inside-out, pushing away: these moves are also those of modern historians of the ancient world, whose perspectives on the Classical and the Hellenistic are determined by choices about both, as I tried to explore in this chapter. This essay has tried to bridge the gap between blissfully unaware, canon-centred ‘Classicists’ and grimly self-satisfied, non-canonical ‘Hellenistic epigraphists’ living the Robertian dream. The starting point was to delineate a specific historical phenomenon, the great convergence in democratic and autonomy-centred polis forms, from the ‘Aristotelian’ late Classical moment to the high Hellenistic. But to perceive this event immediately helps establish reflexivity, in the modern study of both Classical and Hellenistic, about investment, intellectual and even emotional, in the rediscovery and invention of Athens; this awareness is both a fragment of the intellectual history of Classics and a pragmatic way of doing Greek history.

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Index Locorum Literary Sources Aelian VH 1.25: 250 n. 81 Aelius Theon Progymnasmata 61.15: 13 Aeneas Tacticus 11.10: 67 n. 95 Aeschylus Suppl.: 86 n. 54 Aeschines 1.182: 87 n. 56 2: 249–50 2.3: 84 2.45–50: 75 n. 6 2.121: 75 n. 6 2.165: 84 2.166: 84 2.184: 249 n. 76 3 passim: 75 n. 6 3.2: 270 n. 24 3.82: 84 3.134: 131 n. 29 3.160: 49 n. 18 3.165: 49 n. 24 3.177–88: 78 3.187–90: 56 n. 49 3.225: 83 3.239–40: 33 n. 44 Pseudo-Aeschines Ep.: Passim: 15 n. 43 5.1: 85 Aeschylus PV 11: 185 28: 185 Alexis PCG fr. 246: 40 n. 69 Anaximenes FGrH 72 T6: 50 n. 29 FGrH 72 F16: 47 n. 12 Andocides 3.28: 86 n. 54 [Andronicus of Rhodes] On the Passions Book II, 7.2, l. 15: 161 n. 118

Anth. Pal. 6.344: 47 n. 8 Antiphon 1.26: 183 n. 26 On Truth fr. 44(a) I.6–11: 104 I.27–II.23: 94 II.26–30: 104 fr. 44(b): 104 Anonymous Vita Demosthenis 305.66: 75 n. 8 Appian Mithr. 12.83: 66–7, 67 n. 94 2.91: 69 n. 106 Pun. 57–61: 205 n. 72 Apuleius Fl. 18: 101 n. 31 Aristocles of Messana fr. 2: 162 n. 123 fr. 2, section 13: 176 n. 195 Aristophanes Eq.: 23 n. 7 Pax 392: 185 n. 28 Aristophanes of Byzantium Menander T32 (Koerte): 119 n. 23 Aristotle Eth. Eud. 1229a20–4: 1 n. 2 Eth. Nic. 1098a7–18: 165 n. 143 1112a28–34: 169 n. 168 1134b: 282 n. 15 1138a1–2: 161 n. 116, 169 n. 163 1145b2–7: 168 n. 159 1167a22–b16: 169 n. 160 1178b5–6: 165 n. 144 Pol.: 281, 289 1253a1–4: 169 n. 162 1258b2–8: 169 n. 163 1260a20–33: 103 n. 42 1260a27–8: 103 n. 40 1261a22–9: 152 n. 72 1263a37–9: 161 n. 117, 166 n. 146

336 Aristotle (cont.) 1263b36–7: 169 n. 164 1272b1–15: 169 n. 169 1273b30–42: 240 n. 12 1276a24–7: 152 n. 71 1277b: 282 n. 15 1277b7–16: 169 n. 162 1278b21–3: 169 n. 161 1279a25–31: 169 n. 161 1280a25–1281a8: 169 n. 161 1280a34–b35: 161 n. 116, 165 n. 140 1280a34–1280b35: 151 n. 69 1281a42–b7: 170 n. 171 1283b42–1284a3: 169 n. 162 1291a 9–10: 287 n. 29 1304b.31–4: 67 n. 95 Pseudo-Aristotle Ath. Pol.: 288 20–2: 240 n. 16 25: 241 n. 22 26, 3: 213 n. 18 34–40: 56 n. 49 41.1: 56 n. 49 Arius Didymus Sharples 2010, text 15A: 159–61 Arrian Anab. 1.7.1: 46 n. 5, 48 n. 15 1.7.4: 49 n. 20 1.8.8: 47 n. 6 1.9.10: 47 n. 7 1.10.1: 49 n. 21 1.10.4–6: 49 n. 22 1.16.7: 57 1.17.1: 51 n. 31 1.17.1–2: 64 n. 80 1.17.4: 64 n. 80, 69 1.17.7: 64 n. 80 1.17.10: 64 n. 80 1.17.10–12: 51, 51 n. 32 1.17.11: 50, 50 n. 27 1.18.1: 51 1.18.1–2: 63, 64 n. 80 1.18.2: 51, 51 n. 32 1.26.2–3: 64 n. 80 1.27.2–4: 64 n. 80 2.1.1: 51 n. 33 2.2.1–3: 51, 51 n. 33 2.1.1–5: 51 n. 33 2.4.2: 68 n. 100 2.5.5–8: 66 n. 90 2.12.2: 66 n. 90 2.20.2: 66 n. 90 3.2.3: 51 3.2.3–7: 51 n. 33

Index Locorum 3.2.6: 51 n. 33 3.2.6–7: 51, 51 n. 33 3.6.4: 64 n. 80 7–9: 49 n. 19 FGrH 156 F1.5: 68 n. 100 Athenaeus Deipnosophists: 23 1.19a–b: 60 n. 65 3.95a6–7: 141 n. 7 4.184b: 98 n. 15 5.211d–215d: see entries for Posidonius fr. 253 Edelstein-Kidd 5.211d–e5.54: 143 n. 22 5.215b–c: 143 n. 22 6.252f–253d: 77 6.260f: 23 n. 5 8.354c: 100, 101 n. 32 9.374a2–5: 141 n. 7 11.509a–b: 49 n. 24 13.561c: 98 n. 16 13.611b: 175 n. 192 15.675a: 204 n. 69 Callimachus Pinakes: 80 frr. 443–6 Pfeiffer: 80 Cicero Att. 1.16.12: 47 n. 11, 79 12.23.2: 129 n. 21 Brut. 83.286: 76 119–20: 167 n. 151 306: 175 n. 192 De div. 2.46.96: 75 De or. 1.43: 167 n. 151 2.154–5: 130 2.155: 129 n. 21 3.57–76: 167 n. 151 Fam. 8.14.3: 222 n. 43 Fin.: 17 5.1–3: 17 n. 47 Flac. 15: 222 n. 43 16–17: 157 n. 96 57: 157 n. 96 62: 190 Leg. 1.53: 175 n. 192 2.5: 234 n. 90 Off.: 3 n. 10 1.2: 150 n. 57 1.6: 150 n. 57

Index Locorum 1.20: 147 n. 37, 148 n. 46, 148 n. 47 1.22: 148 n. 47 1.23: 148 n. 45 1.31: 147 n. 37 1.35: 233 n. 84 2.85: 148 n. 46 3.8: 145 n. 31 3.50–7: 149 n. 52, 149 n. 55 3.63: 149 n. 53 3.91–2: 149 n. 52 Orat.: 111: 13 Rep.: 17 2.2: 223 n. 48 2.37: 223 n. 48 4.3: 150 n. 57 Tusc. 1.1–2: 223 n. 47 1.79: 3 n. 11 2.9: 167 n. 151 4.5: 129 n. 21 Q. Curtius Rufus 3.1.24: 68 n. 100 3.4.1: 68 n. 100 3.7.1–4: 66 n. 90 4.1.34–5: 68 n. 100 4.5.14–28: 51 4.8.13: 51 n. 33 10.10.3: 68 n. 100 Demades On the Twelve Years 9: 48 9–10: 47 n. 12 Demetrius of Phalerum On Constitutions at Athens: 15 On Law-Making at Athens: 15 fr. 156 Stork-van Ophuijsen-Dorandi: 32 n. 42 Pseudo-Demetrius On Style 10–11: 13 20: 13 245–6: 13 Demochares (FGrH 75) Histories: 76 Demosthenes and Pseudo-Demosthenes 2.19: 77 2.22: 78 3.23–32: 78 3.25–6: 78 4.36–8: 86 4.49: 78 7.30–1: 188 n. 34 8.68–70: 272 9: 88

337

9.27: 48 n. 14 9.29: 86 9.41–5: 51 n. 31 9.57–58: 48 n. 14 10: 88 10.6: 87 11: 88 13: 88 13.1–2: 75 13.21–31: 78 14: 77 15.17: 87 15.22: 86 n. 54 16.9: 188 n. 34 16.16–17: 200 n. 61 17: 49 17.4: 47 n. 11, 49 n. 23 17.7: 47 n. 11, 49 n. 23, 50 n. 29, 51 n. 33 17.8: 53 17.10: 49 n. 24 17.16: 49 n. 25 18: 26, 74, 75, 78, 79, 87 18.23: 270 n. 24 18.43: 278 n. 5 18.48: 278 n. 5 18.61: 278 n. 5 18.65: 87 18.85: 273 18.98: 87 n. 56 18.102–6: 82 18.103–9: 83 18.231: 200 18.238: 27 n. 21 18.243: 83 18.246: 87 18.258–9: 78 18.285: 48 18.294–5: 79 n. 24 18.294–6: 79, 84, 278 n. 5 18.295: 47 n. 11, 49 n. 23, 49 n. 25 19: 78 19.16: 27 n. 20 19.87–89: 48 n. 14 19.196–8: 78 19.260: 48 n. 14 19.294: 48 n. 14 19.295: 48 n. 14 20: 9, 13, 77, 82 20.6: 82 20.10: 82 20.10–14: 86 20.12: 82 20.18–19: 82 20.28: 273 20.41: 82 20.44: 166 n. 147

338 Demosthenes (cont.) 20.69: 82 20.82: 82 20.102: 82 20.103: 82 20.106: 197 n. 52 20.109: 200 n. 59 20.110: 82 20.120–4: 82 20.154: 82 20.155: 82 20.163–6: 82 21.148: 86 22: 77, 88 22.51: 199 n. 56 22.57: 199 n. 56 23: 80 23.156: 188 n. 34 23.196–210: 78 23.204: 87 n. 56 24: 77, 80, 86 24.51: 86 24.74–6: 82, 83 24.116: 82, 83 24.196: 199 n. 56 25.76: 86 25.81: 86 48.56: 77 60: 48 60.5: 187 n. 31 60.8.32: 86 n. 54 Prooemia: 80 Ep. 3.11: 47 n. 12 3.29–31: 79 n. 24 Dinarchus 1 passim: 75 n. 6 1.18–21: 33 n. 44 1.18–19: 49 n. 20 1.19: 48 n. 15 1.42: 84 1.109: 87 n. 56 Dio Cassius 42.46.48: 69 n. 108 Dio Chrysostom Or. 37.42: 47 n. 8, 71 Diodorus Siculus 1.7–8: 190 1.74.7: 202 1.78.2: 197 n. 53 3.53.2: 197 n. 53 4.74.2: 197 n. 53 5.71.2: 201 9.2.2: 197 n. 53 9.12.1–2: 203 n. 65

Index Locorum 9.12.3: 203 11.22–3: 204 11.68.5–6: 201 n. 62 11.72: 201 n. 62 12.6.3: 197 12.11: 201 13.19.4–5: 177 13.19.6: 177 13.19–33: 177, 179 13.20.2: 186 13.20–7: 177, 179 13.20.1–4: 180 13.20.5: 180, 184, 194, 204 13.21.4: 184 13.21.4–5: 184 13.21.6: 195 13.21.7: 184 13.22.1: 195 13.22.2–4: 184 13.22.4: 181 n. 19, 204 13.22.5: 184, 229 n. 67 13.22.6: 196, 204 13.22.7–8: 203 13.23.4: 196 13.23.5: 181 n. 19 13.23.7: 199 13.24.2: 204 13.24.4: 184 13.24.5: 181 n. 19 13.24.5–6: 184 13.25.1: 196 13.26.2–3: 185 13.26.3: 183 13.26–7: 184 13.27.1: 183 13.27.1–2: 191, 195 13.27.2–3: 194, 195, 231 n. 79 13.27.3: 181 n. 19 13.27.3–4: 194 13.27.6: 229 n. 67 13.28.1: 177 13.28.2: 181 n. 17, 182 n. 19 13.28.2–3: 181, 196 13.28.2–32: 178, 179, 196 13.29.3: 181 n. 17, 181 n. 19 13.29.3–5: 198 13.29.6: 229 n. 67 13.30.3–5: 182, 198, 200, 217 n. 32 13.30.4: 229 n. 67 13.30.5: 181 n. 17 13.30.6–7: 198 13.30.7: 200 13.31.3: 181 n. 17, 181 n. 19 13.32.2: 196 13.32.3: 181 n. 17 13.33.1: 178

Index Locorum 13.36.2–3: 201 13.95.1: 202 13.58.1–2: 229 n. 67 15.6: 197 n. 53 15.7.1: 197 n. 53 15.40.1–2: 202 15.46.6: 47 n. 9 15.52.2: 197 n. 53 15.58.1: 202 15.92.5: 203 n. 65 16.11.3–5: 201 n. 62 16.20.1–2: 203 n. 65 16.42.7–9: 249 n. 72 16.46.1: 249 n. 72 16.70.4–5: 201 n. 62 16.74.1: 249 n. 72 16.86.5: 47 n. 12 16.87.3: 46 n. 5, 48 n. 15 16.87.5: 47 n. 12 17: 29 n. 26 17.3.1–2: 49 n. 18 17.3.3: 48 n. 13, 48 n. 15, 49 17.3.3–5: 33 n. 44 17.3.4: 49 17.4.3: 49 17.4.4: 49 17.5.1: 49 n. 18 17.7.2–7: 50 n. 29 17.7.9–10: 50 n. 29 17.8.3: 48 n. 15 17.8.3–7: 46 n. 5 17.8.5: 49 n. 20 17.8.5–6: 49 n. 20 17.8–14: 49 n. 19 17.11.3: 68 n. 98 17.13.5: 47 n. 6 17.15.1: 49 n. 22 17.15.2: 249 n. 72 17.24.1: 52 17.24.2: 64 n. 80 17.29.2: 51, 51 n. 33 17.76.1–2: 203 n. 65 18: 28, 29 n. 26 18.3.1: 68 n. 100 18.8.2–7: 54 n. 42 18.8.6–7: 68 n. 98 18.10: 28 n. 24 18.10.1: 25 n. 15 18.11.3–5: 47 n. 6, 71 n. 113 18.18: 249 n. 72, 250 n. 83 18.18.4–5: 250 n. 84 18.18.6: 251 n. 85 18.56: 53 18.56.3: 53 18.56.7: 30 n. 30, 48, 55 n. 47 18.65.4–6: 202

18.65–67: 249 n. 72 18.66.4: 262 18.66.5–6: 249 n. 73 18.67.6: 249 n. 73, 252 n. 91, 255 n. 107 18.68.3: 57 n. 51 18.69.3–4: 197 n. 53 19.1.1–8: 202 19.5.4–5: 202 19.9.1–3: 202 19.53.1: 57 n. 51 20.1–2: 178, 179 n. 7 20.45.5: 58 n. 57 20.46.1: 58 n. 57 20.93.6–7: 203 20.93.7: 202 21.9: 203 n. 66 21.14.3: 203 n. 66 25.8: 202 27.6.1–2: 205 27.12.1–2: 205 n. 72 27.13–17: 205 27.13–18: 205 27.17.1: 204 n. 67 27.18.1: 206 27.18.2: 229 n. 67 31.3.1: 203 n. 66 32.27.3: 203 n. 66 33.7.7: 98 n. 15 34/5.25: 202 34/35.2.26: 155 n. 91 51.3: 47 n. 9 57.1: 47 n. 9 79.6: 47 n. 9 Diogenes Laertius 2.102: 253 n. 94 3.28: 254 n. 103 4.62–4: 129 n. 22 6.73: 97 n. 15 6.76: 249 n. 74, 254 n. 101 6.103–4: 97 n. 15 7.4: 99 7.32: 97 7.32–3: 98 7.33: 99 n. 22 7.36: 100 7.102–6: 96 n. 11 7.107: 96 n. 11 7.175: 96, 100 7.178: 100 7.189: 96 n. 8 7.198: 93 n. 1 9.53: 101 n. 32 10.8: 100 10.24: 100 10.26: 93 n. 1 10.120: 96 n. 8

339

340 Dionysius of Halicarnassus Ad Amm. 1.4: 13 Ant. Rom. 1.1.3: 232 1.2.2–3: 224 n. 50 1.3.1–2: 224, 227 n. 58 1.4.2: 216, 232 1.5.1: 232, 234 1.5.1–3: 213 1.5.4: 232 1.6.4: 232 n. 81, 235 1.6.5: 192, 194 n. 49 1.7.2: 234 1.8.3: 211 n. 11 1.8.4: 234 1.9.4: 218 1.41.1: 161 n. 119 1.60.1–2: 218 n. 33 1.89.2: 215, 229 1.89.3–4: 215 1.90.1: 209 2.3–26: 220 n. 39 2.3.4–6: 223 n. 49 2.15.3–4: 218 n. 33 2.27.1: 233 2.8.1–3: 223 n. 49 2.9.3: 223 n. 49 2.17.1–2: 224 n. 50 3.5.3: 214 3.7.2–11.11: 212 n. 12 3.10–11: 212 3.10.3: 214 3.10.4: 212 3.11.2: 214 3.11.4: 212, 212 n. 14, 218 3.11.5: 213 3.11.4–5: 192 3.12.1: 212 n. 12 3.61: 221 n. 42 4.8.3: 222 n. 43 4.72–5: 212, 219 4.72.2–3: 220, 224 4.72.3: 220, 221 4.73.1: 221, 222 4.73.2–3: 221 4.73.4: 220, 221 4.74.1: 221 4.74.2: 220 4.74.3: 221, 222 4.76.1: 223 5.65.1: 219 n. 35 5.65.3: 219 n. 35 5.66.3: 161 n. 119 14.6.3: 217 n. 30, 230, 231 n. 75 14.6.3–6: 200 n. 60, 228, 231, 233

Index Locorum 14.6.5: 229 20.4.3: 233 n. 86 20.13.2–3: 233 n. 86 Dem. 53: 75 Pomp. 3.9: 217 n. 28 3.15: 217 n. 28 Orat. Vett. Preface: 157 n. 97 1.3–7: 233 n. 87 3.1: 222 n. 43, 232 n. 82 4.2: 222 Thuc. 18.7: 217 n. 26 Ephippus FGrH 126 F5 = Gadaleta 2001: F1: 54 n. 43 Epicurus fr. 173 Usener: 101 KD 31: 104 32: 104 33: 93, 104, 106, 107, 107 n. 53 33–4: 105 36: 104, 106, 107 n. 53, 108 37: 104, 108 38: 107 n. 54, 108 40: 107 n. 55 Letter to Herodotus 56: 107 n. 53 57: 107 n. 53 75–6: 107 n. 55 On Nature 28, fr. 13 col. X 3–12 sup.: 93 n. 1 Sent. Vat. 67 Arrighetti: 222 n. 43 Euripides Heracl.: 86 n. 54 Suppl.: 86 n. 54, 239 n. 9 Flavius Josephus AJ 11.8.4–7: 69 n. 103 Galen On Freedom from Grief: 2 Aulus Gellius NA 5.3: 101 n. 32 6.14.8–10: 130 n. 24 6.14.9: 130 n. 23 6.14.10: 129 n. 22 13.17: 193 n. 48 Hegesander fr. 9 Müller: 23 n. 5 Hegesias of Magnesia: Athenophiles: 15

Index Locorum Aspasia: 15 Alcibiades: 15 Hermarchus Against Empedocles: 105 Hermippus FGrH 4A F29: 75 n. 9 FGrH 4A F31: 75 n. 9 Herodotus 3.80–2: 219 4.137: 70 n. 112 5.37: 70 n. 112 6.43.3: 70 n. 112 6.131: 240 n. 16 7.139.1–6: 131 Hesychius Illustrius fr. 7, ll. 992–4: 162 n. 128 Homer Il. 1.343–4: 87 n. 57 Horace CS 51–2: 233 n. 84 Odes 3.16: 47 n. 11, 79 Hyperides Athen. 29–35: 48 n. 12, 48 n. 13 31: 47 n. 11 Diondas: 26 5.3–8 [176r]: 27 n. 21 6.31–7.2[173r–175r]: 47 n. 11 Dem. 5.34–6: 187 n. 31 5.45–6: 187 fr. 6: 86 Eux. 19–24: 57 Phil. Fr. 15a: 79 n. 24 Fr.19.2: 47 n. 12 Idomeneus of Lampsacus BNJ FGrH 338 F8: 245 n. 49 Isocrates 3.7.3–8.3: 187 n. 33 3.35.7–9: 187 n. 33 4.38–9: 187 4.39: 212 n. 13 4.50: 230, 233 4.52–65: 86 n. 54 4.56: 86 n. 54 8.3–5: 23 n. 7 8.43: 213 n. 18 10.37: 199 n. 56

12.56: 199 n. 56 14: 47 n. 9 14.17: 199 n. 56 15.276: 187 n. 32 Jerome Vir. Ill. Praef.: 75 n. 10 Justin Epit. 9.4.4: 47 n. 12 9.4.5: 47 n. 12 9.4.7: 46 n. 5 11.2.7–9: 49 n. 20 11.3.6–7: 49 n. 19 11.3.8: 47 n. 6 13.5.5–7: 54 n. 45 Juvenal 12.47: 47 n. 11, 79 Libanius 295.62: 75 n. 8 Liv. 3.31.8: 190 n. 40 30.42.17: 233 n. 84 33.12.7: 233 n. 84 38.9.3–11.9: 128 n. 17, 129 n. 18 38.14.1–14: 128 n. 17 42.63.11: 131 45.27.5–28.5: 136 n. 42 45.31.9: 135 n. 39 Lucilius fr. 35 Warmington (fr. 17 Charpin; fr. 31 Marx): 130 n. 25 Lucretius DRN 5.1455–7: 190 6.1–3: 189 6.4ff.: 190 Lycurgus 1.42: 48 n. 13 Lysias 2.11–15: 86 n. 54 2.18–19: 187 n. 31 Marcus Aurelius Meditations 11.20: 160 n. 114 Memnon FGrH 434 F4.1: 67, 68 n. 99 FGrH 434 F12.4: 68 n. 100 FGrH 434 F30.3–4: 67 n. 93 Menander Aspis: 118 Misoumenos 716–18: 183 n. 23 Dyscolus: 115

341

342

Index Locorum

Menander (cont.) 795–6: 115 Periciromene: 116 Samian Woman: 118 Nepos Phoc. 1.1: 249 n. 70 4: 262 Timoth. 4.4: 249 n. 71 Parthenius of Nicaea Amat. Narr.: 1 7: 1 n. 1 Pausanias 1.25.3: 48 1.26.1–2: 294 1.26.1–3: 63 1.29.13: 295 n. 50 1.34.1: 48 2.33.3–5: 33 n. 45 4.27.10: 47 n. 6, 47 n. 7 4.28.4: 48 n. 14 6.3.14–15: 50 n. 28 6.11.1: 47 n. 10, 71 6.16.9: 38 n. 60 6.18.2: 50 n. 29 7.10.7–11: 135 n. 39 7.11.4–8: 129 n. 20 7.16.9: 157 n. 100 7.16.9–10: 157 n. 101 7.27.7: 49 n. 24 8.30.6: 47, 71 8.30.9: 157 n. 101 9.1.8: 46 n. 5, 47 n. 6, 48 n. 15 9.6.5: 46 n. 5, 48 n. 15 9.14.2: 47 n. 9 9.37.8: 47 n. 7 10.20.3–5: 34 n. 50 Phainias of Eresos FGrH 1012 F6: 49 n. 24 Philo Quod omn. bon. lib. 127–8: 253 n. 94 Philodemus Stoicorum historia col. 61 Dorandi: 3 n. 11 Rhet. 2.97: 75 Philochorus FGrH 328 F66: 241 n. 21 Philostratus VS 488: 255 n. 106 Photius Bibl. Cod. 250, 447a: 33 n. 44 Plato Ap.

20e–21a: 255 n. 105 Crit. 110e: 187 n. 31 Ep. 348c: 267 Euthyd. 273d–e: 97 Euthyph. 3d: 192 n. 44 Grg. 521d–522b: 244 n. 40 Hippias Major 282e–283b: 96 n. 10 Leg.: 270 876b: 270 Menex. 238e: 187 n. 31 241b–c: 191 n. 41 Men. 71d: 103 71e–72a: 103 Phd.: 252, 253 59d–e: 254 n. 99 116c–d: 253 n. 97 117b: 253 n. 98 117c–d: 253 n. 95, 272, 272 n. 31 117d: 273 Phdr. 271c–d: 244 n. 39 Protag. 318d5–319a2: 99 n. 21 319a3–7: 102 319a3–b1: 98 n. 19 320b5: 98 n. 19 323a6–7, b2: 98 n. 19 325d7–e1: 98 325e2–326a4: 98 326a4–b6: 99 326b6–c3: 99 326c6–e5: 99 328a8–b2: 99 328b–c: 97 333d: 103 334a–c: 103, 106 337d: 191 n. 41 338e6–339a3: 98 n. 20 349a: 96 n. 10 Resp.: 244 4.430c–442d: 244 n. 42 4.439d–e: 244 n. 43 4.440e: 244 n. 43 5.470c: 38 n. 58 6.488a–489a: 244 n. 40 8.564b–c: 244 n. 40 338c2–339a4: 103 339a1: 103

Index Locorum 339a2–3: 103 339b–e: 106 n. 52 353e7–354a9: 163 n. 134 354b7: 163 n. 134 358b: 105 358c7–d1: 93 359a3: 94 359b6–360d7: 94 n. 6 360c8: 163 n. 134 564c: 87 n. 57 376e–412b: 99 379a1: 100 410b–412a: 99 488b6–7: 99 n. 25 492a5–b4: 99 n. 25 492b6–c9: 100 n. 25 493a6–9: 99 n. 25 539e–540a: 102 555e4–556b5: 164 n. 135 562c–d: 241 n. 23 Theaet. 151e–179b: 102 Pliny the Elder HN 5.107: 51 6.7: 69 n. 109 34.66: 47 n. 8, 71 35.135: 136 n. 42 Pliny the Younger Ep. 10.92: 69 n. 109 Plutarch Adv. Col. 1115a: 267 Aem. 28: 136 n. 42 28.11: 135 n. 41 Ag. and Cleom. 1.2.: 244 n. 44, 247 n. 61 Alc. 13: 247 n. 58 18.4: 243 n. 33 19.1: 242 n. 29 25: 242 n. 25 25.5: 241 n. 20 25–6: 247 n. 60 26.4: 247 n. 60 36: 243 n. 35 36.3: 243 n. 33 38.1–2: 243 n. 33 Alex. 11.5: 47 n. 6, 48 n. 15 11–12: 49 n. 19 12: 264 n. 8 16.8: 57 25.4: 57 n. 56

343

28.1–2: 54 n. 45 28.2: 48 34: 68 34.1: 67, 67 n. 96 34.1–2: 47 n. 6 49: 68 n. 98 Amat. 760b8–c5: 1 n. 2 760b11–c2: 2 n. 3 An sen. 783d: 241 n. 19 Ant. 62.1: 293 n. 48 Arat. 15.3: 264 23.4: 48 n. 15 48.3: 242 n. 25 Arist. 2.1: 240 n. 17, 245 n. 46, 247 n. 59 3: 247 n. 59 7.3–4: 247 n. 58 11.9: 47 n. 6 22.1: 247 n. 59 24.3: 242 n. 29 Brut. 8.3.4: 293 n. 48 Cam. 19.10: 53 n. 41 Cat. Mai. 9.1–3: 136 n. 44 12.4–5: 136 n. 43 20.2: 136 n. 43 22.1–2: 129 n. 20 22.1–5: 136 n. 43 22.2: 129 n. 22 22.4–5: 130 n. 23 23.1: 136 n. 43 23.2: 136 n. 43 27.4: 135 n. 40 Cat. Mi.: 255 6.3: 255 n. 106 68–70: 255 n. 106 Cim. 1–2: 293 n. 47 10: 245 n. 46 10.5–6: 185 10.7: 242 n. 29 10.7–8: 239 n. 7 10.8: 241 n. 22 15.2: 239 n. 7, 240 n. 17, 241 n. 22, 242 n. 24, 245 n. 46 Cleom. 11: 100 n. 27 De frat. amor.: 484b: 239 n. 11 De tuenda sanitate

344 Plutarch (cont.) 129d: 266 n. 17 Dem. 7.1: 243 n. 36 7.1–6: 265 8.4: 242 n. 29, 246 n. 54 10: 75 11.1: 75 11.2: 246 n. 54 11.3: 251 n. 86 13.4–14.2: 248 n. 67 14.1: 241 n. 22 14.2: 32 n. 42 14.3: 244 n. 44 14.3–4: 246 n. 54 14.4: 245 n. 46, 246 n. 54 18.1: 243 n. 34 19.246: 265 n. 13 22: 47 n. 12 22.2: 49 n. 18 22.2–4: 265 n. 13 22.4: 48 n. 12, 264 n. 10, 265 23.1: 49 n. 20 23.2: 49 n. 18 23.3–4: 246 n. 54 23.4: 49 n. 22 28.1: 53 n. 41 28.2: 30 n. 33 29: 265 29.2: 265 n. 14 30.5: 62 n. 73, 74 39–40: 294 Demetr.: 70 8.5: 58 n. 57 10–13: 258 n. 121 10.1: 58 n. 57 10.2: 241 n. 21 10–13: 239 n. 8 17.1: 57 n. 52 23–4: 239 n. 8, 258 n. 121 34: 268 34.3: 268 34.3–4: 266 n. 16 34.4: 242 n. 29 41: 60 n. 63 Dion 28.4: 241 n. 19 48.2: 242 n. 29, 248 n. 64 53.2: 242 n. 24 Eum. 3: 64 n. 81 3.2: 68 n. 100 Gracchi 4: 264 n. 8 Luc. 19: 67 n. 93

Index Locorum Lyc. 31: 98 n. 16 Lys./ Sulla comp. / Comp. Lys. Sull. 5.4: 241 n. 19 Mar. 14: 264 n. 8 Nic. 2.3: 246 n. 56, 247 n. 62 3.2: 247 n. 62 6.1–2: 246 n. 56 7.2–3: 243 n. 35 10.7–8: 243 n. 33 11: 247 n. 58 11.2: 244 n. 44, 246 n. 55 12: 243 n. 35 19–21: 39 n. 63 22–3: 247 n. 57 28.2: 177 n. 1 Pelop. 29.5: 264 n. 10, 266 Per. 3.1: 240 n. 17 7.2: 242 n. 29, 245 n. 47 7.3: 245 n. 46 7.6: 239 n. 7, 241 n. 23 9.1: 245 n. 45 9.4: 239 n. 7 10.6–7: 245 n. 49 11.3–4: 241 n. 20, 242 n. 29 14: 245 n. 48 15: 243 15.1–2: 245 n. 48 15.2: 245 n. 45 16.1: 245 n. 45 25: 241 n. 20 25.2: 242 n. 25 33.5: 246 n. 52 33.5–6: 244 n. 38 33.6: 243 n. 33, 243 n. 35, 247 n. 62 34.3: 244 n. 38 35.4: 243 n. 33 Phil.: 294 Phoc.: 10, 11, 243, 246, 248 1: 248 n. 65 1.1: 262, 262 n. 3 2–3: 266 2.4–5: 246 n. 53 3.3: 262 4.1: 254 n. 101, 267 4.2: 264 5.2: 266 5.2–3: 75 5.3: 261, 262, 263, 267, 269 5.4: 266 n. 18 7.3: 248 n. 67, 262 8: 248 n. 63, 255 n. 105

Index Locorum 8.1: 267 8.1–2: 250 n. 78 8–11: 250 n. 79 8.2: 244 n. 44, 266 n. 18, 272 8.3: 250 n. 80, 272 9.4: 272 10.2: 249 n. 74 13.4: 243 n. 33 14: 243 n. 35 15: 48 n. 14 17.2: 49 n. 22 17.5–6: 250 n. 81 19.2–3: 261, 264, 264 n. 11 20: 250 n. 82 27: 250 n. 83 28.1: 53 n. 41, 250 n. 81 28.4: 250 n. 84 29.1: 53, 55 29.4: 243 n. 37, 251 n. 85 30: 250 n. 81 30.3: 261, 264, 264 n. 11 32: 267, 275 n. 38 32.2: 251 n. 88 33.2: 252 n. 89, 252 n. 91 34: 261, 262 34–5: 252 n. 91 34.2: 263 34.2–5: 267–68 34.3: 272 n. 31 34.4–5: 253 n. 96 36.1: 253 n. 95 36.2: 253 n. 96 36.4: 253 n. 97 37.1: 32 n. 40, 243 n. 33, 254 n. 99 37.2–3: 252 n. 91 38.1: 256 n. 108 38.2: 272 Prae. ger. reip.: 257 799a: 265 799c: 243 n. 33 800c: 257 n. 116 801e: 257 n. 116 801e–2e, 803f–4a: 257 n. 115 802b–c: 241 n. 22 802d–e: 257 n. 115 805a–b: 258 n. 117 805d: 241 n. 22 813a–c: 257 n. 115 813d–f: 258 n. 117 813f: 258 n. 118 814a: 257 n. 115, 258 n. 119 814a–c: 175 n. 191 814b–c: 258 n. 120 815a–d: 258 n. 120 816f: 242 n. 25 818a–d: 257 n. 115

345

818c: 244 n. 44, 247 n. 62 824d–5b: 258 n. 120 Quaest. conv. 649a: 266 n. 17 672e: 243 n. 37 702a: 266 n. 17 719a–c: 239 n. 11 Quaest. Graec. 295d: 241 n. 23 Conv. sept. sap. / Septem: 242 152a: 240 n. 13 152d: 240 n. 13, 242 n. 26 154d–e: 240 n. 13 154d–f: 242 n. 26 Sol.: 243 5: 239 n. 11, 240 n. 15 5.3: 243 n. 36 16–18: 239 n. 11 Solon-Publicola Comp. 2: 240 n. 13 Stoic. Rep. 1034e: 99 n. 23 1043b–c: 96 n. 9 1043e: 95 1043e–1044a: 96 1047f: 96 n. 8 Sull. 13: 258 n. 119 26.1: 162 n. 128 Them. 2.6: 247 n. 59 4.2: 247 n. 59 5.5: 247 n. 59 10.1: 247 n. 59 Thes. 24–5: 239 n. 10 24.2: 241 n. 19 25.1: 252 n. 89 Theseus-Romulus Comp. / Comp. Thes. Rom. 2: 239 n. 10 Pseudo-Plutarch: X Or.: 32 n. 38, 58 177d: 46 n. 5 717d: 129 n. 22 440d–452d: 244 n. 42 510c: 185 n. 27 844d–e: 75 n. 8 847a: 62 n. 73, 74 n. 4 847d: 73 n. 1 847d–e: 32 n. 38 849f: 60 n. 68 850f: 83 850f–851c: 62, 73 851b: 49 n. 20, 62 n. 74 851c: 62 n. 75, 62 n. 76 851d–f: 62, 76 n. 13

346

Index Locorum

Pseudo-Plutarch: (cont.) 851F: 34 n. 47 851f–852e: 58 n. 58 1059b: 129 n. 22 1086e–f: 101 n. 34 De unius in re publica dominatione 826f: 242 n. 24 De Musica 1135d: 98 n. 15 Regum et imperatorum apophthegmata 187f: 262, 262 n. 5 Pollux Onom. 4.128.3: 264 n. 9 Polyaenus Strat. 4.7.6: 58 n. 57 5.18: 39 n. 62 5.44.4: 50 n. 29 5.44.5: 50 n. 29 6.49: 64 n. 81 7.23.2: 50 n. 27 Polybius: 10 1.1.5: 227 n. 58 1.3.4: 227 n. 58 2.12.8: 127 2.35: 128 n. 15, 132 2.37–71: 125 2.37.7–11: 151 n. 68 2.38.6: 125, 125 n. 3, 153 n. 76 2.41.5: 125 n. 3 2.41.6: 125 n. 3 2.42.4–5: 128 2.44.4: 125 n. 3 2.56: 151 n. 64 3.1–2: 135 n. 39 4.21: 108 n. 56 5.10: 278 5.10.1–5: 47 n. 12 5.10.4: 47 n. 12 5.22.16: 47 n. 12 5.93: 151 n. 66 5.106.6–8: 131 n. 27 6.4.6–10: 242 n. 30 6.5.7: 222 n. 43 6.6.4–6.7.5: 153 n. 81 6.9.3–9: 133 n. 32 6.10.13–14: 223 n. 48 6.43: 237 n. 3 6.43.1–3: 132 6.43.6–7: 132 6.43.1–44.9: 132, 138 6.43–56: 132 6.44.2: 132 6.44.3–9: 238 n. 4 6.44.9: 127 n. 11, 242 n. 30 6.57.1–9: 134 n. 36

6.57.9: 242 n. 30 8.24.1: 126 9.28.7: 47 n. 10 9.32–9: 80 9.40.1: 129 n. 18 11.13.5–8: 126 n. 7 12.13.9–10: 76 12.26d: 151 n. 64 15.21: 153 n. 77 15.21.3–5: 150 n. 62 18.14: 7, 79, 278 18.14.1–5: 129 n. 18 18.14.3: 49 n. 23 18.14–15: 48 18.14.6: 46 n. 4, 48 n. 15 18.14.7: 47 n. 10 18.37.7: 233 n. 84 20.6.3–6: 150 n. 62 20.7.4: 150 n. 62 21.29.1–32.5: 128 n. 17, 129 n. 18 21.34.3–13: 128 n. 17 27.5.3: 131 30.10: 136 n. 42 30.13.1–11: 135 n. 39 30.20.5–6: 131 n. 28 30.20.6–7: 131 n. 29 30.32.1–12: 135 n. 39 31.23.5–6: 135 n. 39 32.3.14–17: 135 n. 39 33.1.3–8: 135 n. 39 33.2.9–10 (= Gel. NA 6.14.8–10): 130 33.14.1: 135 n. 39 38.2.2–7: 138 38.2.2–7: 132 n. 30 38.3.3: 48 n. 15 38.4.7–8: 128 38.12: 151 n. 63 39.3.1–11: 129 39.5.2–3: 157 n. 99, 157 n. 101 Polystratus On Irrational Contempt 24.23–25.2: 105 n. 50 Porphyry 1.3.4: 105 n. 49 1.11: 107 1.12: 105 n. 48, 106, 107 Posidonius, Edelstein-Kidd testimonia and fragments: T81: 145 n. 30 T85: 172 n. 176 frr. 30–35: 172 n. 176 fr. 41c, section 8: 145 n. 31 fr. 51: 146 n. 33 fr. 58: 146 n. 36 fr. 59: 146 n. 33, 146 n. 36

Index Locorum fr. 60: 146 n. 34, 147 n. 40 fr. 63: 146 n. 36 fr. 70, ll. 42–59: 172 n. 177 fr. 77: 146 n. 36 fr. 90: 97 n. 15 frr. 142–9: 172 n. 176 frr. 157–69: 172 n. 176 fr. 168: 97 n. 15 fr. 176: 146 n. 32 fr. 177: 146 n. 32, 147 n. 41 fr. 185: 145 n. 30 fr. 186: 145 n. 30 fr. 253: 140 n. 6 fr. 253, ll. 12–23: 141 n. 9 fr. 253, ll. 23–58: 141 n. 11 fr. 253, ll. 26–30: 145 n. 29 fr. 253, ll. 58–92: 142 n. 12 fr. 253, ll. 94–103: 169 n. 165 fr. 253, ll. 94–110: 142 n. 13 fr. 253, ll. 96–7: 169 n. 167 fr. 253, ll. 108–10: 170 n. 170 fr. 253, ll. 111–79: 142 n. 14 fr. 253, ll. 117–20: 171 n. 175 fr. 253, ll. 147–57: 175 n. 194 fr. 253, ll. 156–7: 163 n. 129 fr. 253, ll. 157–60: 171 n. 175 fr. 257: 170 n. 172 fr. 262: 146 n. 33 fr. 266: 146 n. 36 fr. 273: 146 n. 36 fr. 284: 146 n. 35 FGrH and BNJ fragments (historian 87): F8: 146 n. 34 F36: 61 n. 71, 140 n. 6 (see also entries for fr.253 Edelstein-Kidd) Quintilian 1.10.1: 98 n. 15 5.11.6: 219 Pseudo-Sallust Rep. 2.5: 222 n. 43 Schol. Ael. Arist. 178.16: 47 n. 12 Seneca Ep. 88.21–8: 97 n. 15 88.23: 98 n. 15 89.9–10: 162 n. 121 Sophocles Ajax: 87 n. 57 Antigone: 87 n. 57 OC: 86 n. 54, 187 n. 31 Stobaeus 2.67.5–12: 98 n. 15 2.83.10–84.2: 96 n. 11 2.84.18–85.11: 96 n. 11

347

2.94.8–20: 96 n. 8 2.95.21–3: 96 n. 11 2.109.10–110.8: 96 n. 8 2.109.13–14: 96 n. 9 Strabo 1.1.18: 153 n. 80 4.1.6: 193 9.1.20: 241 n. 21 10.1.8: 48 n. 15 12.3.14 (C547): 69 n. 106, 69 n. 108 13.1.26: 64 n. 80, 68 n. 101 13.1.27: 68 n. 101 13.1.54: 162 n. 126, 162 n. 128, 174 n. 189 13.1.55: 163 n. 131 13.1.66: 163 n. 130 14.1.38: 155 n. 91 14.2.5: 15 n. 41 14.5.13: 98 n. 15 14.7: 66 n. 90 Suda s.v. Ἀντίπατρος: 49 n. 22 s.v. Βροντή: 264 s.v. Δημήτριος: 58 n. 57 s.v. Δημοσθένης: 62 n. 73, 74 n. 4, 75, 75 n. 8 s.v. Νέων: 49 n. 23 s.v. Φιλίσκος: 254 n. 101 s.v. Φρύνων καὶ Φιλοκράτης: 249 n. 74 Suetonius Cl. 25.3: 68 n. 101 Gram. 2.1: 130 n. 24 Tacitus Ann. 3.63: 69 Teles On Exile fr. III.23 Fuentes González: 39 n. 62 Theopompus Panathenaicus: 15 FGrH 115 T2: 51 n. 33 FGrH 115 F41: 49 n. 23 Thucydides 1.68–71: 213 1.138: 87 2.22.1: 246 n. 52 2.34–6: 119 2.39.1: 131 n. 29, 212 n. 14 2.40.2: 197 n. 51 2.40.5: 191 2.41.1: 191, 233 2.62–3: 87 2.65.6: 87 2.65.9: 245 n. 45 2.89.2: 87 n. 57 3.36–49: 179

348 Thucydides (cont.) 3.37–40: 179 3.38.1: 182 n. 19 3.39.2: 181 n. 19 3.40.1: 181 n. 19 3.40.3: 183 3.40.4: 180 3.41–8: 179 3.42.1: 181 n. 19 3.44.2: 181 n. 19 3.44.2–3: 180 3.82.8: 241 n. 21 6.13.1: 87 n. 57 6.18.2: 86 n. 54 6.87.2: 86 n. 54 7.48.3–4: 247 n. 57 8.64: 241 n. 21 Valerius Maximus 3.8 ext. 2–3: 255 n. 107 Virgil Aen. 6.847–53: 224 6.853: 233 Xenophon Cyr. 1.2.1: 195 n. 50 Hell. 1.1.7.29: 274 1.7.4–35: 273 1.7.5: 274 1.7.7–9: 273 1.7.9–10: 273 1.7.12: 273 1.7.15: 273 1.7.20: 274 1.7.20–3: 274 1.7.35: 273 6.3.1: 47 n. 9 6.5.3–5: 284 7.1.44–6: 143 n. 21 Mem.: 255 1.6.2: 255 n. 104 4.8.2: 254 n. 99 Pseudo-Xenophon Ath. Pol. 2.19: 271 n. 26 Zosimus Vita Demosthenis 299.60: 75 n. 8

Inscriptions Agora XVI 73: 48 XVI 101, ll. 13–18: 56 XVI 176: 31 n. 37

Index Locorum XVI 181, ll. 30–1: 31 n. 37 XIX P52: 73 n. 1 BCH 99 (1975) 51–75: 71 n. 113 CID 4.117.11–22: 16 n. 45 FD III 2 72: 38 n. 60 III 5 58.4–8: 57 n. 56 GHI 4: 56 n. 49 83: 50 n. 29, 65 n. 84 83 §1–3: 51 n. 33 84a: 65 n. 86 84a–b: 51 n. 33 85a–b: 51 n. 33 86b: 64 n. 80, 65 n. 85 90b: 54 n. 43 101: 68 n. 98 I.Aphr. 8.2: 292 n. 46 I.Beroia 68/69: 70 n. 111 I.Erythrai 10: 52 n. 34 21: 52 n. 34 31.21–8: 64 n. 80, 65 64: 65, 70 n. 111 503 (= Syll.3 284): 52 n. 34 IG II2 10.4–5: 56 n. 49 385b see also Naturalization, D49 448.41–57: 54 448.46–8: 49 n. 25 448: 54, 48 n. 13 448.57–65: 55 448, 62: 251 n. 87 448, 62–4.: 252 n. 92 457: 58 n. 58 457.9–21: 58 498: 60 n. 66 513: 58 n. 58 559: 60 n. 67 561: 60 n. 68 568: 60 n. 67 662: 295 n. 50 666: 295 n. 50 667: 295 n. 50 1006, ll. 19–20: 167 n. 153 1473.6–11: 57 n. 51 1492.45–57: 57 n. 53

Index Locorum 1628.40–1: 28 n. 23 1714: 140 n. 4 2797: 23 n. 7 3079: 38 n. 60 3207: 58 n. 58 3458: 39 n. 60 5777a: 295 n. 50 IG II3 1 316: 48 n. 12, 48 n. 13 1 319: 47 n. 12 1 320: 48 1 378: 48 n. 13, 55 n. 48 1 670A: 73 n. 1 1 871.32–4: 31 n. 37 1 877: 48 n. 13, 63 1 877.35–6: 31 n. 37 1.881 (= Agora XVI 181.30–1): 31 n. 37 1 911: 33 n. 46 1 911: 63 1 911, lines 82–3: 241 n. 21 1 912.17: 24 n. 12 1 1005: 35 n. 51 1 1147: 143 n. 18 IG V 1 1145, ll. 18–20: 156 n. 94 2 469.6: 47, 71 IG XII 2 6: 51 n. 33 2 8: 51 n. 33 4 1 152: 282 5 860, ll. 9–10: 158 n. 103 ll. 10–12: 158 n. 104 ll. 31–2: 158 n. 103 ll. 37–9: 158 n. 104 ll. 49–52: 158 n. 104 6 1 17.11–14: 54 n. 44 6 1 25: 54 n. 44 6 1 42: 287 n. 30 6 1 51–2: 55 n. 47 6 1 75: 55 n. 47 6 1 128, ll. 21–4: 167 n. 156 6 1 293: 173 n. 179 7 389: 290 n. 41 7 506: 40 n. 68

I.Milet 1.3.150: 284 n. 23 I.Mylasa 109, ll. 4–10: 163 n. 133 I.Priene 37, ll. 168–9: 65 n. 87 107, ll. 17–21: 165 n. 141 108, ll. 89–97: 165 n. 145 112, ll. 13–14: 164 n. 138 113, ll. 53–6: 156 n. 92 I.Priene2 1: 64 n. 80, 65 n. 85 63, ll. 17–21: 165 n. 141 64, ll. 89–97: 165 n. 145 68, ll. 13–14: 164 n. 138 69, ll. 53–6: 156 n. 92 132, ll. 168–9: 65 n. 87 ILLRP 316: 235 n. 93 ISE 7: 35 n. 54 13: 295 n. 50 53: 38 n. 60 68: 35 n. 54 IvO 178: 38 n. 60 Mauerbauinschriften 69.6–7: 51 69.6–8: 65 MDAI (A) 6 (1881), 229: 51 n. 31 9 (1884), 59–60, no. 6: 51 n. 31 32 (1907) 274–6, no. 10, ll. 19–23: 155 n. 90 32 (1907), 274–6, no. 10, ll. 40–2, 47–9: 156 n. 95 Milet VI 2 no. 734: 164 n. 136 Naturalization D49: 60 n. 65 RC 15: 65 n. 89 30.3–10: 66

IGRR IV 1543: 65, 70 n. 111

RDGE 53.4–5: 68 n. 101 246: 157 n. 98

I.Iasos 98: 166 n. 149

Schenkungen no. 194: 67 n. 96

I.Lampsakos 7: 292 n. 44 I.Lindos 2.105: 67 n. 96

SEG 1.363.6–8: 40 n. 66 4.521: 70 n. 111 26.120: 175 n. 193

349

350 SEG (cont.) 28.30: 63 28.45.1–2: 56 n. 49 28.46.4–6: 56 n. 49 28.60: 76 n. 13 30.1533: 68–9 32.415: 39 n. 62 33.1035, ll. 1–3: 155 n. 88 36.161: 60 n. 68 39.1243, col. III, ll. 38–47: 164 n. 137 39.1426.38–40: 40 n. 67 41.362: 49 n. 23 42.1019: 51 43.381: 290 n. 41 48.660: 282 n. 15 49.815–817: 70 n. 111 51.144: 38 n. 60 51.1832, A, ll. 16–30: 158 n. 105 52.447: 71 n. 113 53.172: 57 n. 53 53.659: 174 n. 190 53.847: 70 n. 111 57.17: 282 n. 15 59.18: 71 n. 113 59.356: 47 n. 10 59.930: 284 n. 23 SV 415: 53 n. 41 Syll.3 284: 52 n. 34 543, 31–4: 218 n. 33 543, 32–4: 230 n. 73 Tit. Cal. XIII: 282

Papyri

Mertens-Pack3 2496 (= P.Hib. 1.15): 84 ll. 35–45: 86

Index Locorum 70ff.: 87 2511 (= P.Berol. 9781): 82 ll. 1–102: 82 118–79: 83 137–8: 83 141–60: 83 141 and 144: 83 148 and 151: 83 153 and 156: 83 165–79: 84 179–95: 82 195–213: 82, 83 213–14: 82 232–49: 82 P.Berol. 9780: 82 n. 36, 88 9781: see entries under Mertens-Pack3 2511 P.Lit. Lond. 130 = Brit. Libr. inv. 133: 79 n. 24 P.Herc. 1012 coll. 10.40–12.41: 49 n. 24 1672 col. XXI 10–17: 101 n. 36 1674 col. XXIII 33–XXIV 9: 101 n. 35 col. XXXIV 32–5: 101 n. 35 col. XXXVII 1–31: 101 n. 36 col. XLIII 26–35: 101 n. 35, 101 n. 36 col. L 11–29: 102 n. 37 col. LVI 9–LVIII 8: 101 n. 35 P.Hib. 1.15: 84, 86, 87 P.Oxy. XI 1800 Fr. 8 Col. II ll. 30–4: 32 n. 39 XV 1800 Fr. 3 Col. III ll. 36-9: 62 n. 73 P.Stras.84: 88

General Index Academy 17, 95, 163, 167, 267 Acarnania 47, 48, 49, 80, 128 Achaean League 41, 125, 125 n. 3, 125 n. 5, 126, 127, 128, 130, 135, 151, 152, 153, 157, 165, 285 Actium, battle of 69 Adeimantus (flatterer of Demetrius Poliorcetes) 77 Aegiale 290 L. Aemilius Paullus 136 A. Aemilius Zosimos 164–5 Aeschines 15, 26, 27 n. 20, 75, 76, 78, 83, 84, 85, 265 n. 13 On the Embassy 249–50 Aetolia 34, 49 Aetolian League 43, 285 Agathocles of Syracuse 202 Agis III of Sparta 28 n. 23, 48, 49, 53 Agis IV of Sparta 237 n. 1, 247 agora 50 n. 27, 74, 166 αἰσχύνη 273 ἀκοσμία 169 ἀκροδίκαιον/ἀκριβοδίκαιος 161 Alba Longa 212, 213, 214 Alcibiades 237 n. 1, 243, 247 Alcimachus 47, 51, 63, 64 Alexander III of Macedon 284 Alexander III of Macedon 5, 7, 27, 29, 33, 42, 43, 45–72, 74, 109, 113, 250, 278, 285 Exiles decree 28, 54, 67 memory of 52, 55, 57–8, 58–9, 60, 62–3, 63–6, 69–72 Alexander IV of Macedon 52, 58, 60 Alexandria 9, 43, 80, 174, 294 Alexis of Thurii 40–1 Ambracia 48, 49 Amisus 66–9, 72, 162 Amphictyony, Delphic 15–16, 47 Amynander of Athamania 128 Anacharsis 240, 240 n. 15, 243, 243 n. 36 ἀναρχία (‘anarchy’, ‘absence of magistrates’) 144, 169, 170 Andronicus of Rhodes 174 Androtion 77 Antigonus Doson 127 Antigonus Gonatas 23, 24, 24 n. 8, 24 n. 12, 34, 35, 37, 71 Antigonus the One-Eyed 113, 239 Antileon of Herakleia 1

Antiochene War 128 Antiochus I 34 Antiochus II 65, 70 Antiochus III 129 Antipater 30, 33, 42 n. 74, 47, 52, 53, 53 n. 41, 54, 55, 57, 59 n. 59, 62, 74, 249 n. 72, 250, 251, 288 Antiphon 93, 94, 94 n. 6, 104 antiquarianism 6, 42, 90 n. 68, 296 Apellikon of Teos 162, 163, 168 n. 158, 175–6, 176 n. 195 Apollodorus 79 Aratus of Sikyon 264 Arcadia 33 n. 44, 38 n. 60, 49, 152, 278 Archippe of Kyme 155 archontes 274 Areopagos 241, 288 ἀρετή 267 n. 20 Areus I 23, 24 Arginusae generals, condemnation of 273–4 Argos 24, 47, 47 n. 10, 49, 49 n. 20, 202 Aristeides of Lamptrae 23 n. 8, 24 n. 10, 38 n. 60 Aristides 245, 245 n. 46, 247, 247 n. 59, 262 Aristion 143 aristocracy 116, 151, 213, 220, 242, 249 Aristonikos 155 Aristophanes of Byzantium 119 Aristophon 77 Aristotle 1, 3, 9, 17, 42 n. 74, 101 n. 32, 110 n. 3, 151–2, 159, 161, 162, 165–6, 168, 169–76, 286, 287, 289 Politics 143 n. 16, 150–1, 161, 281 Aristratus 49 Arsinoe Philadelphus 24 n. 12, 40 Artemidorus of Perge 40 Asia Minor 7, 14, 28 n. 23, 45, 46, 50, 52, 63–72, 141, 142, 155, 156, 157, 162, 163, 233 n. 87, 292, 293, 297 assembly 28, 30, 32, 32 n. 38, 43, 83, 84, 86, 130, 141, 155, 157 n. 96, 166, 170, 177, 178, 180, 181, 182 n. 19, 183, 196, 199, 240, 246, 247, 250, 252, 252 n. 90, 255, 257, 267, 267 n. 20, 268, 269, 270, 270 n. 24, 272, 273, 282, 283, 295 ἀσυναλλαξία 157, 161 ateleia 82 Athenaeus 23, 26, 77, 100, 140 n. 7, 141, 141 n. 7, 143, 146, 171, 204

352

General Index

Athenian Confederacy, Second 41, 48 Athenion 141, 141 n. 7, 142, 142 n. 13, 143, 144, 145, 145 n. 28, 146, 147, 150, 154, 163, 168, 168 n. 158, 169, 170, 171, 172, 175 Athenocentrism 2, 5, 14, 71, 91, 227, 278, 279, 294, 296 Athens anti-democratic tradition 2, 3, 11, 16–18, 269, 271 n. 26 citizenship 98, 117, 213, 216–17, 218, 219 civic ideals/values 2, 4, 8, 118, 139, 142, 144, 147, 148, 150, 151, 162, 168, 172, 213, 217, 225, 226, 234, 281 Classical past 5, 7, 8, 13, 16, 22, 27, 31, 37, 42, 43, 46, 52, 58, 59, 86, 138, 139, 173, 178, 182, 189–92, 201, 203, 209, 234, 257–8, 262 decision-making 22, 181, 183, 199, 202, 203, 204, 270 n. 24 democracy 45, 71, 256 democratic values, deterioration of 261, 262, 263, 267, 269 demos as a mob 126–7, 237–8, 242–3, 248, 254, 270–1 (opposed to the βέλτιστοι 270–2, 273, 275) empire 22, 29 n. 29, 123, 232, 238 ideology 59, 85, 87, 88, 91, 113, 115, 186–9, 192, 197, 213 institutions 3, 11, 12, 13, 88, 90, 91, 110, 144, 145, 147, 183, 211, 263, 289 κοινὸν παιδευτήριον 191–4, 205, 206 as paradigm 4, 12, 90, 190, 192, 193, 197, 200, 205–7, 210 n. 8, 211, 212, 214, 217, 218, 220–2, 222 n. 43, 224–6, 231, 235 philosophical ideals 10, 139, 141, 159–68 politics 5, 8, 9, 11, 22, 88, 150, 183, 210, 231 n. 75, 246, 261, 264, 270 n. 24, 274, 290 atimoi 86, 270 Attalus 50 Attic orators 8, 22, 81, 85, 88, 89, 90, 91, 118, 131 n. 29, 159, 167, 213, 226, 230, 272, 274 as focus of Hellenistic study and imitation 88–9 spurious documents in 88 L. Aufidius Bassus 158 Augustus 69, 174, 232 n. 82, 234 autochthony 213, 217, 218 Autolycus of Sinope 68 αὐτονομία 67, 280 ἀξίωμα 262 n. 3 barbarians/barbarism 25, 28, 34, 35, 37, 39, 84, 104, 137, 194, 200, 200 n. 60, 215–16, 229–30

bema 269 Bithynia 68 Boethus of Sidon 174 Boeotia 34, 46, 47, 71, 131, 281, 294 Brutus 173, 219, 220–5, 228, 229, 230, 293 Burichus (flatterer of Demetrius Poliorcetes) 77 Caesar 68, 69, 206, 207, 248, 248 n. 68, 255, 293 Calauria 62, 74 Callicrates 31 n. 36, 39 n. 62 Callimachus 80 Callippus of Eleusis 34, 34 n. 49, 35, 38 n. 60 Calymnus 281 Cappadocia 68 Caria 52, 52 n. 37, 64, 234 Carneades 17, 129 Carthage 205, 205 n. 72, 206 Cassander 31, 53, 54, 56, 62, 77, 202, 285, 295 Cassius 293 causation, notion of 204–5 Cato the Elder 135, 136 Cato the Younger 248, 255, 272 n. 31 Chabrias 249 Chaeron of Pellene 49 Chaeronea, battle of 26, 26 n. 20, 27, 29, 30, 33, 34, 41, 42, 46, 47, 48, 48 n. 12, 74, 80, 90, 113, 116 Chalcis 48, 48 n. 15, 287 Chares 28 n. 23 Charidemus 28 n. 23 χάρις 84, 160, 183, 184 Charops (Epirote statesman) 135 Chios 51, 51 n. 33, 65, 68 n. 98 choregos 264, 264 n. 11 Chorsiai 281 Chremonidean War 6, 7, 22, 23, 23 n. 8, 25 n. 16, 26, 27, 31 n. 37, 34 n. 49, 38, 39, 41, 71, 71 n. 113, 86, 295 n. 50 Chremonides (Athenian politician) 23, 24, 25 n. 15, 39 n. 62 decree of 23, 24 n. 12, 24 n. 13, 25, 28, 29, 36–41, 42 χρηστότης 160 Chrysippus 95, 96, 97, 100 Cicero 13, 17, 76, 79, 130, 157, 158, 166, 173, 174, 248 De Officiis 146, 148–9 De re publica 17, 149 Pro Flacco 156, 189–90, 193 Cimon 186, 239, 241, 242 n. 29, 245 civic decrees 52, 189 Classicism 4, 10, 145, 167, 172–4, 178, 192, 232 n. 82, 279, 290, 294, 296 Cleanthes 96, 100

General Index Cleisthenes 239, 240, 240 n. 16 Cleitus (Macedonian) 274 clementia 230 n. 72, 231 Cleomenes III 100 n. 27, 135, 247 Colophon 51, 64, 65, 70, 72, 291 comedy 42, 111, 114 n. 12, 115, 117, 119, 263, 271 n. 28 common concord (ὁμόνοια κοινή) 36, 38, 40, 41 commune (Medieval Italian) 285 concilium plebis 246 Concord, cult of 39, 40, 40 n. 67 constantia 255 Corinth 24, 48, 48 n. 15, 116, 117, 127 Cornelius Nepos, On the Lives of Eminent Foreign Generals 248–9, 249 n. 73, 255, 262, 263 P. Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus 130, 135, 136 P. Cornelius Scipio Africanus 205–7 Cos 23 n. 8, 35 n. 54, 40, 51, 51 n. 33, 70, 70 n. 111, 147 n. 42, 281, 282 cosmopolis 2, 153 cosmopolitanism 4, 173 Cyzicus 50, 50 n. 29 Cratippus of Pergamon 173 Critolaus (Achaean statesman) 135 Critolaus of Phaselis 17, 75, 129, 162 Damocritus (Aetolian statesman) 129 Damon of Rhodes 129 Damon of Chaeronea 292, 293 Damoteles (Lokrian) 128 debt contracts 145, 157, 158, 163, 164, 166 Decree of the Demagogues 36–7 Dekaetia (317–307 BC) 32 Delos 131 Delphi 35, 35 n. 54, 47, 57 n. 56, 128, 255, 285 Demades 30, 33, 75, 76, 248, 248 n. 66, 264 demagogues/demagoguery 23, 25, 25 n. 17, 26, 134, 135, 137, 138, 144, 150, 157, 202–3, 242, 250, 251, 274, 275 Demetrius II of Macedon 127, 130 Demetrius of Phalerum 6, 15, 31, 32, 42 n. 74, 75, 76, 88, 113, 114, 115, 116, 241 n. 21, 249 n. 73, 251, 253 n. 94, 255, 288, 290 Demetrius Poliorcetes 31, 32, 33 n. 46, 74, 77, 113, 237 n. 1, 239, 248, 256 n. 108, 258, 266 n. 16, 268, 294 democracy in Asia Minor, as opposed to Greece 45, 63–4, 70–1 character of Hellenistic democracy 11–14, 90–1, 153, 154–5, 240–1, 281–4 δημοκρατία 12, 67, 153, 240–1, 284 ἄκρατος/ἀκόλαστος/κόσμον οὐκ ἔχουσα 241–2

353

Democritus 100, 101, 101 n. 31 demos 9, 10, 14, 16, 17, 23, 28, 33, 51 n. 31, 55, 56, 57, 59, 61, 62, 65, 84, 155, 156, 158, 163, 166, 175, 202, 237, 238, 239, 242, 243, 243 n. 32, 244, 245, 246, 247, 247 n. 59, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 257, 258, 259, 263, 270, 271 n. 26, 271 n. 27, 272, 272 n. 31, 273, 274, 275, 284 Demosthenes 26, 27 n. 20, 27 n. 22, 32–4, 43, 47, 48, 61–2, 73–91, 111 n. 6, 173, 188, 199, 200, 201, 237 n. 1, 243, 244, 245, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250–1, 265, 265 n. 13, 266 n. 18, 270 n. 24, 272, 273, 274, 278 against Androtion 77 against Leptines 9, 13, 77, 82, 84, 86 corpus 79–80, 188 debate on 74–6 influence of 8 on Demochares 76–8 on Polybius 80–1 on the Crown 26, 74, 75, 78, 79, 83, 87 Ps.-Leptines 82–4, 90 Ps.-Leosthenes 84–7, 90 stichometric evidence/stichometric documents 80 δημοτικοί 242 diadochs 29, 31, 43 Diaeus (Achaean statesman) 135 Dicaearchus (Aetolian statesman) 129 Diocles of Syracuse 177, 178, 179 n. 11 Diodoros of Adrammytion 163 Diodorus Siculus 2, 10, 14, 28–9, 30, 52, 139, 173, 177–207, 217, 249, 249 n. 72, 249 n. 73, 250, 251 n. 85, 262, 263 Athenian debate 177–207, 231 idea of Democracy 201–2 Didymus 75 n. 9, 82 n. 36, 88, 159 Dinarchus 75, 83, 84 Diogenes of Babylon 97 n. 15, 149 Diogenes of Sinope 97 n. 15 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 10, 13, 14, 17, 75, 128 n. 16, 139, 157, 167, 173, 174, 189, 192, 194 n. 49, 200, 206, 207 n. 76, 209–35 Dionysius I of Herakleia 67–8, 67 n. 95 Dionysius I of Syracuse 202 Douris 6 doxography 167 Dracon, constitution of 42 n. 74 Dyme 157, 157 n. 99, 157 n. 101, 161 education (παιδεία) 4, 6, 9, 15, 42, 61, 89, 94, 97–100, 149, 162, 166, 167, 169, 173, 178, 192–6, 201, 206, 216, 233 ekklesia 202, 256, 275

354

General Index

Eleusis 23 n. 8, 24 n. 10, 31 n. 37, 191 Eleusinian Mysteries 185, 191 ἐλευθερία 126, 157, 284 Elis 47 n. 10, 48, 48 n. 14, 49, 49 n. 20, 49 n. 21, 71 elite and elites 5, 9, 10, 12, 14, 90, 103, 113, 129, 146, 147, 155, 156, 173, 202, 206, 240, 243 n. 32, 252, 256, 257, 258, 259, 283, 289, 290, 291, 292, 294, 297 Empedocles 105 n. 49, 106, 106 n. 51 ἔννομοι χρόνοι 283 Epaminondas 132, 133, 134, 293 Ephesus 39 n. 62, 50, 51, 51 n. 32, 64, 64 n. 80, 68 n. 98, 69, 69 n. 109 Ephialtes 28 n. 23, 239, 241, 241 n. 22, 241 n. 23, 245 ephodos 282 Epicharmus 185 n. 27 Epictetus 174 Epicurus/Epicureans 2, 16, 41, 93–5, 100–2, 104–8, 167, 190, 222 n. 43 ἐπιείκεια 161, 161 n. 116, 180, 203, 205, 230 n. 72 ἐπιθυμίαι 244 Eresos 50, 50 n. 29, 51, 51 n. 33, 65 Eretria 48, 289 Erymneus (Peripatetic) 141 Erythrae 52, 64 n. 80, 65, 68 n. 98, 69–70, 70 n. 111, 72, 116, 289 ἔθνος 152 ἦθος 86, 262 n. 3 Eubulus 77 εὐεργεσία 160, 283 euergetism (civic) 12, 13, 283 n. 18 εὐγένεια 213 εὐγνωμοσύνη 180, 195 εὐκοινωνησία 160 εὐνοία 194 Euphron of Sicyon 49 n. 25, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 143, 251 n. 87 Eurycleidas 130 Euryptolemus 274 εὐσεβεία 160 εὐσυναλλαξία 160, 161 n. 118 εὐχαριστία 160 Q. Fabius Maximus Servilianus 157 federalism 14, 15, 152 fides 148–50 First Illyrian War 127, 128 First Mithridatic War 139, 140, 163 C. Flaminius 134 formal agreements 94, 94 n. 6, 147, 172 friendship 38, 98, 160 Q. Fufius Calenus 293

M. Fulvius Nobilior 128 Funeral Speech(es) 187, 191, 201 L. Furius Philus 130 Galen 2 Garden 95, 101, 108 Gaugamela, battle of 67, 68 Gelon 184, 204 Gnaeus Manlius Vulso 128 n. 17 gnomai, Delphic 181 n. 19, 184 γνώμη τοῦ δήμου 283 Granicus, battle of 51 n. 31, 57, 68 graphe nomon me epitedeion theinai 82 graphe paranomon 83 great convergence 5–6, 8, 11, 45, 63, 91, 109, 118, 222 n. 43, 279–96 Great Panathenaea (318/7; 334/3) 57, 57 n. 51 Greekness 200, 207, 211, 227, 228–9, 230, 231, 232, 233 n. 83, 234, 234 n. 87, 296 Grynium 50, 50 n. 29 Gylippus see Diodorus Siculus, Athenian debate gymnasium 15, 88, 155, 166 Hagnonides of Pergase 54, 54 n. 46, 268 αἵρεσις 163 Haliartus 131 Halicarnassus 51, 210 n. 8, 211, 234 Hamilcar 202 Harmodios and Aristogeiton 2, 289 harmony 162, 164, 166, 173, 240 n. 17, 258 Harpalus scandal 27, 33 Harpocration 88 Hecataeus of Cardia 64, 64 n. 80 Hecato of Rhodes 149, 152 ἡγεμονία 87 Hegesander of Delphi 23, 23 n. 7, 25, 26 Hegesias of Ephesus 64, 64 n. 81 Hegesias of Magnesia 15, 88 Hegesippus 79 Heliastic Oath 270 n. 23 Hellenic League 30, 39 Hellenic War 28 n. 23, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33 n. 43, 34, 36, 41, 42, 42 n. 74, 53, 54, 55, 55 n. 47, 62, 71 Hellenism 35, 128, 137, 220, 221, 223, 225 Hellenistic world Athens 6, 7, 8, 14, 15, 17, 52, 61, 70–1, 142, 154, 288, 294, 295 culture 6, 43, 290 debates 3, 4, 5, 9, 10, 11, 17, 76, 89, 139, 143, 147, 150, 164, 166, 168, 172, 279, 290, 294 kingdoms 80, 113, 285, 294 polis 3, 6, 8, 12–14, 16, 80–1, 84, 89, 90, 91, 119, 166, 277, 279, 284, 289–94

General Index political thought 5, 8, 13, 16, 17, 94, 154 ἡμερότης 199 Herakleia Pontica 67–8, 67 n. 95, 68 Herakleia (S. Italy) 1 Hermarchus, Against Empedocles 105 Hermippus 75, 75 n. 9, 78 Hermocrates of Syracuse 177 Hermoupolis 82, 84, 89 Herms, mutilation of 243 Herodotus 131, 219, 224, 225, 230, 240 Heropythes of Ephesus 50, 50 n. 27, 51 Hibeh 84, 89 hieromnemon 47, 47 n. 7 Hieronymus of Cardia 25, 29 high politics (inter-polis) 279–81, 284, 287 Hipparinos of Herakleia 1 historiography 3, 6, 10, 16, 42, 143, 210 n. 9, 295 Homer 96 ὁμόνοια 39 n. 63, 82, 82 n. 40, 144, 145, 169, 223 n. 49 ὁμοπάθεια 180, 204, 204 n. 69 Honorary decrees 145 n. 29, 155, 163, 166, 173, 189, 291 for Aenetus of Rhodes 56, 57, 60 for Aristonicus of Carystus 60 for Athenopolis of Priene 165 for Callias of Sphettos 33 n. 46, 63, 71, 76 n. 13, 241 n. 21, 251 n. 87 for Demochares 32 n. 38, 34, 63, 71 for Demosthenes 32–4, 62, 71, 73–4, 76, 83 for Epikrates of Herakleia 167 for Euphron of Sikyon (second honorary decree) 54–6, 57, 59 for Euthius 31 n. 37 for Glaucon 38–9 for Iatrokles of Mylasa 163 for Lycurgus 32, 58–9, 61, 62, 71, 73, 74 n. 3 for Medius of Larissa 60 for Metrodoros of Pergamon 155–6, 157, 158–9 for Moschion of Priene 165–6 for Olympiodorus 63, 71 for Philippides 31 n. 37, 63, 71 for Phocion 32 for Zeno of Kition 150 n. 59 for Zosimos of Priene 164–5 Horatii and Curiatii, duel between 214 hospitality 156, 186 humanitas 193, 193 n. 48 humanity 10, 16, 25, 86, 160, 173, 177, 185, 186, 187 n. 33, 189, 190, 192, 194, 195, 196, 197, 198, 200, 204 Hyperbolus 247 Hyperides 27 n. 22, 30 n. 32, 32 n. 39, 33 n. 43, 33 n. 44, 47, 187 ὑπὸ σκηνήν 262, 263, 264, 264 n. 8, 264 n. 9

355

Iasos 64 Iatrokles of Mylasa 163, 164 Ilion 289 Illyria 127 imperialism Athenian 201, 217, 230, 231, 290 Greek 285 Hellenistic 285 Roman 219, 280, 285 Spartan 278 injustice 105, 163, 181 n. 17 Inventories of Athena Polias 56–7 Ionian Revolt 70 Iphicrates 249 Ipsus, battle of 31, 285 ἰσηγορία 125, 271 n. 27 Isis 15 Isocrates 9, 16, 17, 38, 136, 173, 187–8, 201, 213, 226, 227, 230, 234 Panegyricus 187, 189 ἰσονομία 220 ἰσότης 156, 201 ἰσοτιμία 282 Istrus 290 Jerome 75 n. 10 Justice, theories of Antiphon, On Truth 94, 104 Epicureans 93–4, 104–5, 106–8 Hermachus, Against Empedocles 105–6, 107, 108 Peripatetics 160–1 Kerameikos 141 koine 3, 12, 13, 286, 289, 290, 291, 294, 297 κοινωνία 186 κοινὸς βίος 186, 204 κόσμοι 169 Lachares 62 Laches 34 n. 47, 76 n. 13 C. Laelius 130, 130 n. 25, 223 n. 48 Lamia 77 Lamian War 6, 7, 25 n. 15, 25 n. 16, 29, 30 n. 32, 47, 74, 85, 250 Lampsacus 50, 50 n. 29 Larissa 141, 141 n. 7, 141 n. 9 League of Corinth 47, 47 n. 10, 49, 50, 51, 51 n. 33, 53, 54, 285 Leena 77 Lemnos 131 Leon 129 Leosthenes 84 n. 48, 85, 85 n. 49 Leptines, law of 82, 83, 84, 91 Lesbos 51, 51 n. 33, 68 n. 98 Linos (Theban hero) 47

356

General Index

Locris 34 Lucretius 189, 190, 219 C. Lucretius Gallus 131, 219 Lucullus 45 n. 1, 66–7, 68, 69, 293 Lyceum 113, 159, 167 Lyciscus (Acarnanian statesman) 80 Lyciscus (Aetolian statesman) 135 Lycurgus 4, 42, 49, 58–9, 61, 100 Lydian empire 71 Lysimachus 24 n. 12, 31, 65, 285 Macedon/Macedonians 6, 7, 25, 27–31, 33, 45, 46, 47, 49, 52, 54, 55, 56, 68, 71, 72, 74, 76, 78, 113, 114, 127, 130, 188, 249, 250, 256, 258, 274, 285, 293 anti-Macedonians 33, 47, 62–3, 71 pro-Macedonians 46, 48, 49, 50, 51, 76, 238 Magnesia 50, 50 n. 29, 51, 100 Mallus 66 Mantineia 284 Marathon 87 Mark Antony 69, 248, 293 Marcus Aurelius 174 Mardonius 70 Mariandynoi 146, 147, 153 Marseilles 193, 194, 205 Medeios 140 Megalopolis 24, 47, 71, 130, 151, 188 n. 34 Megara 24 n. 10, 34, 48, 293 Melian Dialogue 226, 231 n. 75 Melos 199, 200, 201 Memnon of Herakleia 51, 67 Menander 110–19 Aspis 118 Dyscolus 115–16 Periciromene 116–17 Samian Woman 118 Menestas (Aetolian statesman) 129 mercenaries 27, 28, 28 n. 23, 34, 114, 116, 118 Messene 24, 47, 48, 49, 49 n. 23, 141, 141 n.7, 188 n. 34 Metapontum 1 μετριοπάθεια 170 Metrodorus of Lampsacus 100, 101 n. 34, 102 n. 37 Metrodorus (polymath sent by the Athenians to Aemilius Paullus) 136 Mettius Fufetius 192, 212–18, 226, 228 Micion 130 Miletus 64, 147 n. 42, 164, 278 n. 3 mimesis 223, 229, 232, 266 Mithridates VI of Pontus 140–2, 163 mixed constitution 2, 4, 10, 15, 17, 151, 222 n. 43

Moagetes of Cibyra 128 n. 17 Molpagoras of Cius 135 Monarchy 46, 151, 219, 220, 239, 241, 241 n. 19 Munychia 30, 31, 55, 56, 267, 295 Mylasa 163, 164, 166, 175 Mysia 157, 234 Mytilene 51, 51 n. 33, 70, 181, 182, 198, 199, 200, 202, 203 Mytilenian debate 179, 180 n. 13, 181, 182, 183, 191, 196, 202, 203 Nabis 135 naopoioi 47, 47 n. 6 Neon 49 New Comedy 6, 8, 40, 41, 110, 111 n. 6, 112, 114, 119 Nicanor 267, 275 n. 38 Nicouria decree 40 Nicias 194–5, 237 n. 1, 243, 244, 246–7 Nicolaus see Diodorus Siculus, Athenian debate nomoi/psephismata 12 nomothesia 12, 12 n. 35 ochlocracy (ὀχλοκρατία) 127, 132, 133, 134, 135, 137, 138, 221 ὄχλος 127, 242 oikoumene 193, 207 n. 76, 211, 216, 222, 223, 227, 227 n. 58, 232 officium 149 oligarchy/oligarchies/oligarchs 7, 29, 30, 33, 46, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 55, 56, 59, 62–3, 70, 106, 109, 110 n. 3, 111, 115, 116, 117, 126, 157, 201, 220, 241, 242 n. 25, 250, 251, 252, 253, 256, 269, 271, 281, 284–6, 288, 289, 290 Olympiodorus 34 n. 47, 63, 295–6 Olynthus 86 ὠμότης 199–200, 206, 229 n. 67 Opheltas (Boeotian statesman) 135 Orchomenus 38 n. 60, 47, 200 n. 59, 293 Oreos 48 ὀργή 242 Oropus 47, 129 Orpheus 96 ostracism 247 Oxythemis (flatterer of Demetrius Poliorcetes) 77 Pagai 291 παιδεία 9, 10, 11, 97, 169, 173, 191–4, 233 Pammenes 293 Panaetius 3, 3 n. 11, 15, 148, 149 Panhellenism 38, 43 Paphlagonia 68, 68 n. 100

General Index parcere subiectis, principle of 233 Parmenion 50 παρρησία 125, 158, 181, 197, 271 n. 27, 272, 274 Parthenius of Nicaea 1 Patroclus (Ptolemaic admiral) 23, 24, 31 n. 36, 39 n. 62 Pausanias 34, 35, 293–6 Peisis (Boeotian statesman) 294 Pelagon of Ephesus 51 Pella 127 Pellene 49 Pelopidas 132, 133, 134, 293 Peloponnesian War 7, 27 n. 22, 64, 81 n. 33, 118, 123, 243, 254 Panaetius of Rhodes, On Duty 148 Pergamon 9, 35, 155, 156, 157 n. 96, 159 Pericles 87, 117, 118, 119, 144, 191, 192, 212, 213, 213 n. 18, 217, 217 n. 26, 233, 239, 243, 244, 244 n. 38, 245, 246, 247, 248, 258, 262 perioecic communities 280–1 Peripatetics 8, 17, 76, 78, 81, 143, 159–62, 166, 167–75 Persaeus of Kition 100 Perseus of Macedonia 131, 135, 136 Persian empire 27, 30, 47, 68 Persian Wars 7, 24 n. 13, 26, 28 n. 25, 29, 37, 42, 43, 47, 81 n. 33, 123, 128, 137, 138, 191 n. 41, 293 Phainias (Aetolian statesman) 128 Phainias of Eresos 1 Pharnakes 69 φιλανθρωπία 10, 85, 86, 86 n. 54, 173, 177, 178, 184–5, 187 n. 33, 194, 198–9, 230, 230 n. 72 and benefactions 185–90 and pity 195, 198 political and military 199 and supplication/suppliant status 195, 198, 200 Philemon 41 philhellenism 67, 175, 193 Philo of Alexandria 161, 253 n. 94 Philip II of Macedon 7, 31, 32 n. 42, 39, 46–51, 53, 54, 55, 57, 61, 62, 71, 78, 79, 84, 86, 89, 91, 113, 200, 218 n. 33, 243, 265 n. 13 Philip Arrhidaeus 30 n. 30, 52, 53, 57, 60 edict of 57, 58 Philochorus 6, 41 Philocles of Sidon 40 Philocrates, peace of 26 Philodemus, On Rhetoric 3 n. 11, 101, 102 n. 37 philology 42

357

philosophical embassy of 155 BCE 129–30, 136, 136 n. 43 φιλοτιμία 82, 82 n. 40 Phocion 10, 30, 32, 75, 76, 202, 237 n. 1, 238, 248–52, 258–9, 261–75 trial and death 252–5, 267–74 Phocis 34, 35 phoros 64, 64 n. 80 Phrygia 64 n. 79, 68 n. 100, 157, 234 πίστις 86 Pitane 50, 50 n. 29 Pittacus of Mytilene 203 Plataea 39, 47, 50, 71 Plato 2, 3, 3 n. 11, 9, 17, 38, 94–5, 96, 97, 101, 103, 105, 151, 159, 244, 254, 265 n. 15, 267, 270, 271, 271 n. 25, 271 n. 28, 272, 274 Laws 100 Meno 103, 104 Phaedo 252, 255 n. 106 Protagoras 98–9, 103, 104 Republic 8, 93–4, 95, 99, 100, 102, 103, 163–4, 241 Theaetetus 102 πλεονεξία 84 πλῆθος 273 Plutarch 5, 10–11, 17, 23, 32 n. 38, 75, 95–7, 100 n. 27, 129, 130 n. 24, 136, 185 n. 27, 186, 237–58, 261–75, 292–4, 295 on Athenian democracy 239, 241, 275 Pnyx 144, 144 n. 26, 263 πολιτεία 157 n. 99, 193, 202 political philosophy 8, 93, 94, 108, 159–62 Polybius 2, 7, 8, 10, 14, 17, 23, 46, 48, 71, 79, 80–1, 84, 89, 123–38, 139–53, 157, 157 n. 99, 157 n. 101, 158, 164, 165, 172, 222 n. 43, 227 n. 58, 237–8, 242, 278 on Athens’ international relations 130–2, 134–5, 138 on ‘Classical Athenian imperial democracy’ 10, 123–4, 127, 132–8 ‘cultural assimilation’ 127–8, 137 on δημοκρατία 125–6, 135, 138 on federalism 151–3 Polyeuctus (sculptor) 32, 34 Polyperchon 52, 53, 55, 56, 57, 58, 60, 61, 202, 251, 258, 285 Edict of 53–4 Porphyry 105, 105 n. 49, 107 Posidonius 15, 97 n. 15, 139, 140–7, 148, 149, 150, 151, 153, 154, 158, 163, 168–72, 175 portrayal of Athenion 140–5, 146, 147, 150, 154, 158, 163, 168–9, 171–72, 175 posthumous honours 32, 32 n. 39, 34, 59

358

General Index

Priene 51, 64, 64 n. 80, 65, 70, 156, 164, 166, 175, 291 proedria 74 prographe 12, 282, 288 προσάγειν 269 prosodos 12, 288 proxenos 38 n. 60, 47, 47 n. 12, 194 property rights 145, 147, 148, 150, 152, 154, 164, 166, 172, 174 Prytaneion 73, 185, 186, 191 n. 41, 273, 295 Prytanis of Karystos 143 n. 18, 151 psephismata 199 Ptolemaea (festival) 40 Ptolemaic propaganda 40 Ptolemy Ceraunus 31 Ptolemy Philadelphus 24, 24 n. 9, 31, 39, 40 Ptolemy Soter 31, 33 n. 46, 40 public epigraphy 13, 289 Publicola 240 Pyrrhus 31, 126 reciprocity 9, 84, 148, 183, 195, 196, 280 Rhamnous 23 n. 8, 24 n. 8, 24 n. 10, 31 n. 37 Rhodes 9, 15, 70, 88, 89, 128, 166, 290, 293 Rhoxane 57, 58 Rome 9, 68, 124, 125, 129, 135, 136, 146 n. 34, 148, 162, 172, 174, 194 n. 49, 206, 207 n. 76, 210, 211, 212, 214–20, 223, 225, 227 n. 58, 232, 233, 234, 235, 243 n. 32, 245, 256, 257, 258, 270 n. 24, 284 n. 23, 285, 292, 294, 296, 297 constitution 212, 219–27, 237 constitutional debate 219–26, 230 empire 4, 5, 11, 167, 173, 174, 227, 240, 257, 258, 294, 296 as paradigm 10, 210 n. 8, 222 n. 43, 224, 230–1, 233 Senate 129, 130, 130 n. 24, 131, 135 n. 39, 140, 145, 205, 219 n. 35, 243 n. 32, 280, 292 Romulus 218 n. 33, 221, 222, 223, 223 n. 45, 223 n. 49 rule of law 17, 148, 220, 273, 274 Salamis 28 n. 25, 31, 37, 57 n. 52, 87 Samos 28, 30, 30 n. 30, 48, 54, 55, 55 n. 47, 65, 68 n. 98, 287 Satyrus (actor) 265 Scione 199, 200, 201 Second Punic War 205 n. 72 Second Sophistic 21, 81, 90 n. 68 selective mimesis 222–3, 225 n. 52, 229, 232, 234 C. Sempronius Gracchus 202 Seneca the Younger 162, 174 Sicilian Expedition 10, 177, 178, 186, 188

Sicyon 48, 48 n. 13, 49 Sinope 66–7, 68 Seleucus Nicator 31 Sicily 246, 286 skene 269 Skepsis 162 σκέπτεσθαι 266 Social War 77 Socrates 9, 93, 98 n. 19, 99–103, 136, 163, 164, 238, 252–6, 272, 273 Soli 64, 66, 72 solidarity 10, 111, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 153, 154, 155, 156, 160, 167, 168, 170, 173, 175 Solon 42 n. 74, 190 n. 40, 237 n. 1, 239–40, 242, 262 Sophists 8, 17, 93, 94–7, 99 n. 21, 99 n. 25, 100–3, 104, 107, 108, 141 relativism 94, 95, 102, 103, 105, 106, 108 ethical variability 102, 106, 108 Sophistry (σοφιστεία) 94, 95, 141 Epicureans on 100–2 Stoics on 95–7 Sosos of Dyme 157, 158, 161 Soteria (festival) 34 Sparta 7, 23, 24, 27 n. 22, 36, 37, 43, 46, 47, 48, 55, 64, 79, 80, 86, 94, 100, 109, 131, 188, 188 n. 34, 197, 202, 213, 221, 224, 225, 226, 227, 229, 230, 231, 233, 250, 281, 284, 287, 293 education at 100, 100 n. 27 monarchy at 224 as paradigm 214, 218, 224 Sphaerus the Borysthenite 100 Staseas of Naples 173 stasis 51, 158 n. 105, 161, 284, 286 Stoa/Stoics 2, 3, 15, 16, 93–100, 100, 108, 141, 145–50, 153, 159, 161, 164, 167, 172, 174, 222 n. 43 Stobaeus 96 n. 8, 159, 160 Strabo 153, 162, 163, 174 strategos 28 n. 23, 38, 85, 142, 144, 202, 250 strategos autokrator 202 Stratocles of Diomeia 32, 32 n. 41, 33 n. 44, 58, 58 n. 58, 60 n. 68, 73 Straton of Amisus 69 συγγένεια 220, 228 συγγνώμη 180, 181 n. 19, 203 Sulla 9, 17, 61 n. 71, 143, 162, 258 n. 119, 292, 293 συμβίωσις 186 σύμφορον/συμφέρον 142, 144, 169, 180 sympoliteia 281 synedrion 49 syntaxis 64, 64 n. 80

General Index Syracuse 127 n. 11, 177–8, 180–6, 194, 195–8, 202–6, 248 assembly 177 decision-making at 195 democracy at 2, 10, 201 εὐγνωμοσύνη 195 tyranny at 201 Syphax (Numidian king) 205 Syrphax of Ephesus 51 Tainaron 85 Tarentum 126 L. Tarquinius Collatinus 219 L. Tarquinius Superbus 212, 219 Tegea 47, 68 n. 98 Telamon, battle of 128 Telos 52, 68 n. 98 Tenedos 51, 51 n. 33 Tenos 158 C. Terentius Varro 134–5 theatre 112, 114, 144 n. 26, 252 and politics 261–5, 267, 269, 271, 274–5 Thebes 7, 27, 29, 33, 33 n. 44, 46, 47, 48, 49, 59, 61, 62, 109, 116, 117, 132, 133, 237, 293 Themistocles 87, 132, 133, 134, 138, 247, 247 n. 59 Theophrastus 32, 42 n. 74, 75, 76, 113, 162, 171 Theopompus 15, 49 n. 23, 51 n. 33, 75, 76, 78, 83, 85 n. 49, 89, 234 n. 87 Thermopylae 35 Theseus 237 n. 1, 239, 242, 251, 258 n. 119 Thespiae 47, 50, 71, 281 Thessaly 34, 282 Thisbe 281

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θόρυβος 270 n. 24, 274 Thrasylochus 49 Thrasymachus 93, 100, 102 n. 37, 103–4, 106, 107, 108, 153 n. 80, 163 Thirty Tyrants 30, 55, 56 n. 49, 86, 116, 253, 256 Thoas (Aetolian statesman) 129 Thrasybulus 28 n. 23 Thucydides 16, 17, 87, 116, 159, 179, 183, 191, 193, 212–13, 217, 226, 233, 245, 246 Timaeus 2, 6, 179 n. 8, 234 n. 87 τιμωρία 195, 203 Tralles 51, 157 n. 96 Troezen 47, 48, 48 n. 13 τύχη 156, 184, 205 Tullus Hostilius and Mettius Fufetius, debate between 212–17, 218, 219, 226, 228 tyranny/tyrants 38, 46, 49, 67–8, 70, 106, 126 n. 7, 143, 150, 171, 220, 221, 241, 255, 266, 289 anti-tyranny measures 13, 14 Tyrannion of Amisus 162 C. Valerius Laevinus 128 Valerius Maximus 255 Virgil 233 Xanthus 293 Xenarchus of Seleuceia 174 Xenocrates of Chalcedon 267 Xenophon 9, 17, 143, 254, 273–4 Xerxes 37, 131, 138 Zela, battle of 69 Zeno 41, 97, 97 n. 15, 98, 99, 100, 150, 266 Republic 8, 97–8, 99, 100, 150, 266