The Legitimation of Conquest: Monarchical Representation and the Art of Government in the Empire of Alexander the Great 351512781X, 9783515127813

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Studies in Ancient Monarchies

The Legitimation of Conquest Monarchical Representation and the Art of Government in the Empire of Alexander the Great Edited by Kai Trampedach and Alexander Meeus

Ancient History Franz Steiner Verlag

Studies in Ancient Monarchies Edited by Ulrich Gotter (Konstanz), Nino Luraghi (Oxford) und Kai Trampedach (Heidelberg) Volume 7

The Legitimation of Conquest Monarchical Representation and the Art of Government in the Empire of Alexander the Great Edited by Kai Trampedach and Alexander Meeus

Franz Steiner Verlag

Gedruckt mit freundlicher Unterstützung der Fritz Thyssen Stiftung

Umschlagabbildungen: Links: King Tiglath-pileser III of Assyria. Stone panel, ca. 728 BCE. From the Central Palace in Nimrud, now in the British Museum. © akg / Bible Land Pictures Mitte: Emperor Justinian. Mosaic, ca. 540 CE. Church of San Vitale, Ravenna. © akg / Bildarchiv Steffens Rechts: Alexander the Great at the Battle of Issos. Mosaic, ca. 100 BCE. From the Casa del Fauno, Pompeii, now in the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli. © akg / Nimatallah Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über abrufbar. Dieses Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig und strafbar. © Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2020 Druck: Beltz Grafische Betriebe, Bad Langensalza Gedruckt auf säurefreiem, alterungsbeständigem Papier. Printed in Germany. ISBN 978-3-515-12781-3 (Print) ISBN 978-3-515-12783-7 (E-Book)

CONTENTS Preface

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Introduction: Understanding Alexander’s Relations with His Subjects Kai Trampedach / Alexander Meeus

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I SELF-PRESENTATION AND ROYAL PERSONA 1

From Early On To Become A Hero (‘Held’): Mythical Models of Alexander’s Image and Biography Tonio Hölscher

2

Staging Charisma: Alexander and Divination Kai Trampedach

3

Alexander and Athletics or How (Not) To Use a Traditional Field of Monarchic Legitimation Christian Mann

4

Violence and Legitimation: The Social Logic of Alexander the Great’s Acts of Violence between the Danube and the Indus – A Conceptual Outline and a Case Study Matthias Haake

21 45

61

77

II LOCAL PERSPECTIVES AND INTERACTIONS 5

Alexander’s Dedications to the Gods: Sacred Space, Pious Practice and Public Legitimation Ralf von den Hoff

99

6

Communication and Legitimation: Knowledge of Alexander’s Asian Conquests in the Greek World Shane Wallace

123

7

Legitimation – Unwitting and Unrequested: Alexander of Macedon’s Portrayal as Devine Tool in Zechariah 9 Wilhelm Köhler

145

6

Contents

8

Wooing the Victor with Words: Babylonian Priestly Literature as a Response to the Macedonian Conquest Michael Jursa

9

Shaping the New World: Once More On the Cities of Alexander Maurizio Giangiulio

165 179

III ADMINISTRATION AND INSTITUTIONS 10 Alexander, the King of the Macedonians Manuela Mari

197

11 On the Titulature of Alexander the Great: The Title basileus Maxim M. Kholod

219

12 Alexander the Great and Asia Minor: Conquest and Strategies of Legitimation Michele Faraguna 13 Alexander’s Tributary Empire Andrew Monson

243 263

IV EPILOGUES 14 The Strategies of Legitimation of Alexander and the Diadochoi: Continuities and Discontinuities Alexander Meeus

291

15 Concluding Remarks Hans-Joachim Gehrke

319

Abbreviations Bibliography Contributors

325 326 364

PREFACE With one exception the papers in this volume originate in the conference ‘Alexander’s Empire: The Legitimation of Conquest’ which was held at the Villa Vigoni (Menaggio, Italy) on May 10–12, 2018. We would like to express our gratitude to the Fritz Thyssen Stiftung, whose financial support made the conference possible, and to the Villa Vigoni staff for the excellent atmosphere and the efficient logistical support. We would also like to thank Maxim Kholod for his help in the planning stage as well as those present at the preparatory workshop in Heidelberg in July 2016. To all those who participated in the conference as speaker or chair we are most grateful for their contribution to a successful conference with excellent papers, engaging debates and lively discussions. A debt of gratitude is also owed to those who have assissted us in the editorial process: Simon Schall helped editing the general bibliography, Martina Trampedach revised the final manuscript with an expert eye, and Leonard Keidel (Heidelberg) worked assiduously in typesetting this book. Finally, we would like to thank Lindsay Holman and the Ancient World Mapping Center for efficiently delivering quick and excellent work in difficult times. Kai Trampedach & Alexander Meeus Heidelberg – Mannheim, February 2020

INTRODUCTION: UNDERSTANDING ALEXANDER’S RELATIONS WITH HIS SUBJECTS Kai Trampedach / Alexander Meeus MONARCHIC LEGITIMATION AND ITS AUDIENCES

Within a single decade (334–325 BC) Alexander III of Macedon conquered a gigantic landmass extending from Asia Minor to Central Asia and India. As was made clear from the beginning through symbolic and administrative acts, he did not aim for ephemeral loot, but for the establishment of permanent rule.1 The main questions of the present volume result from this basic observation: How did Alexander try to achieve this goal? Did he try to legitimate his conquests, and if so, by which means? In which ways did he motivate his officers and soldiers despite enormous strain and hardship to endure ever more fighting and conquests far from home? Why did the army obey and follow its king ever further to the East? As these questions indicate, in our view it is not self-evident but needs explanation that the Macedonians and other soldiers who had already secured a great deal of booty followed Alexander as far as India.2 We suggest that answers to the questions raised above are presumably to be found in the fields of both representation and administration, or in other words in Alexander’s symbolic performances as well as in his economic, administrative and religious measures. The underlying conception of our book is heavily influenced by the Herrschaftssoziologie of Max Weber. In this respect we follow a famous example: in 1982, Hans-Joachim Gehrke wrote a programmatic article in which he most convincingly rejected all attempts to describe hellenistic kingship with the categories of constitutional law. Referring to Max Weber, he investigated not the legality but rather the legitimacy of monarchical rule. Gehrke established that within the Weberian framework Alexander and his successors should be regarded almost as incarnations of the charismatic type of domination.3 This interpretation is still very 1 2

3

See e.g. Bosworth 1988a, 229. Cf. the Macedonian desire to return home after the death of Dareios: Diod. 17.74.3; Curt. 6.2.15– 4.2; Bosworth 1988a, 97: ‘the opposition had been serious and it was to gather momentum over the next years’. See recently Brice 2015; Roisman 2015. See Gotter 2008, 176. We write ‘almost’ because, as Gehrke 2013b, 76 (=  1982, 251–252) himself already emphasised, Weber’s ideal types ‘are abstracted from the social and political reality, in which they do not appear in pure form. Rather, the elements that characterize each type are combined with one another in the most diverse ways and proportions’. Cf. also Flaig 2019,

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influential and stimulating as is proven by fact that most studies assembled here directly or indirectly refer to it. But as research continued it became clear that we need to qualify and specify the charismatic character of Alexander’s domination as well as the traditional and rational aspects of it. Two findings of Max Weber are fundamental in this regard: first, the distinction between power (‘Macht’) and domination (‘Herrschaft’),4 which invite us to analyse how (military) power developed into (political) domination. Which means did Alexander apply in order to transform the many countries which he victoriously crossed with his army into areas of domination? Weber’s second fundamental finding is, in consequence, that the nature of domination should be defined by the dominated: ‘every genuine form of domination’, he states, ‘implies a minimum of voluntary compliance, that is, an interest (based on ulterior motives or genuine acceptance) in obedience’ or ‘a belief in legitimacy’. Correspondingly, Weber continues, every system of domination ‘attempts to establish and to cultivate the belief in its legitimacy’.5 These definitions may need some qualification: 1) From this quotation alone it should already be clear that Max Weber construes his terms – as he emphasises throughout his work – in a value-free sense (‘wertfrei’): it is thus a descriptive concept of legitimacy, not a normative one, which would be useless in an attempt to understand ancient phenomena on their own terms.6 2 ) In using the term ‘legitimacy’ (‘Legitimität’) Weber does not mean that the domination of the king and, eventually, his dynasty is untouchable or that it is dependent on constitutional procedure (like in some medieval, early modern or modern Western European monarchies) but he focuses on the dispositions that make the ruled obey their rulers. Yet, obedience will never simply be granted, but always depends on the expectations of the subjects, which differ according to the cultural and historical circumstances and which can be disappointed as well as fulfilled.7 3) Legitimacy in the Weberian sense is not a fixed quality, but needs constant communication and possibly occasional direct interaction. Hence, we prefer to use 63–64 . Accordingly, Alexander’s legitimation contained elements of traditional and rational 4

5 6 7

domination too. M. Weber 1978, 53: ‘Power (Macht) is the probability that one actor within a social relationship will be in a position to carry out his own will despite resistance, regardless of the basis on which this probability rests. Domination (Herrschaft) is the probability that a command with a given specific content will be obeyed by a given group of persons’. M. Weber 1978, 212–214. For the difference between descriptive and normative legitimacy, see Peter 2017, § 1. Flaig 2019, 67. Flaig, in order to avoid any misunderstanding, prefers the term ‘acceptance’ as equivalent to the Weberian ‘legitimacy’; see also Gotter 2008, 180 and Peter 2017, § 1: ‘Weber distinguishes among three main sources of legitimacy – understood as the acceptance both of authority and of the need to obey its commands’. We use the terms ‘acceptance’ and ‘legitimation’ interchangeably. Monson, this volume argues against the equivalence of the terms since he considers acceptance a fundamentally weaker relationship between ruler and subject than legitimacy (even on Weberian terms). This weaker relationship consisting mostly of the inability to resist a ruler may, however, more appropriately be called acquiescence: cf. Peter 2017, § 1.

Introduction

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the term ‘legitimation’ to indicate the communicative processes from both sides, the rulers and the ruled. Regarding the ruler’s perspective we cannot explain our approach better than in the words of Rodney Barker: What is not always noticed is that Weber is talking not about some abstract quality, ‘legitimacy’, but about an observable activity in which governments characteristically engage, the making of claims. This activity is mentioned by Weber as part of a definition of the state. What charac­ terises government, in other words, is not the possession of a quality defined as legitimacy, but the claiming, the activity of legitimation.8

4) Because charisma is by nature transgressive, it is not suitable as a foundation

for legitimacy in the traditional/normative, non­Weberian sense, but destroys it.9 Yet, for Weber the demonstration and performance of charisma constitute a very effective strategy of legitimation – albeit depending on the audience – serving to highlight the superhuman achievements of the leader. While the various peoples in Alexander’s empire had different conceptions of kingship, for all of them the ideal ruler was expected to posses a series of virtues: in the Greek and Macedonian con­ text, for instance, the king had to display ἀρετή, victoriousness, personal bravery, beauty, generosity, μεγαλοψυχία.10 These qualities which proved the charisma of the heroic king did not necessarily imply moral greatness.11 Most papers in this volume agree that Alexander strove for the legitimation of his rule.12 Whatever Alexander’s claim to legitimacy may have been, however, we may further ask what were or what could have been reasons for an ‘interest in obedi­ ence’ or a ‘belief in legitimacy’ for the conquered peoples of Asia, the Greek world, or the Macedonian army. In our opinion neither brute force nor money, booty and privileges would suffice as answers: first because the empire of Alexander was far too big to keep the threat of violence present always and everywhere, and secondly because social agents in general, we suppose, are at least as much motivated by a certain code of honour or traditional expectations about leadership as by material interests.13 Moreover, local elites such as the priesthood of Jerusalem or Babylon 8 9

10

11

12 13

Barker 2001, 2. See Monson, in this volume. He is definitely correct that justice plays a role in Greek concep­ tions of legitimacy, but this is not the whole story. At any rate, one must not simply equate justice and legitimacy, even on a prescriptive approach: doing so has been described as ‘misplaced political moralism’: Peter 2017, § 1, quoting Bernard Williams. See e.g. Xen. An. 1.9; Arist. Pol. 3.17, 5.10–11; Polyb. 4.77.2–4, 10.49, 11.34.15, 18.41.5–7; Diod. 19 .90 –92 . Cf. Roy 1998 ; Beston 2000 ; Chaniotis 2005 , 57 –77 ; Lendon 2007 , 115 –155 ; Meissner 2007. See Hölscher, this volume, p. 22–23: “An ancient hero as such is neither ‘good’ nor noble, and not even successful, neither setting examples nor norms of ideal character or behaviour – he is just in an elementary sense ‘great’: exceeding the normal measure of mankind, acting and suffer­ ing in super­human dimensions.” Though see the rather different view of Monson. Cf. infra, n. 18, and e.g. Polyb. 22.8.10–13; Diod. 18.62.4–5, where only Teutamos amongst a large number of Macedonians prefers money over loyalty to the Argead cause.

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obviously had their own ideological reasons to proclaim the legitimacy of the new ruling power.14 Of course, this is not to deny that the process of conquest was a matter of brute force, and that the maintenance of empire will have required force too, but this aspect has received ample attention in recent years.15 In order to illuminate our questions about legitimation the focus in this book is a different one, even with regard to violence, as can be seen in a paper which reflects on ‘the social logic of Alexander’s acts of violence’: in many situations choices were to be made about whether or not to apply violence and if so, in what way.16 The army could and did protest,17 or even refuse obedience. We know of several instances of military unrest during the reign of Alexander and of his successors that were not caused by missing pay but by the feeling of dishonour on the part of the soldiery, most famously at Opis in 324.18 Therefore, reasons for the willingness to obey other than force and money should be identified.19 It is obvious that, in the wide-ranging and heterogeneous empire of Alexander, answers depend on the cultural, ethnic, or social position of the groups or individuals one is focusing on. Necessarily, then, the activity of legitimation is to be related to the question of addressees: Whose acceptance did Alexander seek to gain and in which way? Which effect did he achieve in each case with which recipients or audiences? Basicly one may distinguish four audiences as potentially relevant for the king on his campaign in Asia: 1) the Macedonians at home whose sons, siblings or husbands who served – and potentially died – on the Asian campaign as well as their king were absent for a length of time never seen before;20 2) the distant Greek public which was to accept Macedonian hegemony in Greece; 3) the immediately present public of the army, subdivided into the groups of (a) the friends and companions of the king and the higher officers, and (b) the other soldiers and the camp followers; both groups together constantly had to be convinced of Alexander’s ability as a leader and the feasibility of the campaign; and 4) the respective indigenous elites whose countries Alexander just passed through or left behind as conquered territories and whose interest in obedience Alexander had to promote in order to reduce the costs of domination. 14 15 16 17

18 19 20

See the articles of Köhler and Jursa in this volume. The same may apply to the Egytian priests: cf. S. Pfeiffer 2014. Most vividly spelled out by Bosworth 1996; see also several articles in Badian 2012. See Haake, this volume, who understands violence as a calculated instrument of Alexander’s legimation activity. Alexander took bad press within the army very seriously, because he feared ne haec opinio etiam in Macedoniam divulgaretur et victoriae gloria saevitiae macula infuscaretur (Just. epit. 12.5.4; cf. Diod. 17.80.4; Curt. 7.2.35–38). His reputation was obviously very important to him. Arr. 7.8.2, Plut. Alex. 71.1, Just. Epit. 12.11.6. Cf. supra, n. 2. Cf. recently also Carney 2015 on dynastic loyalty in Macedonia. Carney 2015, 152 with further references on the potential effect of Alexander’s absence and the Macedonian casualties of the Asian campaign. For a somewhat different perspective, though, see Meeus 2009a. Most evidence relates to the period after Alexander’s death, however, and memories of the king might have been more fond than sentiments during his life.

Introduction

13

We believe that apart from the military dimension the formation and existence of Alexander’s empire can be understood best from the mutual relationship between the king and these different audiences.21 In addressing these groups through different means (e.g. mythopoiesis, divination, athletics, violence, dedications, refoundation of sanctuaries, titulature, administrative continuity, city foundations, finance) Alexander applied strategies of legitimation.22 Lane Fox has recently criticized a similar approach for ‘writ[ing] (…) as if Alexander and his officers were running a “propaganda” machine of East European proportions, in which Alexander was engaged in the “creation of belief ” ’.23 Of course, no such pervasive propaganda was even possible in antiquity, but that did not prevent ancient rulers from exploiting those means of representation and communication that they did have at their disposal. CONTINUITY AND DISCONTINUITY IN ALEXANDER’S STRATEGIES OF LEGITIMATION

Questions of continuity and discontinuity open up a complex and multi-layered problem, whilst also putting the difficulty of some of the choices Alexander had to make in a clearer perspective. Conflicting interests constantly needed to be taken into account both with regard to the different levels of politics – royal persona, grand strategy, and administration – and to the different audiences that needed to addressed – Greeks, Macedonians, and conquered peoples. The interplay between the different levels and audiences often made it impossible to reconcile all of these interests. In matters of administration – often probably the least sensitive ones – Alexander seems to have followed in Philip’s footsteps in Greek or Macedonian contexts, whilst taking over many Achaimenid practices in Asia.24 He may, however, have split up satrapal competences in new ways.25 Such a policy made obvious practical sense: Philip had already made significant reforms in many aspects of the state to match Macedon’s ambitions, and in other respects there was no need to change what was working well. Of course, the duration of the campaign and the absence from the

21

22

23 24 25

In attempting to pursue this question in a systematic manner, we hope to contribute to opening up new perspectives on the reign of Alexander and move beyond the stalemate that has sometimes been observed – albeit perhaps with some degree of exaggeration – by outsiders to the field: e.g. Davidson 2001; Beard 2011. To name most of the topics that are discussed in this volume. One may add issues like economy and infrastructure, cf. Lane Fox 2007, 293: ‘Improving an under-exploited and cumberstone East was already part of the Alexander-histories, because it was part of Alexander’s own outlook and self­image’. Or see with regard to the scientific exploration related to conquest: Gehrke 2011. Lane Fox 2018b, 204, criticising Bosworth 1996. See the contributions by Mari, Faraguna, and Monson. Bosworth 1988a, 229–241.

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homeland also created the need for new practices, or more intense use of older ones, such as the remarkably frequent campaign agones to boost the troops’ morale, and perhaps also to compensate that the king could not preside over the games held in Dion.26 Another such difference may be that Greek theoroi no longer simply invited the Macedonian king to their festivals, but traveled to several Macedonian cities to invite these.27 In his grand strategy Alexander continued what had been started by his father Philip, who had in turn connected himself to a longstanding Greek tradition with the theme of revenge for the Persian Wars in the Korinthian League. Yet especially after the death of Dareios it could be difficult to combine anti­Persian sentiment with his claims to the kingdom of Asia. The dominant theme for the League of Korinth could be restyled as Greek freedom rather than anti-Persian revenge without insulting anyone.28 When Alexander felt he needed to introduce proskynesis in order to maintain the respect of his Asian subjects and courtiers,29 however, he seems to have underestimated the sensitivities in his Graeco-Macedonian entourage. In his use of the royal title, on the other hand, which may also have been connected to his claims in Asia,30 he could be more flexible, as it was easier to adjust his practice to the relevant audience in any given situation. In the ideal case traditions turned out to be compatible, for instance with royal banquets which had existed in Argead Macedon and in the Persian Empire, and Alexander could continue both practices at once without much changes being required.31 At the same time, anti-Achaimenid resentment does not seem to have been limited to the Greeks. While removing the Achaimenid dynasty was a drastic transformation that perhaps did not please many Persians, other peoples such as Babylonians and Jews may have welcomed the change represented by this Macedonian king of Asia.32 In a bottom-up process such as early Hellenistic ruler cult seems to have been,33 the differences between groups of subjects are even more relevant – for obvious reasons: while Greek poleis offered cult to Philip and Alexander as a means of ‘coming to grips’ with the new phenomenon of royal power, to date no such cult during the lifetime of a king has been attested amongst the Macedonians themselves.34 On the current evidence, in the time of Philip the practice appears to have been limited

26 27 28 29 30 31

32 33 34

See Mann, this volume. Raynor 2016, 250–251. Poddighe 2009, 116. For proskynesis as an expression of social hierarchy, see Matarese 2013. Thus Kholod, this volume, but see also the different view in Mari’s contribution. Mari 2018c, 305–309. Another example seems to have been his divine descent from Zeus Ammon which was useful to Alexander in his dealings with Greeks and Macedonians as well as with Egyptians despite its different meanings for both audiences: see Bosch­Puche 2014, 95–98. Jursa and Köhler, this volume; cf. Harrison 2011, 51–55, 73–90. See recently e.g. Erskine 2014; O’Sullivan 2017. Mari, this volume, quoting John Ma; cf. also Jim 2017.

Introduction

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to the new lands of the Macedonian kingdom, whilst it spread to the wider Greek world only under Alexander, perhaps first to Asia minor and then to southern areas of the Greek mainland – but it always remained a practice of the Greek poleis.35 Continuity and innovation under Alexander here becomes a question of geography: a political phenomenon originating with Philip is taken to places where it is an innovation under Alexander. This difference between Greek poleis incorporated in the Macedonian kingdom and those in the south is just one example of the evident fact that none of Alexander’s audiences could be taken as monolithic blocks:36 the theme of revenge against the Persians, much as he tried to impress it on the Athenians (cf. infra), may not have had much effect with them, but was very well­received in other Greek poleis.37 It is perhaps in order to respond better to such local differences that Alexander’s major dedications were not made in the great panhellenic sanctuaries, but rather in individual poleis (Athens, Priene, …) or sanctuaries of a more local significance (e.g. Dion). This allowed him both to differentiate his messages and to create stronger bonds with the communities he singled out as recipients. Both aspects are being revealed particularly clearly by the dedication of enemy armour from the battle of the Granikos at Athens rather than Delphi or Olympia: of course he did so in part because of the Persian destruction of the Akropolis in 480, but it was also a way to honour the Athenians and to try and convince them that his panhellenic ideals were genuine.38 This did set him apart from his father Philip who was much more strongly involved with both Delphi and Olympia.39 Another way in which Alexander was very present at the local level was the way in which he inscribed his name in the landscape of central Asia by means of city foundations, as Philip had done in Thrace.40 Likewise, when Alexander had Batis, the commander of Gaza, dragged to death after the siege, this may have seemed like a horrible and virtually unprecedented action to southern Greeks, whereas for northern Greeks like the Thessalians it was perhaps just the continuation of a traditional practice.41 With his royal persona Alexander seems to have striven for uniqueness, projecting a superhuman image of a man who could only be compared to the heroes of old, had a close relationship to the gods and did not need to boost his prestige by human means like athletic victory. Whether or not Alexander believed this himself, it is at any rate the way he wished to be seen, as is revealed for instance by his uncommon

35 36

37 38 39 40 41

Alleged divine honours for Philip in Athens are probably unhistorical: Badian 2012, 269–273. Furthermore, their reactions may have been situationally determined, cf. Carney 2015, 148: ‘Individuals or groups may demonstrate loyalty in one context but not another; feelings may fluctuate rapidly’. Wallace, this volume. See both von den Hoff and Wallace about the dedication after Gaugamela. See von den Hoff, this volume, on the Philippeion; cf. Meeus, this volume, 300–301. See Giangiulio, this volume. Haake, this volume.

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appearance, his imitatio Achillis, and his charismatic use of divination.42 Adopting such an extreme and exceptional persona was surely a strategy that entailed great risks, but if effective it could also yield high benefits: it proved that Alexander was more suitable than anyone for holding a level of power hithertho unseen in the Greek world.43 Another question is how Alexander’s unprecedented financial means after the death of Dareios influenced his policy. One possibility is that they would have have enhanced Alexander’s power to such an extent as to have freed him from any need for legitimation,44 but on the other hand they enormously increased the amounts he could spend on benefactions or on games for his soldiers, to name just two examples. It is surely remarkable that after 328 Alexander no longer saw the need for the charismatic exploitation of divination – or did this just not work without Aristandros? While it is questionable whether the latter was the only sufficiently charismatic seer in Alexander’s entourage, it seems inconceivable that he could not have found anyone to replace Kallisthenes as court historian.45 Other strategies, however, were continued: city foundations, games, benefactions, use of the royal title, heroic self-fashioning, and many others.46 SOURCES, CONCEPTS AND METHODS

Studying Alexander’s strategies of legitimation is often a delicate affair, since we strongly depend on late evidence for so many aspects of Alexander’s career. This is one reason why epigraphic, numismatic and archaeological material frequently plays a central role in the present volume. The literary sources, however, remain of crucial importance and – without denying their inherent problems – several contributors object to hypercriticism and minimalism in interpreting them, as such an attitude would exclude that certain questions about Alexander’s career can be asked at all. Thus, rather than dismissing for instance all Homeric references as literary constructs of the preserved sources, it is important to take into account how strongly See esp. the contributions by Hölscher, Trampedach, and Mann. Perhaps this conception was inspired by Aristotle: see esp. Pol. 1.5.2 and 7.13.1: ‘If then it were the case that the one class [rulers] differed from the other [subjects] as widely as we believe the gods and heroes to differ from mankind, having first a great superiority in regard to the body and then in regard to the soul, so that the pre-eminence of the rulers was indisputable and manifest to the subjects, it is clear that it would be better for the same persons always to be rulers and subjects once for all’ (trans. Rackham). Cf. also Pol. 3.8.7, 3.11.12–13, 7.3.4, where the greater focus on virtue and justice need not be a counter-argument: Alexander need not have agreed with Aristotle in every respect (see also n. 10 above). 44 Thus Monson, this volume. 45 See the contributions by Trampedach and Wallace. 46 Cf. Bosworth 1996, 98, on Alexander being ‘isolated from his own headquarters and the coterie of Greek intellectuals which had followed him to Central Asia’ during his campaigns in the far east. 42 43

Introduction

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the Greek worldview was determined by Homer, and how much meaning Homeric references may have had in the real world of Alexander and his subjects and allies.47 In the same vein, one could explain the campaign agones in Arrian’s Anabasis as a feature of the author’s own interaction with his model Xenophon, but those few occasions on which his indications are confirmed by other sources reveal that this will not do. Arrian’s imitation of Xenophon – as well as the fact that he is our most detailed source – may well have played a role in his decision to report the agones, but that does not make them irrelevant as a feature of Alexander’s campaign that can and needs to be explained.48 Besides these often untangible aspects of the mental world of Alexander and his contemporaries, space was also put to ideological use, as several contributions to this volume reveal: in setting up dedications, donating land, settling boundaries, and founding cities Alexander put his imprint on private, political, and sacred space.49 Here and in so many other aspects of his communication Alexander had a wide array of different media at his disposal for his political communication and monarchical representation: any objects that could be dedicated to the gods, historiography, letters, architecture, coins, and even his personal appearance to name just some examples. At the same time, in certain cases he seems to have avoided mediality, for instance in the field of agonistics: as central as this had always been in Greek political self-presentation, Alexander seems to have had no desire to participate in the panhellenic games and broadcast his victories or even in founding new festivals named after himself. He merely organised occasional games for others to compete in. Likewise, it becomes all the more clear that Alexander’s actions cannot simply be considered in isolation but were always part of his public role and persona, and that understanding his deeds and behaviour requires more contextualising and less of a character driven approach to the study of his reign.50 The relevant question – and the one that can be answered – is thus for instance not so much Alexander’s religiosity, but the religious persona he wished his subjects to see, regardless of personal belief. That does not mean, however, that such instrumentalisation of his religious persona must preclude genuine religious belief on Alexander’s behalf: these are by no means mutually exclusive.51 This realisation allows us to move beyond such polar opposites as rationality and irrationality: without claiming that Alexander’s every move was rational and calculated – the murder of Kleitos surely proves

See esp. the contributions by Hölscher and Trampedach. See Mann, this volume, with the table on p. 65–66. 49 See esp. von den Hoff, Wallace, Giangiulio, and Faraguna. Köhler shows how the existing conceptions of space of the conquered peoples could likewise play a role in the way they perceived Alexander. 50 See Haake, p. 81 with reference to Howe 2016, 177. 51 See Trampedach (esp. n. 12) and von den Hoff. 47 48

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the opposite – many of his actions may have been more deliberate than their apparent irrationality might prima facie suggest.52 It would thus seem that Alexander was very much in control of his public persona, and this raises the question whether Alexander and his staff were particularly successful not only thanks to their military talents but also by virtue of their communication skills and their capacity to cater to the expectations of their audiences. It is this question that the following contributions aim to answer.

52

See e.g. Haake, this volume, on extreme violence.

I SELF-PRESENTATION AND ROYAL PERSONA

1 FROM EARLY ON TO BECOME A HERO (‘HELD’): MYTHICAL MODELS OF ALEXANDER’S IMAGE AND BIOGRAPHY* Tonio Hölscher THE QUEST FOR ALEXANDER’S ‘GREATNESS’

Alexander III of Macedonia, as a historical figure, significantly exceeded the dimensions of the classical Greek concept of human beings: this was endorsed by posterity through granting him the epithet ‘the Great’. By his ‘greatness’ he followed the heroes of myth in many respects: this was universally remarked in historical accounts. In particular, he traced his descent back to Herakles from his father’s side and to Achilleus from his mother’s, and moreover presented himself as the son of Zeus: this is clearly attested by ancient authors.1 Modern scholars hold very diverse views about the significance of these manifestations of Alexander, and have expressed very diverging judgements on his general historical role, reaching from a rational army leader to a heroic conqueror, from a great founder of culture to a ferocious destroyer. In particular, controversies have arisen about the impact of Homeric heroism on Alexander’s personality, behaviour, and achievements.2 The intention of the following considerations is not to resume these old discussions on Alexander’s references to specific heroes of myth but to widen the horizon of the question: first, by a reflection on categories of heroism in antiquity, and secondly, by a shift of the perspective from Alexander’s punctual manifestations to the general conceptualisation of his public persona and role. In this way one might get a better understanding of how deeply rooted and how comprehensively conceived these references to the figures of myth were in Alexander’s mind, and how early this *

1

2

My thanks go to Alexander Meeus and Kai Trampedach for numerous bibliographical indications, to Alexander Meeus also for the correction of my English text. Moreover, I am grateful to Matthias Haake and Andrew Monson, my respondents at the Villa Vigoni conference, for helpful criticism and stimulating questions. Herakles: Huttner 1997, 86–123. – Achilleus: Ameling 1988; A. Cohen 1995; von den Hoff 1997. – Zeus: Bosworth 1988a, 282–284. – In general on Alexander’s claims to heroism and divinity: Bosworth 1988a, 278–290. Recent positive voices: Lendon 2005, 115–139; Gehrke 2013a. – Critical: Heckel 2015; Maitland 2015.

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self-image was formed, i.e. whether he started his war against the Persian Empire from the beginning with such far-reaching ambitions, or conceived his role in such dimensions only after his first victorious battles against the Persian Empire and the Great King.3 Behind this specific issue the general question arises as to how far such ideal (or ideological) concepts should be understood either as the results of previous real historical situations and experiences or as efficient and powerful agents in historical reality. The following contribution will argue in favour of the early origins of Alexander’s claims to heroic status.4 Regarding the intensity of Alexander’s reference to the heroes of myth it is essential to ask how far he conceived of himself as their genealogical descendant, or rather compared himself and his historical feats with their mythical deeds, or else considered himself a hero of his own, equivalent to them. In order to approach these questions, two phenomena will be dealt with that do not directly concern these heroes but will lead immediately to Alexander’s individual person: on the one hand his appearance, i.e. the concept of his visual self-image, on the other hand the design of his life, i.e. his conceptual biography. Both aspects imply an approach of cultural anthropology, based on literary as well as iconographical testimonies. For the early stages of Alexander’s life, the reliability of the literary sources is notoriously under debate. Without aiming to enter too far into these controversies, the following considerations are based on such testimonies that seem to have some intrinsic plausibility. THE GREEK CONCEPT OF A HERO AND THE CATEGORIES OF MYTHICAL HEROISATION

As is well known, the concepts of hero and heroism are widely diverging in intercultural comparison. Even within Greek culture there are diverse notions: on the one hand the mighty recipients of religious cult who were venerated as hērōes, on the other hand the famous ‘heroic’ figures of myth, in the German sense of ‘Held/ Helden’, as it is adopted here.5 Regarding Alexander, it is important to note, contrary to current assumptions, that ancient heroes, even the mythical ‘Helden’, are fundamentally beyond ethical and moral categories. An ancient hero as such is neither ‘good’ nor noble, and not even successful, neither setting examples nor norms of ideal character or behaviour – he is just in an elementary sense ‘great’: exceeding 3

4 5

For this controversy see e.g.: Bosworth 1988a, 19: ‘From the outset heroic emulation was an abiding spur to action’; ibidem 281: ‘There is no evidence for Alexander’s early conception of his divine or heroic status’. For a similar view see A. Cohen 1995. The opposite position was forcefully defended at the conference by Andrew Monson. See Burkert 1977, 312–319; Bremmer 1994, 12–13; Boehringer 2001, 25– 46; Himmelmann 2009, 7–28, 81– 85 and 2010; Gehrke 2010; Meyer / von den Hoff 2010. Cf. the thoughtful essay on an alternative concept of ‘hero’ by Finkelberg 1995.

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the normal measure of mankind, acting and suffering in super­human dimensions. This neutral notion of ‘greatness’ has its equivalent in a value-free concept of glory, kleos: what is widely reported.6 In this sense heroic figures first of all arouse a sort of value-neutral fascination – which can turn into admiration as well as into fright and horror. However, it would be totally misleading to set off positive and negative aspects against one another since both belong inseparably together. Herakles would not be the greatest culture hero without his horrendous atrocities, Achilleus would not be the most glorious war hero without his cruel and bloody furor7. The same goes for Alexander who, in his personality as well as in his actions, exceeded the standards and norms of classical polis citizens and polis states, thus forming his unique historical role. And as with the heroes of the mythical past, this role was not designed to constitute an example for imitation and emulation but to demonstrate his individual uniqueness. Indeed, neither Herakles nor Achilleus were general models of ideal behaviour, they were just unique and unreachable figures which only equally ambitious persons could claim as models and equivalents, such as Demetrios Poliorketes, Pompeius, Iulius Caesar, Augustus.8 As we shall see, the concept of historical ‘greatness’, which was established in this sense, kept this absence of ethical categories beyond classical antiquity – as a measure of pure historical energy and power. The elevation of present-time persons to a sphere of super-human quality always implies, explicitly or implicitly, some reference to the heroes of the mythical past. Such references can be constructed in different ways, implying different strategies of endowing a person with glory, power or legitimacy:9 Paradigmatic references. In this strategy the referential mode is comparison. Statesmen or army-leaders take heroes of myth as their model, comparing their own achievements and power with a specific hero’s deeds and force. Here, the primary focus is on factual accomplishments and their underlying personal qualities. Such glorifying comparison with figures and achievements of the mythical past was open to all who might plausibly comply with such a claim. In this sense Perikles compared his campaign against Samos with the Trojan war, declaring it even superior to its mythical model. Often, however, such comparisons only refer to single aspects, in the case of the Samian campaign to its military expenditure, without eo ipso elevating the protagonist to a mythical level.10 Genealogical references. Here the referential mode is descent. Noble families trace their origins back to mythical ancestors. Thereby they do not so much insist on unique heroic achievements or exemplary ethical qualities but make a general Nagy 1979, 2013, esp. 26–47. In this sense see also Gehrke 2010. 8 Imitatio Alexandri: Michel 1967 ; Kühnen 2000; Trofimova 2012 ; Moore 2018 ; Palagia 2018; see now Dorka Moreno 2019. 9 For what follows see already Hölscher 1999 . – For a different attempt at categorisation see A. Cohen 1995: aemulatio, imitatio, comparatio. 10 Plut. Per. 28. 6

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claim to noble rank and social prestige – without elevating the descendants eo ipso to the level of mythical heroes. Often such mythical ancestors are not the greatest heroes of the past but those of secondary rank: In Athens not Theseus but Neleus for the Peisistratids, Boutes for the Eteoboutadai, in Rome not Hercules and Aeneas but their sons, Anton for Antonius, Iulus-Ascanius for the Iulii.11 It was above all the great royal dynasties of Sparta and Macedonia that traced their origins back to Herakles himself. Compared with paradigmatic models, genealogical references make a stronger claim for an exclusive relation of an individual family or person to a specific mythical ancestor. Thus, all great generals of the Late Roman Republic venerated Venus in a paradigmatic sense as their victory goddess, but then Julius Caesar claimed her as his genealogical forebear, detracting her from his rivals, and creating a nightmare for Pompey. Likewise, Aeneas had been the founding hero of all Romans, until Julius Caesar promoted him as the forefather of the Iulii.12 Local references. Here the referential mode is local succession. The historical Athenians conceived themselves, without claiming a specific genealogical descent, as the successors of the mythical Athenians under the kings Kekrops, Erechtheus, and Theseus. In the same way, Kimon and his co-strategoi were celebrated after their campaign against Eion as worthy successors of king Menestheus, the leader of the Athenian army against Troy. Thereby, again, the historical protagonists were not raised into the sphere of mythical heroes, but here too an exclusive relation to those figures of myth was created which could not be claimed outside of Athens.13 References of identity. A much more pretentious claim is made when historical persons pose as re-incarnations of a mythical hero. Already before Alexander the local tyrant Klearchos of Herakleia Pontike presented himself as a son of Zeus, with clothes, attributes and a purple face assimilating him to the father of the gods. Nikostratos, an army-commander in the service of Artaxerxes Ochos, also went to war against Sidon in the attire of Herakles. The physician Menekrates from Syracuse used to dress up as Zeus, surrounded by adherents clothed as Apollon and Hermes.14 Alexander himself is reported to have appeared at banquets with attributes of Herakles, Hermes, Ammon, and even Artemis.15 The painter Apelles portrayed him holding the thunderbolt of Zeus, and with the same attribute he is represented on the obverse of the exceptional silver medaillons, with the reverse depicting Alexander’s fight against king Poros riding on an elephant.16 As is well-known, Hellenistic rulers liked to present themselves as a ‘New Dionysos’ or a ‘New Herakles’.

11 12 13 14 15 16

See, however, Ameling 1988, 661–664 for non-royal families tracing their origins from great heroes. Venus and Late republican army leaders: Schilling 1954, 267–345. Kimon and Eion: Aeschin. 3.183–185. Rückert 1998, 100–103; Di Cesare 2015, 59–70. Klearchos: Souda s.v. Klearchos. – Nikostratos: Diod. 16.44.3. – Menekrates: Ath. 7.289b–c. See Weinreich 1933, 9–19. Ephippos (FGrHist 126) F 5. Apelles, Alexander with thunderbolt: Plin. NH 35.92. – Poros medaillons: Holt 2003.

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Personal equality. The ultimate referential mode is equivalence. In this sense, present-time protagonists presented themselves as authentic heroes, equal to the heroes of myth in ‘greatness’. This strategy was on the one hand particularly risky because it totally depended on the individual person’s forcefulness. On the other hand, if it was applied successfully, it could achieve great effects: for all other references quoted above could only be realised through punctual manifestations and achievements, whereas a man’s own heroic ‘greatness’ could be permanently demonstrated in his entire persona, appearance, and habitus. ALEXANDER AND HIS MYTHICAL MODELS

Starting from these categories of reference to the heroes of myth, it may become more precisely understandable 1. which concepts and messages Alexander aimed to express and distribute by his reference to the heroes of myth, 2. whether and to what degree he was unique in doing so, and 3. from what time these concepts shaped his self-conceptualisation as a ruler. Without doubt, Alexander took Herakles as well as Achilleus as paradigmatic models of his own heroic role. Herakles was to him the great hero who had accomplished the most glorious individual deeds, penetrating to the edges of the known world, often getting to the brink of exhaustion and destruction – but in the end gaining the recognition as the son of Zeus and reception among the immortal gods. Achilleus, on the other hand, was the radiant model of a youthful hero, phenotypically almost undistinguishable from himself: the central hero of the war against Troy, which Alexander interpreted as the archetypal war of the Greeks against Asia, and in general the war hero par excellence, especially in his combination of raging furor and invincibility. Alexander’s fate to follow Achilleus also by his early death was of course not intended but was in some respect implied in this extreme concept of a heroic life. Yet, Herakles as well as the heroes fighting against Troy had already been taken as exemplary models by other statesmen and army-leaders.17 Therefore it was essential for Alexander to claim both these heroes exclusively as his genealogical forefathers. By doing this, he became unique in a double sense: firstly, while these greatest paradigmatic heroes could be chosen as models also by others, they belonged to him personally through genealogical ties; secondly, while the genealogical ancestors of others were normally heroes of second rank, Alexander claimed for himself the greatest protagonists of the mythical past. These references to the heroes of myth start early in his life, and they follow a significant structural pattern. The primary intention is to assimilate Alexander to the model of those heroes, but de facto the heroes are assimilated to the model of Alexander. In order to appear as pre­figurations of Alexander, the heroes are made 17

Herakles: above n. 14. Heroes against Troy: above n. 13.

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compatible to him in those aspects in which they are meant to appear as his models. It is a reciprocal interrelation in which Alexander is taken as a model of gods and heroes – in order that gods and heroes become the models of Alexander.18 The head of Herakles appears from the beginning of Alexander’s own coinage on the obverse of his tetradrachms, juxtaposed with the seated Zeus on the reverse.19 Unfortunately, the date of the introduction of these types, either at the beginning of his campaign in 334 or after the battle of Issos in 333 BC, is still controversial. The old debate, however, whether the head wearing a lion’s cap depicts Herakles himself or Alexander in the hero’s guise, has recently been concluded: it can only represent Herakles himself, as an autonomous mythical figure, in his quality as Alexander’s genealogical forefather and paradigmatic model. This reference of Herakles to Alexander remained mostly implicit, presupposing the viewer’s knowledge of the king’s mythical lineage, but in some specimens, as Martin Dorka Moreno has demonstrated, it was made explicit by raising locks over the hero’s forehead, assimilating him to Alexander’s anastole. These heads too do not portray Alexander as a New Herakles: they depict Herakles with the traits of Alexander, in order to make the present king appear as the reflection of the mythical hero.20 Achilleus became an important point of reference for Alexander early in his life.21 His paidagogos Lysimachos is reported by Plutarch to have gained favour at court by speaking of Alexander as Achilleus, of his father Philip as Peleus, and of himself as Phoinix. In a period when rulers and military leaders posed in the roles of mythical heroes (see above), and in the atmosphere of the Macedonian court where some years later a statue of the king was carried in a procession among the images of all gods and where Aristotle read the Iliad with the young prince, such heroic acclamations are anything but improbable; Plutarch may well have gotten his information from Kallisthenes, a pupil of Aristotle who was a colleague of Lysimachos and an eyewitness of Alexander’s education.22 After the death of Philip II, Demosthenes ridiculed Alexander’s – obviously well-known – ambitions by calling him a Margites, a parody of the Homeric Achilleus.23 At the outset of his campaign to Asia Alexander made a programmatic sacrifice at the alleged tomb of Achilleus near Troy; before the battle of Issos he called Thetis, Nereus, and the Nereids for 18 19

20 21 22 23

See Hölscher 1971, 43–51. Price 1991, esp. I, 85– 88; Troxell 1991; Troxell 1997; Le Rider 2007, 8– 16; Mittag 2016, 164–165. The ideological concept of the coins’ iconography – Zeus and Herakles on silver, Athena and Nike on gold – is already apparent in Alexander’s sacrifice rituals for Zeus, Athena, and Herakles on altars built by him at the European and the Asian side of the Hellespont: Arr. Anab. 1.11.7. In my view the mostly accepted date of the beginning of Alexander’s coinage after Issos is not yet the last word. Dorka Moreno 2019, 121–140. Heckel 2015 holds the view that even Arrian presents all anecdotes on Alexander and Achilleus as pure logoi; but see Anab. 7.14.4, quoted by Heckel himself on p. 24. Plut. Alex. 5.5, cf. 24.6–8. Aischin. 3.160; Plut. Dem. 23.3; Marsyas (FGrHist 135) F 3. See Lane Fox 1973, 60–61; below p. 40–41. I owe the reference to this important fact to Kai Trampedach.

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help and protection.24 In the visual arts the reciprocal assimilation between Alexander and Achilleus begins somewhat later, around 300 BC: on coins of Larisa Kremaste in Thessaly Achilleus appears, as Ralf von den Hoff has shown, with the anastole and long curled locks of Alexander; and the famous statue of the so-called Alexander Rondanini depicts Achilleus putting on his armour, with heroic hairstyle, his head vigorously turned up and his wide open eyes looking into the distance: an ideal brother of Alexander.25 One may add Pompeian paintings of an Alexander-like Achilleus at the court of Lykomedes, setting off for the Trojan war, that are often thought to reproduce an original Greek painting of around 300 BC.26 Achilleus, too, is assimilated to Alexander, in order to appear as Alexander’s prefiguration. IMITATION OF HEROES VERSUS AUTONOMOUS HEROISM

Nevertheless, one may also observe that in the literary sources references from Alexander to Achilleus and Herakles are often not made explicit, not even when they seem to be obvious. When he visited Delphi in order to get a positive prediction for his war campaign against Persia, he is said to have dragged the reluctant Pythia into the temple. To some degree he followed Herakles who allegedly had robbed the Delphic tripod in order to get an oracle from her, but this act was not so much an imitation of but an equivalent to his ancestor’s daring deed27. During his campaigns Alexander underwent, like Herakles, immense labours and hardships, like Herakles he penetrated to the ‘end of the world’, heard of and even ran into the Amazons, and at the point of his final turn back he built twelve towering altars, obviously as counter-parts of the famous ‘Columns of Herakles’ – but his great mythical prototype is rarely mentioned28. When he conquered the gigantesque rock mountain of Aornos, he even surpassed Herakles who had failed to do so.29 And to extend this series with another model: when Alexander after the death of Dareios captured the usurper Bessos, he is reported to have bent down two trees, tied up his victim and let him be torn into pieces. This is hardly conceivable without thinking of Theseus and Sinis, but again the reference is not made explicit by Plutarch.30 Troy, Tomb of Achilleus: Arr. Anab. 1.12.1; Plut. Alex. 15.4; Diod. 17.17.3. Ameling 1988, 676– 679; A. Cohen 1995, 484–485. – Issos: FGrHist 148, 44, col. II. 25 Coins of Larisa Kremaste: von den Hoff 1997, 20–22. – Alexander Rondanini: von den Hoff 1997 passim. 26 Kossatz­Deissmann 1981, nr. 54; Hölscher 1971, pl. 9, 1. 27 Plut. Alex. 14.4. I am grateful to Kai Trampedach for having pointed out this case to me. The 24

authenticity of this story may be controversial but the lack of an explicit reference to Herakles is significant. 28 Labours and hardships: see Arr. Anab. 3.18.6, 20.1, 21.6 etc. For the ideal of heroism see Finkelberg 1995. – Amazons: Arr. Anab. 4.15.4, 7.13.2–6; Plut. Alex. 47. – Twelve altars: Arr. Anab. 5.29.1–2; Plut. Alex. 62.4. 29 Arr. Anab. 4.28.1–4, 4.30.4. 30 Plut. Alex. 43.

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This feature may be understood as an indication that the authors did not so much want to present Alexander as an imitator of specific figures of myth but as a hero equal to them, with his own heroic qualities. And this again could mean that Alexander himself did not always make such references explicit but left things more or less open. If he had explicitly referred in those situations to Herakles, Achilleus, or Theseus, should we not expect that the earliest authors in particular, such as Ptolemaios, Aristoboulos, and Kallisthenes, who had participated in his campaigns, would have mentioned it? Of course, this is speculation e silentio. But in fact there are clear indications that Alexander increasingly conceived of himself not only as a paradigmatic imitator, nor only as a genealogical successor, but as a hero of his own, equal to the great protagonists of myth. Particularly significant is his relation to the Dioskouroi. Before the banquet which eventually led to the murder of Kleitos, Alexander is reported to have made a sacrifice to the twin heroes: according to Arrian, ‘for some reason or other, this came to his mind’.31 In the subsequent conversations some of his companions flattered him by saying that the deeds of the Dioskouroi, and even those of Herakles, were not comparable with his own achievements. In fact, however, the Dioskouroi were not particularly convincing paradigms for Alexander to identify with, nor did their dual number comply with Alexander’s basic uniqueness. On the other hand, however, this sacrifice was not a single momentary action, for the great painter Apelles painted a famous picture of Alexander, crowned by Nike, standing between the Dioskouroi.32 Obviously the heroic twins, being the sons of Zeus, were chosen in order to attribute the same rank to Alexander. With his claim of being an offspring of Zeus, Alexander was also equal to Herakles, and even more to Achilleus, who would likewise have been Zeus’ son, if the father of the gods had not withdrawn from Achilleus’ mother Thetis because of an oracle saying that she would give birth to a son who would surpass his father in strength and power. Alexander was not only the genealogical successor of these heroes but at the same time their (quasi) ‘brother’. In this sense, the following observations and reflections will focus on two specific aspects of Alexander that reveal the essence of his personality – not, however, his individual psyche but his public role: on the one hand his ‘image’, on the other hand his biography. Both notions do not focus on contingent reality but on conceptual construction: not Alexander’s factual physique and physiognomy, but his intended public appearance; not the multifarious course of his life but the conceptual order and sequence of his public roles.

31 32

Arr. Anab. 4.8.2–3; Plut. Alex. 50.4. Plin. NH 35.93–94.

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IMAGE AND BIOGRAPHY BETWEEN CONTINGENT REALITY AND INTENTIONAL CONCEPTUALISATION: PRELIMINARY REMARKS

Here, again, some theoretical preliminaries seem to be appropriate. Alexander’s visual appearance is known to us only from his portraits and through written descriptions; his life is only attested in the form of literary texts. This poses problems of methodology. Regarding the art of portraiture as well as the literary genre of biography, scholars now agree that these are basically interpretative products, presenting the visual appearance and the factual course of life of individual persons from the perspective, i.e. according to the conceptual categories and the intended messages of their authors. Modern theories of the media and of constructivism make these insights irreversible. As a consequence, historians either try to find out, through critical analysis, the author’s intention in order to uncover the underlying reality of the historical ‘Lebenswelt’: this is the normal procedure with biographies. Or they take the artistic/linguistic product in its specific medium as the only accessible reality, without any possibility to penetrate to some kind of real historical ‘Lebenswelt’ behind it: this is the way portraits are normally dealt with. This aporia can be resolved by a theoretical reflection on what is meant by ‘reality’33. The reality of the ‘Lebenswelt’ is not a pre-given contingent fact which is transformed by ‘art’ into some meaningful cultural product, text or image, for the reality of the ‘Lebenswelt’ itself is already a product of cultural conceptualisation. On the one hand, human beings perceive the reality of the ‘Lebenswelt’ in the categories of their cultural systems, on the other hand they shape their ‘Lebenswelt’ according to the concepts of the culture in which they live. In this sense, the real ‘Lebenswelt’ is a construct: a medium in which we perceive, and through which we express cultural meaning. Therefore, representations of the ‘Lebenswelt’ in art and literature are not transformations of meaningless material reality into a fundamentally different product of cultural meaning – an assumption that inevitably creates problems of uncovering the underlying reality: they are translations of meaning from the medium of the conceptually shaped ‘Lebenswelt’ into the conceptualising media of literary texts and visual forms. These general considerations become immediately evident in the concrete visual appearances as well as in the paths of life of individuals in specific societies. Both are strongly moulded by cultural concepts. Human beings, as social actors, shape their appearance and behaviour in many ways: by clothes, jewellery and attributes, hairstyle, beard or beardlessness, cosmetics and skin decoration, mimics and gestures, postures and movements. Thereby they express social roles and claims, personal character, occasional psychological states and reactions, or intentional messages. By such visual self-styling humans present themselves as living images. 33

On what follows see Hölscher 2016 and 2018, 209–211, 217–228. See also the thoughtful reflections on ‘art and reality’ in A. Cohen 2010, 17–19.

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Likewise, human lives are shaped by cultural models and social structures: by concepts of gender differences, by the order of age classes, by social and political grouping, and by the expectations regarding the roles and forms of behaviour connected with these structures. Individual biographies are strongly moulded by such conceptual models. ALEXANDER’S APPEARANCE AND SELF-PRESENTATION

The portraits of Alexander, in particular those created in his own lifetime, are strikingly different from each other. From such diverging versions no reliable idea of his individual physiognomy can be deduced. Obviously, these variants are expressions of diverging views of patrons, artists and their public regarding Alexander’s character and his public role. These differences have been fully explored in former scholarship and are set aside here.34 All of his portraits, however, follow one and the same basic type which apparently goes back to Alexander’s real appearance. To sum it up briefly: he is beardless and wears full curly locks, raising over his forehead in the form of the so-called anastole and falling down to his neck. Long hair, together with a beardless youthful face, constitute the appearance of a bright youthful hero. In art, this was the appearance of youthful gods and heroes, like Apollon and Helios, Achilleus and Theseus. Raising forelocks, in general, were understood, and used in art, as a sign of physical strength: in wild disorder for giants, satyrs, also for Poseidon, in majestic symmetry for mighty father gods, such as Zeus or Asklepios. Alexander’s anastole, in particular, was interpreted as an indication of his lion-like manliness. In addition, some further traits were considered characteristic of him: the emphatic turn of his head towards one side, directing his gaze into a far distance, and the vivid glow of his ‘humid’ eyes, both appropriate expressions of the great conqueror’s pothos and pathos. At the time, such images of a king and army-leader were a sensation without precedents. Leading statesmen of classical times, like Perikles, had been represented as bearded middle-aged dignitaries, embodying paternal authority. Alexander’s father Philipp II still had followed this model. Alexander, it is true, had indeed come to power at a very young age, but normally beardless young men of the age of junior citizens, neoi, were portrayed with the short-cut hair of athletes. How consciously Alexander broke away from this model becomes clear from his representations together with Hephaistion: His companion is short-haired, he himself wears

34

On the portraits of Alexander see in particular: Hölscher 1971; Stewart 1993; Reinsberg 2004; Hölscher 2009; von den Hoff 2014; Dorka Moreno 2019.

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long heroic locks. It was a unique programmatic appearance which Alexander significantly kept in his iconography until the end of his life.35 Yet, although the elements of Alexander’s portraits were pre-given in earlier representations of youthful gods and heroes, he is not assimilated thereby to any specific divine or mythic figure. Alexander is depicted as a hero of his own, with his characteristic combination of youthful brightness and manly vigour, and in this visual form he became vice-versa a powerful model for later images of youthful heroes.36 The historical power of this heroic type, however, was founded in the fact that this image was not confined to art but was embodied by Alexander himself in his actual appearance. This is, firstly, to be concluded from his portraits: if the most diverging variants of his images coincide in the afore-mentioned fundamental traits, then there is a high degree of probability that these correspond to his real appearance. Secondly, and even more important: if Alexander wanted to be represented in his portraits as a youthful hero, beardless and with long hair, then he could easily realise this ‘image’ also in his physical apparition. Thirdly, confirmation comes from written sources reporting that Hellenistic rulers like Demetrios Poliorketes and Roman imperatores like Pompey aimed to imitate Alexander’s appearance, referring obviously not to his images but to his real physical look.37 Fourthly, and in the same vein, Alexander’s beardlessness was soon received in the entire Hellenistic world as the normal male fashion: this too must have been caused by his real visual appearance, not only by his portrait statues. This habitus of a young ‘heroic’ ruler was formed in a reciprocal interplay between art and life. Alexander followed the ‘image’-type of youthful mythical heroes which basically existed in imagination and in works of art. But he transformed this imagined ‘image’ in his real corporeal appearance into a living being – and thereby, vice versa, he strongly influenced not only the forms of real­life self­ styling among his followers but also the representation of mythical heroes and living rulers in art. This unprecedented heroic image of Alexander is first attested in his early portrait type represented by replicas from the Athenian Akropolis and at Erbach (fig. 1).38 Its For Alexander’s self-stylisation, beardless and with long hair, see Hölscher 1971 and 2009; Alonso Troncoso 2010. Alexander and Hephaistion: Stewart 1993, 209–214, 338 –339 , fig. 72, 136, 144–145, 146–153. – Before Alexander, long hair is exceptionally worn by one of the – anonymous! – young horsemen on the Parthenon frieze: the ideal was ‘in the air’. 36 Hölscher 1971. 37 Imitatio Alexandri: see above n. 8. 38 Stewart 1993 , 106 –110 ; Dorka Moreno 2019 , 52 –56 . Dorka Moreno denies any ‘decidedly heroic or even divine connotation’ in the Akropolis type, interpreting it as a purely youthful appearance, an exemplary model of Athenian youths. This, however, means to negate the very exceptional character of this portrait type – which cannot be disproved by two single (and equally exceptional) horsemen on the Parthenon frieze and on a recently discovered grave relief. Like these figures, the Akropolis Alexander is elevated by his appearance above the normative 35

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Fig. 1: Portrait of Alexander the Great. Athens, Akropolis Museum, Inv. 1331. Late Hellenistic copy after original of ca. 340–336 BC (Greece). Photo Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Athen.

approximate date can be fixed on the basis of its style to around 340–330 BC. The age of the young king, as he is represented here – which in Greek portraits is not a very reliable indication – at least does not contradict this. A more precise date of the Akropolis-Erbach type, before the campaign against Persia, can be derived from a comparison with other portraits: Alexander looks younger here than in his later portraits by Lysippos which seem to have originated in Asia Minor and Egypt and thus must date to ca. 330 BC (fig. 2–3). This is confirmed by this type’s Attic character: Alexander is characterised as a beautiful youth, of charming charis, in the habitus of classical youthful Athenians, and in the style of Athenian workshops. Conceptually, this portrait belongs to the early phase of Alexander’s life: after his departure to Asia his portraits are more stamped by the dynamic concept and style of Lysippos. Most type of athletic youths, not in the religious sense of ‘heroic’ or ‘divine’ status, but in the sense of a striking heroic (‘heldenhafte’) appearance.

Mythical Models of Alexander’s Image and Biography

Fig. 2: Portrait of Alexander the Great. München, Glyptothek, loan Schwarzenberg. Roman copy after original of ca. 334–330 BC (Asia Minor?). Photo Hubert Vögele after plaster cast Institut für Klassische Archäologie der Universität Heidelberg.

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Fig. 3: Portrait of Alexander the Great. Paris, Musée du Louvre, Inv. MA 436. Roman copy after original of ca. 330 BC (Alexandria?). Photo Archive T. Hölscher.

probably, the original portrait statue of the Akropolis-Erbach type was created and erected somewhere in Greece, most likely in Athens, either after Chaironeia in 338 or at Alexander’s accession to the throne in 336 BC.39 The time when Alexander, in contrast to his companions, adopted this hairstyle in his real appearance can only approximately be determined. The most likely moment is his transition into the class of ephebes which, at least in Athens but most probably also in other places, was celebrated with a sacrifice of the long children’s hair and the adoption of the short athletes’ haircut. At this age Alexander might have started his divergence from the normal hairstyle of young men and his adoption of a new ‘heroic’ image. 39

This is the communis opinio in recent scholarship. Identification with one of the attested images, e.g. on the Athenian Agora or in the Philippeion at Olympia, is not impossible but difficult to prove.

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ALEXANDER’S HEROIC BIOGRAPHY

A confirmation of these results can be found in the conceptual structure of Alexander’s biography. This structure is modelled, beyond the contingent vicissitudes of his extraordinary life, by a traditional order of age classes and their respective social roles. In this sense, Alexander was a most ‘successful designer of a life lived as a project’.40 As a premise, it is instructive to have a look at the concepts of age classes in early Greek communities and in Greek myth. Details varied from place to place, but there was a basic structure.41 In historical times, the sons of polis citizens passed their childhood, as a pais, in their parents’ house, mostly in the care of their mother, in well-to-do families of a paidagogos. – Thereafter, in the age of adolescence, as ephebos, from 16 to 18, there followed a period of physical and social introduction into the world of adult men. In early times, as it is attested for Crete and for Sparta, the youths were sent out of the city to the far­off woods and mountains where they would develop their physical strength, by hunting animals and coping with the challenges of the wilderness. In Crete this was done in the company of an elder male companion who also had to introduce his youth into the social rules and norms of maleness. In later periods, this physical and social education was more and more transferred to the extra-urban gymnasia. At the end of this phase, at the age of 18 to 20, the young men were integrated into the community of citizens as full members.42 – There followed another phase, of ca. 10 to 12 years, as a neos, during which the young men continued living in their parents’ house, participating as junior citizens in the people’s assembly, and fighting as junior warriors for the safety and glory of their city, but also making their way in their social circles, and finally looking for a wife. – Only at the age of ca. 30, as aner, did they enter into full manhood, implying marriage, the foundation of their own household, and the capacity of taking on responsibility and magistracies in the citizen community. – At the age of 60, as geron, they used to retire from the tasks of the polis and the family. The same concept, just in bigger dimensions, was predominant in the life of mythical heroes. Sometimes, the course of their lives was disturbed or changed by the vicissitudes of individual destiny, but the basic pattern is always clear. It is the pattern observed in actual historical societies. Theseus passed his childhood at Troizen with his mother Aithra. In order to prove that he had reached the age of adolescence he heaved up a huge rock under which his father had hidden a sword and a pair of sandals, the symbols of manhood. 40 41 42

For a first sketch of what follows see Hölscher 2009, esp. 54–59. Quotation from A. Cohen

1995, 483.

See Garland 1990; DeCosta Leitao 1993; Kamen 2007; Timmer 2008; Özen­Kleine

2016.

For the phase of adolescence see Jeanmaire 1939; van Effenterre 1949; Willets 1955, 7–17; Brelich 1958, 124–129; Vidal­Naquet 1981; Brelich 1989, 196–207; Schnapp 1996; Lupi 2000; Waldner 2000, 82–101.

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In his phase as an ephebos he set out for Athens, accomplishing a series of heroic deeds against wild brigands and a monstrous sow. This was his way to the male world of his father who, at his arrival at Athens, received and recognised him as his son, heir, and future successor. Then, as an adult neos, Theseus committed himself to the community of Athens, liberating the territory from the devastations of the bull of Marathon, and accompanying the youths and maidens to Crete in order to overcome the Minotaur and to save Athens from the annual tribute of young life. There, he won the love of Ariadne, his potential wife – from whom, however, he is recalled, in order to assume the kingship of Athens.43 Perseus, having been exposed on the sea in a wooden chest, together with his mother Danaë, and being stranded on the island of Seriphos, was received and brought up by Diktys, a brother of the local king Polydektes. If Diktys was a fisher­ man, as later sources inform us, Perseus passed his childhood in the care of his mother and his phase as an ephebos with an educator in a liminal zone, at the seashore. Later, when Perseus had grown up and came with his mother to the palace, and when the king harassed the attractive woman, he courageously defended her, showing the qualities of a neos and a potential successor to the throne. As such he was sent out by the king in order to kill the Gorgo at the western edge of the world. At the end of this phase he freed the princess Andromeda from the terrible seadragon in far­off Ethiopia, took her as his wife, and after various adventures rightfully took possession of the kingship at Argos.44 Jason, as a pais and ephebos, was given by his father to the Centaur Chiron on Mount Pelion, who was the most famous educator of great heroes. At the age of 20, as a neos, he came back to his home city Iolkos and claimed the succession of the illegitimate king Pelias. So as to prove his valour he was sent out, together with a group of other youthful heroes, to Kolchis, at the eastern end of the world, in order to bring back the Golden Fleece. There he won the love of the king’s daughter Medeia and took her as his wife. He returned to Iolkos, and finally to Korinth, where he failed to marry the king’s daughter and to establish his rule.45 Finally, Achilleus. He too was given by his father Peleus to Chiron on Mount Pelion, becoming a famous mythical paradigm of ideal education, represented on a great number of archaic and early classical vases. Having grown up and reached the age of a young warrior, he participated in the war against Troy which lasted, not by chance, for ten years, corresponding to the life phase of a neos. At the end he comes up against Penthesilea, the queen of the Amazons, falling in love while he kills her. He dies at the threshold of full manhood, before marriage, before the final triumph over Troy, and without returning to Greece where he would have taken over the rule in his inherited land.46 Jeanmaire 1939, 228–383; Sourvinou­Inwood 1979; Neils 1987; Calame 1990. Schauenburg 1960; Topper 2007. 45 Clauss 1993. 46 Nagy 1979; Kossatz­Deissmann 1981; Hölscher 2019, 60–81.

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One could continue with other heroes, such as Bellerophon, Paris, not least with Herakles, whose path of life is, however, more complex. If we read Alexander’s biography against this backdrop of heroic lives, many common traits become apparent. Many of the great mythical heroes traced their lineage back to a god or goddess: Herakles and Perseus to Zeus, Achilleus to Thetis, Theseus to Poseidon, and so forth. It is well known how willingly Alexander accepted to be called, and later also himself pretended to be, the son of Zeus.47 From early on, Alexander’s life was conceived and formed according to the categories of age classes.48 According to Plutarch, Demosthenes called him a boy in the Illyrian War, and a youth in the Thessalian campaign, whereupon Alexander would have answered that in front of the city wall of Athens he might prove to be a man. Particularly remarkable, so Plutarch writes, was the fact that Alexander took over the Macedonian kingdom at the age of twenty, which was a traditional date of entering into the class of adult young men.49 Alexander’s education by high-ranking teachers, such as Leonidas and Lysimachos, is well attested. Particularly famous was the appointment of Aristotle who is said to have read the Iliad with him, as a preparation for his future as a warlord, but also to have taught him the art of healing.50 The place where this education was accomplished was not the royal palace at Pella but a remote sanctuary of the nymphs near Mieza, in the hilly inland of Macedonia where Pliny mentions a famous cave of stalactites.51 Without doubt, this was not an intimate situation of togetherness between the philosopher and the prince: obviously, Alexander was educated there together with other sons of elite families, and certainly there were various tutors providing them with a broad physical and intellectual education. The atmosphere of this remote place may be gathered from the hunt painting of the royal tomb of Vergina, with a group of naked youths on horseback.52 Nevertheless, the relation between Aristotle and Alexander must have been particularly important. All this is strongly reminiscent of the education of Achilleus by Chiron on Mount Pelion. The wise Centaur, too, was reported to have taught his pupils not only the practice of hunting but also the art of healing and of playing the lyre.53 The literary sources do not suggest an explicit reference between the historical and the mythical couple of

47 48 49 50 51

52 53

See Bosworth 1988a, 282–284. For Macedonian age classes see Hatzopoulos 1996a. Plut. Alex. 11.1–6. Plut. Alex. 7–8. Trampedach 1994, 54–55 reduces the influence of Aristotle on Alexander, without negating it totally. On the alleged portrait set up by Alexander see Voutiras 1987. Plin. NH 31.30. – For the city of Mieza and the site of the (extra-urban) sanctuary see Petsas 1966, 5–12; Papazoglou 1988, 150–152; Billot 1989; Errington 2000. Bosworth 1988a, 20 speaks of a ‘miniature Academy’; yet, Plato’s Academy was a periurban place while Mieza was located in the eschatiá. Saatsoglou­Paliadeli 2004; Borza / Palagia 2007; Franks 2012. For sources and images see Kossatz­Deissmann 1981, nr. 19–93, pp. 40–42, 53–55. For the comparison with Alexander and Aristotle see already Ameling 1988, 667–668.

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teacher and pupil, but they clearly testify that the constellation of persons surrounding the young Alexander was seen in mythical dimensions: Lysimachos was highly esteemed at the royal court ‘because he referred to himself as Phoinix, to Alexander as Achilleus, and to Philipp as Peleus’.54 Alexander and Aristotle at Mieza were not mirror images of Achilleus and Chiron on Mount Pelion, but they were, as a presenttime constellation, commensurable to the mythical couple of teacher and disciple. Alexander’s first proof of his unique manly prowess was given by his mastering and taming the wild stallion Boukephalos.55 By this deed, too, he showed himself as equal to the greatest heroes of myth. At the same age, Theseus had proved, by heaving up the mighty rock, to have reached the stage of a grown-up ephebos; Bellerophon had tamed, to demonstrate his forces as an adult neos, the winged horse Pegasos; Herakles had strangled, as his first deed, the Nemean lion; later he had overcome the furious horses of the Thracian king Diomedes. These are Alexander’s mythic prototypes of heroic proofs of manhood. At the same time, however, Alexander had won a unique symbol of his social and royal rank. The Cretan ephebes received at the end of their phase of adolescence significant symbols of their new social status: a cup for the symposion, a rich cloth for religious festivals, and a bull for sacrificing it to the gods;56 Theseus found under the rock a sword and a pair of sandals for his adventurous journey to Athens. By mastering Boukephalos, Alexander overcame a stallion of mythical wildness, and at the same time appropriated it for himself, almost as an animal double of himself. In this sense the taming of Boukephalos was not an imitation of a specific mythical model but a first mytho­ poietic act of autonomous heroism. When Alexander, being twenty years old, succeeded his father on the throne of Macedonia, he was actually only at the age of the neoi, the junior warriors. Regarding his conceptual biography, it is most significant that he adopted precisely this role: by starting his great military campaign which eventually lasted ten years like the phase of the neoi, the junior warriors of Greek cities, but also like the archetypical campaign of the mythical heroes against Troy. All in all, these ten years were a manifestation of heroism in mythical dimensions. In his great battles Alexander combatted, against every normal practice of this time, at the head of his troops, striving for a personal encounter with the enemy, especially with the Persian king.57 While this might be understood as an imitation of Homeric heroes, his daring assault on the city wall of the Malloi was a manifestation of his own individual heroism.58 In his royal hunts he used to expose himself to lions in a direct encounter, as Herakles had fought against beasts and monsters or Theseus Plut. Alex. 5.5. Plut. Alex. 6. 56 Strab. 10.4.21. 57 Arr. Anab. 1.14.7, 1.15.3, 1.28.6, 2.10.3, 2.11.7, 3.14.2, 4.4.5, 5.13.2, 5.16.4; Plut. Alex. 9.2, 16.2–5, 20.4–5, 33.3–4. Hölscher 1973, 152–153; Lendon 2005, 118–119 and passim. 58 Arr. Anab. 6.7.4–6; Plut. Alex. 63. Lendon 2005, 133–136. 54 55

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against the Minotaur.59 Here again, Alexander presented himself in actions that are not to be understood as imitations of specific mythical heroes but as mythopoietic acts of his own. The most obvious act of this heroic autonomy was to cut the Gordian knot. This symbolic deed, by which he set the course of the whole future campaign, was an act of mythical dimensions for which he had no specific mythical precedent at all.60 The same is evident in Alexander’s notorious emotional habitus: on the one hand in his excessive outbursts of violence, such as the murder of Kleitos;61 on the other hand in his emphatic demonstrations of nobleness and magnanimity, especially towards the captured women of the Persian royal family;62 or else in his pathetic rituals of spectacular sacrifices, not only to the traditional gods but also – at a solar eclipse before the battle of Gaugamela – to the Sun, the Moon, and the Earth; not to speak of his excessive mourning and the overwhelming funeral for Hephaistion.63 On the other hand, the whole campaign was marked by continuous omens and miracles, confirming the uniqueness of Alexander’s heroic power.64 When he advanced into ever more distant lands, Alexander exposed himself to immense physical effort and strain, like Herakles. When he was about to conquer Sogdiana, his seer Aristandros predicted the expected strain even by the interpretation of an omen.65 Alexander had to ask for directions when going to unknown far-distant lands, through wasteland and desert, as Perseus had asked the Graiai for his path to the Gorgo and Herakles old Nereus for his way to the Hesperids. Like Herakles, he encountered peoples of frightening strangeness and got knowledge of the threatening tribes of the warlike Amazons.66 Like Herakles, Iason, Perseus and Bellerophon he reached far­off liminal zones which in many aspects are described as the ‘end of the world’.67 There he had to fight against the gigantic elephants with their spear-throwing riders,68 no less terrifying than the monstrous opponents of the heroes of myth, Geryon with his three armed bodies, Gorgo Medousa with her petrifying face, the composite beast of the Chimaira, or the dragon of Kolchis. Yet again this was not an imitation of individual mythical models but a manifestation of mythical equality.

59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68

Arr. Anab. 4.13.2; Plut. Alex. 2, 40.3–4. Curt. 8.1.11–19, 8.6.7. On monuments of Alexander hunting, see A. Cohen 1995; Zenzen 2018, 158–167. On the Gordian knot see below p. 42. Arr. Anab. 4.8.1–4.9.9; Plut. Alex. 51–52. Bosworth 1988a, 114–116. Arr. Anab. 2.12.1–8; Plut. Alex. 21.1–5. Arr. Anab. 3.7.6. See Trampedach, this volume. Arr. Anab. 4.15.7–8; Plut. Alex. 57.4–5. Trampedach 2015, 108–109. See n. 28. Plut. Alex. 66.1; see also Arr. Anab. 3.20.4. Arr. Anab. 5.10.1–2, 5.11.4, 15.6–7, 17.3–7. Poros’ elephants are reported to have especially terrorised the Macedonian horses.

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Towards the end of his campaign Alexander met the Sogdian princess Rhoxane, allegedly the most beautiful woman of Asia, with whom he celebrated a fabulous and spectacular wedding feast: a historical counterpart of such heroes’ brides from distant lands as Andromeda, Medea, and Ariadne.69 His most intimate friend and companion Hephaistion took on the role of the bride’s male attendant, as Patroklos had promised to bring the captive Briseis to Achilleus as his bride. Only later, after his return to Babylon, at the age of thirty, he took on the role of a monarch, residing in an imperial capital, receiving embassies from all parts of the world, and striving to establish stable imperial structures.70 His early death, likening him further to Achilleus, was of course not intended in his heroic role, but as a result was not totally surprising: in the Greek concept of human destiny even the greatest heroes were exposed to the fate of death. Of course, all this could not have been planned from the beginning. But from early on, and in all stages of his life, Alexander conceived his role according to a conceptual pattern, which step by step resulted in an archetypal great biography. In their basic structures of age classes the life courses of polis citizens and mythical heroes correspond to each other. But in their dimensions the lives of the great heroes by far exceed the normal measure of historical periods. In this regard, Alexander is on the side of myth. It is this super-human dimension that is expressed in his alleged saying when he was asked whether he was willing to contend in the foot-race at the Olympic games: yes, if I could have kings as my contenders. He belonged to the age class of swift-footed athletes, but on the level of Achilleus.71 FROM EARLY ON?

The crucial question in this context is, how and when, under which conditions and on the basis of which experiences, Alexander conceived his claim to world dominion and his role as a universal ruler. Many scholars opt for a stepwise development, with a decisive change in 333 BC, after the battle of Issos: in this view, his first victory over Dareios III opened up the perspective of the succession to the throne of the Persian Great Kings entailing the claim to universal power. Correspondingly, from this time on Alexander would have developed forms and practices of public representation of the Persian kings and shaped his role as a ruler over the Macedonians and Greeks as well as over the peoples of the Achaimenid Empire. The merit – and perhaps also the goal – of this interpretation is to make Alexander’s radical break with his roots in the Greek world rationally understandable, as the formation of a new political role that was based on real experiences of military and political events and processes. His starting-point would be the plan of a Arr. Anab. 4.19.5–6; Plut. Alex. 47.4. Which, of course, did not prevent him from planning new wars of conquest. 71 Plut. Alex. 4.5; see Mann, this volume. 69 70

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war against Persia, inherited from Philip II, and conceived in Greek traditions of revenge for the sacrileges of the classical Persian Wars – until his victory at Issos suggested to him the idea of invincibility and world-wide rule. Such rational explanations of extraordinary facts are understandably attractive – yet one may doubt whether Alexander can really be explained in this way. Philip’s military objectives were probably rather limited: above all the liberation of the Greek cities of Asia Minor, and moreover, possibly, the creation of a zone of security against the Persian Empire. The fact that Alexander ‘inherited’ Philip’s war plans is often interpreted in the sense that he also took over his father’s limited aims. This assumption, however, requires no less justification than every other interpretation. In fact, some of the phenomena that have been dealt with above, to which other ones could be added, seem to suggest that these later ‘developments’ were rather implied and rooted in his unique heroism from early on, and that this was not only a matter of ‘rational’ motivations – whatever ‘rationality’ may mean in this context. The question of the origins of Alexander’s self-concept of a young hero entails the well-known problems of the reliability of the written sources and the precise chronology of the artistic testimonies. In this situation it is important not simply to resort to hypercriticism or total agnosticism but to look for plausible solutions. On the one hand, some traditions may arouse scepticism, such as Alexander’s alleged youthful indignation over his father’s military achievements since they would reduce his own claims to heroic glory.72 But on the other hand there is a number of testimonies that cannot be dismissed. Alexander’s heroic image marked by beardlessness with anastole and long hair, by which he distinguished himself from the short-cut hairstyle of Macedonian youths, is attested, in his portraits with a high degree of probability before his start for the Persian campaign, either after Chaironeia in 338 or after his accession to the throne in 336 BC. As for the underlying real hairstyle, it is at least plausible that he adopted it when he entered the age of ephebos, around 340 BC, and was elevated to the rank of a vice­ruler, κύριος τῶν πραγμάτων, endowed with the royal seal.73 At this time, at the latest, Alexander seems to have developed a sort of hero-like ambitions. Alexander’s education by Aristotle in the distant sanctuary of Mieza must have taken place ca. 343–340 BC. Although this was not an exclusive interaction between one great tutor and one privileged pupil, but rather an education within a circle of noble Macedonian youths by a group of teachers, a certain focus must have been put on the exceptional interrelation between the famous philosopher and the royal prince. It is plausible to recognise here the model of education of great mythical heroes. Aristotle, as is well-known, read Homer’s Iliad with his pupil, making him acquainted with the heroes of the Trojan myth, and on the other hand must have introduced him to a universal perspective of the world which was not limited to the 72 73

Plut. Alex. 5.1–3. Plut. Alex. 9.1.

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space of Greek poleis but embraced the entire kosmos to the end of the world. In the young heir of the by far greatest power of the Greek world, the pathos of mythical warrior values in combination with a ‘global’ world view could arouse phantasies of unprecedented reach. Shortly afterwards, Aristotle composed a hymn to Hermias, the tyrant of Atarneus, put to death by the Persian king Artaxerxes, comparing him with the great heroes Herakles and the Dioskouroi, Achilleus and Ajax: there can be no doubt that this was the tone in which the philosopher had inspired the heroic ambitions of the Macedonian prince before.74 The taming of Boukephalos, at the age of an ephebe, is rooted, like the education by Aristotle, in contemporary social practice. Other noble Macedonian youths, too, will have mastered vehement horses and proved to be brave riders. Yet Alexander stands out among them in that this accomplishment of him was recognised and exalted as a gigantic performance of unique mythical character. The origin of this exaltation, whether in Alexander’s youth or at a later date, is difficult to fix, but it seems less probable that a normal social practice was later raised to a mythical level than that Alexander, when he tamed the particularly fiery stallion, with the unique name of ‘bull’s head’, from the beginning aroused some amazement and admiration comparable to the heroes of myth. Immediately after his father’s death, in 336 BC, when Alexander ascended the throne, his ambition to equal the Homeric Achilleus was so widely known that Demosthenes could achieve some public effect by ridiculing him for this (see above). When Alexander crossed the Hellespont to Asia he performed, as is well-known, a series of symbolic actions through which he manifested his very high and farreaching political ambitions. By making a sacrifice to Protesilaos before crossing over and, like the Homeric hero, jumping first from the ship onto the Asian mainland, he accomplished the transition in the dimensions of a transition from Europe to Asia. By throwing his spear from the ship into the Asian soil he claimed Asia, without limits, as his spear-won, doriktetos, possession. By performing, from the ship, a further sacrifice to Poseidon, he responded to the sacrifice of Xerxes to Helios, one and a half centuries before, by which the Persian King had claimed the possession of the whole of Europe. When he subsequently visited Troy, making sacrifices to Achilleus and the other Achaian heroes, this implied not only the succession and imitation of the mythical Greek victors but also the destruction of an empire and the extinction of its royal family.75 At the same time he made a sacrifice to Priamos, on the one hand to expiate the murder of the Trojan king by his ancestor Neoptolemos, on the other hand claiming the succession as ruler of ‘Asia’. It would have been quite incommensurable with such wide-ranging perspectives if Alexander had ful-

Diog. Laert. 5.7–8; Ath. 15.696a–e. Green 2003; Ford 2011. I am grateful to Hans-Joachim Gehrke for indicating this testimony to me. 75 Arr. Anab. 1.11.5–8; Diod. 17.17.2; Instinsky 1949; Zahrnt 1996. 74

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filled them only by the limited liberation of a marginal region of the Persian Empire, leaving his great adversary more or less in power. Cutting the knot in the pole of Gordias’ chariot at Gordion was a symbol of the highest and most far­reaching significance. As for the authenticity of this act, one must not necessarily believe in a previous oracle saying that whoever would untie the knot would become the ruler of Asia: Alexander can very well have put this prophecy into circulation himself. But there is no serious reason to doubt that he actually performed at Gordion an act of spectacular symbolic impact. Arrian explicitly refers to the earliest and most reliable authors, most probably eyewitnesses of the event: some authors, among whom certainly Ptolemaios, say that he cut the knot, while Aristoboulos had him pull out the peg from the pole. Whichever version we follow, and whatever later authors may have added to the tradition, the core of this unique story makes sense only in the local context of Gordion and in the presence of its protagonist. To assume that the entire story was invented later would not only be absolutely unjustified but even highly improbable.76 Thus, at Gordion Alexander made a most far-reaching symbolic claim immediately before the imminent encounter with the army of Dareios III which, moreover, stood in a most significant tradition. More than two centuries earlier, the famous oracle given to the Lydian king Kroisos had defined the encounter with the Persians as an ‘either – or’ of the rule over the world. Kroisos had interpreted it as a prophecy that he would destroy the Persian Empire, whereas in the end it was his own empire that was destined to be destroyed.77 The old capital of the Phrygians, the predecessors of the Lydians as rulers of Western Asia Minor, was the appropriate place for Alexander’s manifestation of an ‘either – or’ regarding the rule over Asia. After Issos it was obvious that for Alexander the only possible future was to eliminate the rule of the Achaimenid kings and to become the successor to their throne. At this moment, however, when he had to present himself to the population of Asia, a brand-new stylisation as a genuine Greek hero, whether initiated by himself or by his followers, would not have been particularly promising. This shows again that his heroic image must have been conceived earlier. As a result, Alexander’s heroism seems to have originated in the high-spirited atmosphere of the Macedonian court around the successor prince and his noble companions, educated by inspiring teachers, inciting the responsive and impetuous prince to grand ambitions and soaring plans. In the course of time, this general heroic attitude was shaped step by step into a multifaceted character of a contemporary hero equivalent to the great heroes of myth. Then, after his victories against the Great king and his accession to their throne this concept was further widened into a god-like world rule. Yet, the foundations of all this were laid early in his life. Arr. Anab. 2.3.1–8; Curt. 3.1.14–18; Just. Epit. 11.7.3–16; Plut. Alex. 18.1–2; Marsyas (FGrHist 135/136) F 4. Schmidt 1959; Fredricksmeyer 1961; Kraft 1971, 84– 92; Bosworth 1980b, 184–188 and 1988a, 53–54. 77 Hdt. 1.53. 76

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Who may have conceived this idea of Alexander’s heroic role?78 Since explicit information is lacking this is a matter of speculation on probabilities. In principle, the vision of ‘great’ royal heroism must have been a product of three concentric social agents. The first, fundamental factor must have been Alexander’s own individual character: high­spirited, quickly inflammable, and immensely ambitious. The second factor was his immediate social environment: his teachers who inspired him for the world of Homeric heroes, and the royal court which supported such aspirations. A third precondition was the entire social and mental context of this time in which extraordinary individuals with ‘super-human’ qualities were widely hoped for and acknowledged, as was increasingly the case in fourth century BC Greece. ALEXANDER’S ‘GREATNESS’

As is well-known, historical judgments on Alexander, ancient as well as modern, are particularly controversial, from admiration of his world-shaking achievements to condemnation of his destructive violence and his unrestrained furious character. Such diverging views are understandable, well-intentioned, but based on personal judgements, and therefore without any objective solution. What is more or less beyond such debates, however, is Alexander’s epithet ‘the Great’. Why? The type of a hero which was pre­figured in the mythical past and reborn in Alexander had grown in a cultural space beyond ethical or moral coordinates. Greek heroes are neither ‘good’ nor exemplary, they are just excessively ‘great’. Herakles’ life oscillated between his salvation deeds against beasts and monsters on the one hand and his furious atrocities against innocent victims on the other. Achilleus’ bright heroism is inseparable from his dark violent furor. The same goes for their historical counterpart Alexander ‘the Great’, but also for many later powerful individuals to whom contemporaries and posterity have attested historical ‘greatness’. They are measured solely by how much they have put into motion in world history: in this sense, Arrian motivates his decision to write on Alexander, without any ethical qualification, because ‘no other individual man among Greeks and Barbarians had accomplished so many and such immense deeds’.79 There even were voices, such as the philosopher Anaxarchos, saying that all deeds accomplished by great rulers were eo ipso rightful.80 The question of the judgements underlying the qualification of ‘greatness’ has been answered by Jacob Burckhardt without any illusions:81 ‘If the point at issue This question was insistently raised at the conference by Matthias Haake. Arr. Anab. 1.12.4. For Arrian’s different personal position see Anab. 4.7.4–5 where he states that even the greatest heroic deeds and achievements, like those of Alexander, are no valuable contribution to human eudaimonia if they are not controlled by sophrosyne. 80 Arr. Anab. 4.9.7–8. 81 Burckhardt 1979 , chapter 5 . German original: Burckhardt 1978 , 151 –180 , on ‘Die historische Größe’. 78 79

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here is the nature of greatness, we must, first and foremost, be on our guard against the idea that what we have to describe is a moral ideal, for in history the great individual is not set up as an example, but as an exception’. And further: ‘The great man in history, however, regards it as his prime duty to stand his ground and increase his power, and power never yet improved a man’. In this sense ‘we become aware of the great man’s strange exemption from the ordinary moral code’. ‘The crimes of the man, therefore, who bestows on a community greatness, power, and glory, are condoned.’ Unique power and superiority, abnormous volition and strong impact on ‘a whole nation, a whole civilisation, humanity itself’, ‘fulfill much that is only possible to him’, whether for salvation or disaster: all this is implied and pre­figured in Achilleus’ ‘besthood’ – in Homer’s phrase: in his will ‘always to be the best and superior to the others’. Burckhardt still connects this character with ‘greatness of soul’ (‘Seelengröße’) and ‘morality’ (‘Sittlichkeit’) and considers it as highly desirable ‘that the great man should be shown in conscious relationship to the spirit, to the culture of his time’ – but there is a strong tendency in this spirit of agonistic competition towards an autonomous concept of ‘greatness’. In Alexander this concept was implanted, by his own ambition as well as by projections of his environment, from his youth on. Legitimacy? Legitimation? To the ancient Greeks heroic greatness, beyond good and bad, was a self-evident measure of glory. Herodotos had founded historiography as an exploration and commemoration of ‘great and astounding deeds’, ἔργα μεγάλα τε καὶ θωμαστά. Alexander fulfilled this measure like no other. Many admired him, many suffered from him. But his glory was undisputed.

2 STAGING CHARISMA: ALEXANDER AND DIVINATION* Kai Trampedach Surprisingly, although divination is a prominent theme in the sources on Alexander, it remains neglected in the scholarly literature. A comprehensive survey of all the evidence remains a desideratum.1 Various articles address certain aspects of the topic, such as Alexander’s most important seer, Aristandros of Telmessos,2 and, of course, famous episodes (like the crossing of the Hellespont or the trip to Siwah). Recently Hugh Bowden, in consciously limiting himself to historiography, adopts what appears to me to be a minimalistic approach. According to Bowden, ‘Arrian’s generally positive representation of divination is in keeping with references to divination in the work of his Stoic teacher Epictetus’. Bowden concludes: ‘We should therefore see the depiction of divination and diviners in the Anabasis as being deliberately created by Arrian, rather than merely reflecting what he found in the sources he used’.3 Does this mean that Arrian invented the episodes he is narrating? This is impossible, since in most cases they are also known from other, earlier sources. Or, should we conclude that Arrian selected stories that appealed to him and presented them in a certain way (which would be a rather trifling conclusion)? On account of his hyper-critical scepticism of the sources, Bowden simply excludes the questions I am interested in: What kind of divination did Alexander perform – and in what way? And what were his intentions in doing so? *

1

2 3

The evidence on which this paper is based will be discussed in greater detail in a forthcoming book on Alexander’s handling of divination and athletics, written in German together with Christian Mann. I thank John N. Dillon for the revision of my English text, Alexander Meeus and Manuela Mari for their valuable suggestions and comments. The unpublished dissertation by Carol King on ‘Alexander and divination’ deals only with dreams and omens, deliberately (but without good reason) excluding oracles from her study: cf. King 2004, 7. The new ‘religious’ biography of Naiden 2019 stresses Alexander’s religious role (including divination) in an excessive, lurid, and simplistic way. Since Naiden does not bother with source­criticism or any methodological reflection, I shall abstain from discussing his often flawed assertions here in detail; I shall address them elsewhere in a forthcoming book review. C. Robinson 1929; Greenwalt 1982; Landucci 1993; Nice 2005. Bowden 2017, 156. The relationship between the passages he cites (n. 45: Epict. Ench. 32, Disc. 1.17, 2.7) and the representation of divination in Arrian’s Anabasis is by no means clear; cf. Brandt 2015, 217: ‘Dem weitverbreiteten Glauben an das Wahrsagen wird innerhalb der epiktetischen Philosophie eine spezifische Funktion zugesprochen: Ench. 32 kanalisiert die Anwendung der Wahrsagekunst so, dass sie im Privaten nur im äußersten Notfall zurate zu ziehen ist.’ Epiktetos says nothing about public divination.

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FORMS, OCCASIONS, AND SPECIALISTS OF DIVINATION

That Alexander made use of divination is certain. Despite their differing assessments, all sources agree that Alexander placed a premium on communication with the gods and showed profound respect for divination. Alexander accordingly offered sacrifice on a regular basis, both in civil and military contexts. He not only performed special sacrifices when opening festivals, agones, parades, and banquets, but also made sacrifice regularly every morning.4 Citing the ephemerides, the official diary of the royal court, Plutarch and Arrian report that in his final days, when he was already seriously ill, the king was carried daily in a litter to the altars so that he could fulfil his ritual duties.5 Alexander made particularly lavish sacrifices at the Hellespont when he crossed to Asia, on the Hydaspes (Jhelum) when he set out on his voyage to the Indian Ocean, and at sea at the voyage’s end. We also learn that he consulted sacrificial signs before crossing rivers, before battle, and during sieges, as well as on the occasion of founding sanctuaries (Sardes) and cities (Alexandria ad Aegyptum). He visited and promoted cult sites everywhere he encountered them in his travels, where he worshipped the gods in their locally conventional manner. In Egypt and Babylon, he ordered that the temples be repaired or rebuilt. In this context, he performed sacrifices according to the instructions he received from the native priests. He had his divinatory entourage carefully record spontaneous omens of all kinds – from weather phenomena to notable birds, to misshapen new-borns and miracles – and had ritual experts respond as needed with appropriate expiatory sacrifices. Hence, there was no shortage of divinatory specialists in Alexander’s retinue. These people are often described collectively in the historical tradition as μάντεις or vates. The sources moreover mention four of them by name, among whom Aristandros of Telmessos is by far the most important.6 Alexander also apparently sought out the expertise of foreign specialists.7 We hear of Egyptians,8 Babylonians or Chaldaians, magoi,9 and even an anonymous Syrian ecstatic prophetess and the Indian gymnosophist Kalanos.10 Alexander was also apparently open to messages 4 5 6 7 8 9

10

Edmunds 1971, 368–372; Fredricksmeyer 2003, esp. 256–258. Plut. Alex. 75.3–76.4; Arr. Anab. 7.24.4–26.3; Ael. VH 3.23. Berve 1926 I, 90: Aristandros (no. 117), Demophon (no. 264), Kleomantis (no. 430), Peithagoras (no. 618); Kett 1966, no. 13, 19, 44, 57. The plural μάντεις is frequently used by the sources. Trampedach 2015, 515–518. Curt. 4.10.4: Aegyptiosque vates, quos caeli ac siderum peritissimos esse credebat (sc. Alexander). Plut. Alex. 57.4: βδελυχθεὶς τὸ σημεῖον ἐκαθάρθη μὲν ὑπὸ τῶν Βαβυλωνίων, οὓς ἐξ ἔθους ἐπήγετο πρὸς τὰ τοιαῦτα …; Plut. ibid. 73.1: Χαλδαῖοι; Arr. Anab. 7.16.5: Χαλδαίων οἱ λόγιοι; Diod. 17.112.2: οἱ Χαλδαῖοι καλούμενοι, μεγίστην μὲν δόξαν ἐν ἀστρολογίᾳ περιπεποιημένοι, διὰ δέ τινος αἰωνίου παρατηρήσεως προλέγειν εἰωθότες τὰ μέλλοντα; Just. Epit. 12.13.3: quidam ex magis praedixit. Arr. Anab. 4.13.5: Σύραν γυναῖκα ἐφομαρτεῖν Ἀλεξάνδρῳ κάτοχον ἐκ τοῦ θείου γιγνομένην; Curt. 8.6.16: mulier …, quia instinctu videbatur futura praedicere; Arr. Anab. 7.18.6: Kalanos.

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from the gods in the form of oracles. His consultation of the oracle of Ammon in the Libyan desert is famous; he also allegedly obtained responses from Delphi, Dodona, and Didyma, as well as from an Erythraian seer in the tradition of the Sibyls.11 As king of the Macedonians, it was Alexander’s responsibility to maintain good relations with the gods. Already some of his predecessors had attempted to utilise this responsibility for self-promotion. King Archelaos (reg. 413–399) founded Macedonian Olympia at Dion at the foot of Mount Olympos. Philip, according to Diodoros (16.60.4, 64.3), won fame and prestige by liberating the sanctuary of Delphi; it was supposedly on account of his piety toward the gods (διὰ τὴν εἰς τὸ θεῖον εὐσέβειαν), that he became hegemon of all Greece and established the largest kingdom in Europe. Even if we set aside such claims, there is no doubt that Philip repeatedly impressed the Greek public with magnificent sacrificial festivals, processions, and agones. Yet, we still may conclude that Alexander took the practice to new heights with the intensity and variety of his worship of the gods, which he constantly put on display throughout his reign. Alexander presented himself as a persona religiosa in a way that went far beyond his office and tradition. I am deliberately speaking here about representation, because I do not want to speculate about Alexander’s personal religiosity, character or qualities, but rather attempt to understand Alexander’s actions from the perspective of their intended effect.12 Divination was also part of the king’s strategy of constant communication with the gods: it essentially served Alexander as proof that his actions were in accordance with divine will. Alexander’s special status with respect to divination is particularly impressive, because – with the exception of sporadic reports of oracles and dreams – there is no such tradition about Alexander’s predecessors (including Philip) or his successors. The nature of the tradition for Philip and the Diadochoi of course is different, but if any of them had attached special significance to divination

Prandi 1990; Mari 2002, 205–218 (on the presence and absence of the Delphic oracle in the history and historiography of Alexander). 12 I cannot understand, why – as so often in scholarly literature – we should view ‘religiosity’ and ‘propaganda’ (see e.g. King 2004, 223; Bowden 2017, 165) or ‘belief’ and ‘manipulation’ (see e.g. Greenwalt 1984, 23) as polar opposites. Lowell Edmunds, for example, in an article from 1971 (which I found very stimulating in other respects), emphasises ‘the fundamental and consistent religiosity of Alexander’ (p. 369), which in his opinion disappears from view if one treats ‘all of his religious acts as really political in intent, as propaganda.’ In his conclusion, however, Edmunds 1971, 390, states: ‘In the life of Alexander myth becomes history only to become myth again, not only because his contemporary historians inevitably see him in terms of myth, but also because he saw himself in, and wanted to be seen in, those terms. Thus our sources do not altogether conceal the “real” Alexander; rather, Alexander consciously and wilfully gave himself a certain ideality through conceiving of his life as a reenactment of myth.’ From this statement I conclude: self-conception and self-representation conform to each other, at least in principle; ‘religiosity’ and ‘propaganda’ can go together as well as ‘belief’ and ‘manipulation’ (which the believer might not regard as manipulation). To avoid misunderstanding, I prefer to use the terms ‘self-conception’ and ‘self-representation’. 11

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like Alexander, we would probably know about it.13 This is also true, especially and surprisingly, of military divination. For the lack of evidence, we cannot even answer with certainty whether Philip or the Diadochoi brought along seers on their campaigns, whether seers were basic personnel in the Macedonian army, or whether the use of seers was a novelty introduced by Alexander (and discontinued by his successors).14 In my opinion, Alexander’s way of dealing with divination was as inventive as his use of mythical descent.15 Moreover we do not find any information about Macedonian seers in the sources; Alexander’s specialists may have come from Greece and Asia Minor, and even occasionally from Egypt, Babylon, and Persia, as mentioned above – but never from Macedonia. An ancient army without specialists in divination, however, seems inconceivable, since this group of people was not only responsible for interpreting signs, but also for serving as field priests; that is, they were responsible for the indispensable animal sacrifices. Even in the more likely event that Philip and the Diadochoi employed seers on their campaigns, they apparently still did not give them a prominent role, since our sources betray not even a faint echo of it.

But see Mari 2002, 75–77, 136–142 on the ‘religious’ aspects of Philip’s relationship to Delphi. Among the Successors only Seleukos, who allegedly received several omens, oracles and dreams, may have used (some forms of) divination to embellish his self-representation: cf. Ogden 2017, esp. 1–65. 14 True enough, the first record of Aristandros’ prominence is connected with Alexander’s conception (Plut. 2.5), when Aristandros may already have served Philip in some capacity (as a kind of court diviner?). Besides this and the Alexander history, he is never mentioned as part of Philip’s entourage; if he accompanied Philip on his campaigns, apparently he played no distinguished role. Within the history of the Successors no seer appears in the evidence – except in relation with Pyrrhus (Plut. Pyrrh. 6.5, 30.3; Paus. 6.14.9) where it seems to be a somewhat forced case of Alexander-imitatio. R. Parker 2000, in a thought­provoking article on ‘sacrifice and battle’, discusses the time of Alexander as a period in which pre­battle divinatory sacrifice fell out of use (but cf. Flower 2008, 126–128). He does not consider, however, the possibility that the observed changes might have derived specifically from a Macedonian tradition. 15 See Hölscher in this volume and cf. e.g. Moloney 2015, 63–64, who calls Philip II an ‘Argead who perhaps placed less emphasis on his heroic ancestry’. Most of the scholarly literature about Alexander that mentions divination states precisely the opposite. For example, in his influential Alexander biography of 1931, 111 (engl. translation by George Chatterton Richards, 1932, 121), Ulrich Wilcken claims, ‘that Alexander was a son of his age, and attached greatest importance to oracles and divine omens generally, whether they were manifested in dreams, or in the flights of birds, or otherwise in the processes of nature’. This is a misconception followed by many scholars who do not seriously consider the subject of divination. One need only think of Greek generals like Pericles or Epaminondas who were famous for ignoring divination. Such leaders who were indifferent to diviners and divination already appear in the Iliad (12.195–258) and Odyssey (2.181–182), as is well known; cf. Trampedach 2015, 110–116. Did Philip or any Macedonian king before Alexander care? We do not know. But we cannot suppose that they did as readily as scholars (recently e.g. Koulakiotis 2013) tend to do. 13

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THE KING, THE SEER, AND THE HISTORIAN

With Alexander, in contrast, matters were quite different: he not only was accompanied by divinatory specialists with different focuses and of different origins on his campaign, but also cultivated a special personal relationship of trust with the famous seer Aristandros of Telmessos – until 328, when, for unknown reasons, he disappears from the historical tradition. In this, Alexander followed a traditional Greek role that was based on the successful ‘interplay’ of general and seer.16 This relationship was celebrated not only by literary sources, but also in numerous iconographic and epigraphic monuments.17 Aristandros, who was also prominent as an author for his treatises on divinatory subjects (teratology, the interpretation of dreams), was a perfect choice for the heroic role of the seer on account of his derivation from a famous home of seers;18 he would prove to be the ideal candidate. The relationship between Alexander and Aristandros thus fits a topos, although that does not mean it is a literary construction. On the contrary, it was an important aspect of Alexander’s royal self-representation. This accords with the fact that most Aristandros episodes very probably derived from Kallisthenes,19 who moreover must presumably have first reported many more of the divinatory manifestations that are transmitted from the early years of Alexander’s campaign. Kallisthenes, however, was Alexander’s public mouthpiece; he conveyed to the Greek public how Alexander wanted to be seen.20 Accordingly, divination was a key component of Alexander’s self-representation. The divine messages that have been transmitted cover the entire classical spectrum: oracles and dreams are included, as well as signs from sacrifices, the flight of birds, wayfaring signs (ἐνόδιοι σύμβολοι), and miracles. Against the background of contemporary divinatory practice, the relative frequency of signs from the flight of birds is striking. In my opinion this should be viewed as an epic reminiscence.21 Part 16 17 18

19

20

21

Pritchett 1979, 48–57; Flower 2008, 176–183; Trampedach 2015, 173–178. Trampedach 2015, 491–493. Arr. Anab. 2.3.3: εἶναι γὰρ τοὺς Τελμισσέας σοφοὺς τὰ θεῖα ἐξηγεῖσθαι καὶ γυναιξὶν καὶ παισὶ τὴν μαντείαν. Cic. Div. 1.91: Telmessus in Caria est, qua in urbe excellit haruspicum disciplina. Pease 1920–1923, 256–257 and Kett 1966, 99–101 cite other evidence that proves the celebrity of divinatory specialists from Telmessos since the 5ᵗʰ c. BC. Which Telmessos, however, was meant, is unknown; as Greenwalt 1982, 17 with n. 2, points out, there were ‘two cities of that name, one in Caria and another in Lycia. Both had reputations for prophecy’. Nice 2005, who correctly emphasises the authorship of Aristandros, even imagines to spot Aristandros in the famous Alexander Mosaik, just behind Alexander as soldier in the white helmet (p. 89). Observed already by Fränkel 1883, 171–195; C. Robinson 1929; Landucci 1993, 131–133; S. Müller 2018, 141. I cannot see why this observation, as Nice 2005, 99 believes, should be contradicted by the fact that ‘the seer had his own reputation in antiquity.’ Devine 1994, 97: ‘Callisthenes’ commission as official historian was essentially to record Alexander’s doings and achievements in a form determined – or at least approved – by Alexander himself. To this end, there must have been extensive and continuous consultation between the king and the historian.’ Cf. Rzepka 2016 and see Wallace in this volume. There are many other indications of a conscious ‘epic’ representation of Alexander and his deeds in Kallisthenes: see Prandi 1985, 76–82. The recently discovered epigrams of Poseidippos also

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of the king’s presentation also meant that his surroundings were occasionally cast in the light of the heroic ideal – one is reminded, for instance, of the tutor Lysimachos from Akarnania, who allegedly wanted to be Phoinix, or of Hephaistion, who was equated with Patroklos. Similarly, Aristandros, particularly in Kallisthenes’ account, may have played the part of Kalchas, who as stated in the first book of the Iliad (v. 69) was ‘by far the best among the bird-interpreters’. If we examine when and where Alexander allegedly received unsolicited messages from the gods, it is striking that the various traditions (the vulgate, Plutarch, Arrian) give relatively uniform accounts of this complex, presumably because in most cases they all derive more or less directly from Kallisthenes. As one might expect, ominous situations predominate by far: before the beginning of the campaign (Delphi, Leibethra), approaching significant places (Ilion, Sardes, Xanthos, Gordion), during sieges (already at Thebes, then Miletos, Halikarnassos, Tyros, Gaza, Gordion, the Multan Citadel), in dangerous situations (Pamphylia, the Libyan desert, the Persian Gates, Tyros, Gaza, the Multan Citadel), and when crossing rivers (the Tigris, Iaxartes, Oxos, Hyphasis). Besides successful sacrifices at river crossings and at sea, two divinatory encounters are transmitted from Alexander’s Indian campaign: the unsuccessful sacrifice at the Hyphasis, which allegedly convinced Alexander to turn back, and the unsuccessful warning of the seer before the attack on the Multan Citadel. The return trip to Mesopotamia was apparently even less eventful in terms of divination than the Indian Campaign. We hear of magnificent sacrifices at Sousa, Ekbatana, and Opis, but in the tradition any significant divine messages are connected with Alexander’s retreat and return to Babylon22 and with his death at the same place. Since Alexander could not have shaped or controlled the interpretation of omens connected to his own death, I would rather leave this complex to the side. In general, the exhausting battles, uprisings, and internal upheavals that occurred during the years between the fall of 329 and early 327 in Sogdia and Baktria are something of a caesura for my topic. Aristandros appears in the sources for the last time in the context of the Kleitos affair.23 Carol King convincingly calls the Kleitos episode ‘an acknowledged turning point, the end of Macedonian isegoria that could have manifested itself in the disappearance of Aristander, as it did in the demise of Callisthenes’.24 It thus comes as no surprise that the representation of divination changed after Kallisthenes died and Aristandros disappears from the indicate that divination from the flight of birds gained newfound importance in the early Hellenistic period. Two out of fifteen οἰωνοσκοπικά mention Alexander: epigrams 31 and 35 in the editio minor (Austin / Bastianini 2002); cf. Baumbach / Trampedach 2003, 145, 149–150; S. Müller 2014, 188–189. 22 Various sources suggest tension between Babylonian and Greek divinatory modes of interpretation: see Wiemer 2007, 289–295. 301–306; cf. Koulakiotis 2013, 130–132. 23 What happened to him – whether he died naturally or was implicated in the Conspiracy of the Pages; that is, whether his disappearance was connected with the demise of Kallisthenes – is unknown: Prandi 1985, 29–33. 24 King 2013, 108; cf. Flower 2008, 181.

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record. Although seers continued to accompany Alexander’s campaign, Aristandros had no successor in a strict sense. Alexander henceforth dispensed with ostentatious ‘interplay’ with a seer who enjoyed his special confidence. Divination was still practiced, but, without the orchestration of Kallisthenes, it ceased investing events with symbolic meaning almost entirely (excepting, of course, Alexander’s final entry in Babylon). The caesura can be understood best if one considers the function of divination during Alexander’s campaign into the East, which is no less than the very theme of this volume: the ‘legitimation of conquest’.25 Not one decision of Alexander’s (whether political or military) is transmitted that necessarily derives from divinatory calculation, that is, a prophecy or divine advice or command. Alexander utilised divination not to help make decisions, but rather to legitimate his actions. In principle and in idealised terms, I would like to distinguish between two levels that often overlapped in practice: one concerned Alexander’s self-representation before the distant Greek public – for the purpose of generating admiration of Alexander’s achievements and recognition of his rule in Greece. On this level, divination helped illustrate the guiding ideological motifs of the campaign. The second level concerned the immediate public that consisted of the army; here, Alexander sought to motivate the soldiers and ensure obedience, particularly in difficult situations. On this level, divination can be understood as a shrewd crisis management strategy. Naturally, the first aspect was more prominent at the beginning of the campaign.26 In the East, in contrast, far from home and confronted with unfamiliar threats, the second mode of legitimation became more important. Hence the caesura mentioned above might be explained as follows: our sources were interested more in the king’s self-representation than in the daily needs of the soldiers, which accordingly only came to the fore in the event of extraordinary crises. Alexander moreover seems to have increasingly lost interest in shaping his image before the Greek public – or at least, as mentioned, he lacked a congenial mantic collaborator. In the following, I will cite specific examples to explore how the king made use of both the levels mentioned during the first half of his campaign with the assistance of his seer and his court historian. I will begin with Alexander’s self-representation. ADDRESSING THE GREEK PUBLIC

The ideological programme with which Alexander hoped to impress the Greek public is well known. I identify four main motifs that were accentuated by divination. The caesura had already been noticed by Berve 1926 I, 91–92, who, however, does not provide a convincing interpretation. 26 Accordingly, I agree with Zahrnt 2013, 496 and 2016, 313–314, who views the ‘loss’ of Kallisthenes and Aristandros and the absence of any successors as indicating that Alexander no longer thought it was necessary to take the attitude of the Greeks into consideration. 25

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They are: 1. Alexander’s invincibility, irresistibility, and insuperability; 2. revenge on the Persians and freedom for the Greek cities of Asia; 3. rule over Asia or the entire oikoumene; and 4. the king’s divine parentage. The whole programme appears to be quite sophisticated, and we should remember that a scholar who was equally versed in mythology, history, and panhellenic thought will have advised the young king. This scholar, of course, is none other than Kallisthenes, who afterwards narrated the same events. His narration was used by Ptolemaios and through this filter transmitted to us by Arrian.27 I will discuss these motifs in order. 1) Alexander’s invincibility and irresistibility is a key motif of the depictions of both Arrian and especially Plutarch. In my view it is not, however, (or at least not primarily) a literary construct. On the contrary, since his accession at the latest, Alexander himself had attempted to surround himself with an aura of invincibility – appropriately given his focus on heroic models like Herakles and Achilleus.28 According to Plutarch (3,8–9), Alexander was born ‘at the same time’ as Philip’s three victories: the capture of Potidaia, Parmenion’s success in a major battle against the Illyrians, and the victory of Philip’s team in the horse race at Olympia. The seers allegedly increased Philip’s joy, Plutarch adds, ‘by declaring that the son whose birth coincided with three victories would be always victorious (ἀνίκητος)’.29 What at first glance appears to be a classic vaticinium ex eventu, particularly since the simultaneity of the events should probably be taken with a grain of salt anyway, it nonetheless could have been propagated by Kallisthenes at the beginning of the Asian campaign.30 This theory is supported by the fact that, from the outset, Kallisthenes meticulously tried in his account to keep any association with defeat far from Alexander’s person or to blame partial defeats in battle on others. After the siege of Miletos, for example, when Alexander preferred to break up his fleet against the advice of Parmenion rather than expose it to the risk of defeat, he betrays conspicuous self-awareness and shows how eagerly he sought to maintain his aura of invincibility.31 Invincibility thus was part of Alexander’s self-conception from the start. Divination had to illustrate and reaffirm this message at the beginning of the Asian cam27

28 29 30

31

Devine 1994, 89–90, 98; Zahrnt 1996, 146–147, 2006, 146–148; Squillace 2010, 78. 80 (who, however, does not discuss the very different way (compared to his father Philip) that Alexander used the theme of vengeance by connecting it with his invincibility – and the motif of world domination); S. Müller 2016c, 182. See Hölscher in this volume. Plut. Alex. 3.8–9 (trans. B. Perrin). O’Sullivan 2015 gives convincing reasons for assuming that the aniketos-title derives from Kallisthenes; Schepens 1989, 16–17, had already come to the same conclusion; similarly Ogden 2011, 7–52, studying the birth myths of Alexander argues that they are quite early and that at least some of them were probably propagated by Alexander and Kallisthenes themselves; see also Collins 2012. Arr. Anab. 1.18.6–9; cf. Trampedach 2015, 125–127. Similiarly Arr. Anab. 2.26.3 records that Alexander was concerned to capture the citadel of Gaza because ‘not to take it would be a blow to his prestige when reported to the Greeks and Dareios’.

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paign with appropriate observations, such as the story of the miracle of the sea in Pamphylia, which undoubtedly derives from Kallisthenes. According to this story, the sea suddenly retreated by divine ordinance so that Alexander and his army might pass through along the steep coast. According to Kallisthenes, the sea, as a sentient being, realised that the king was marching by and in curving up thus threw itself at the king’s feet (προσκυνεῖν).32 The sign presents Alexander as the favourite of the gods and already alludes to the future ruler over the sea.33 2) Up to the burning of Persepolis, Alexander repeatedly used occasions to highlight the motif of panhellenic war of revenge and liberation. Alexander made perhaps the most impressive symbolic gestures at the beginning of his campaign before crossing the Hellespont and upon visiting Ilion. I will not retell the generally wellknown particulars here, especially since they have more to do with religious communication as such and less with divination in a narrower sense.34 I would, however, like to mention one detail reported by Diodoros that is frequently overlooked in the scholarly literature. When Alexander set forth to the temple of Athena in Ilion to sacrifice to the goddess who had been insulted most by Xerxes’ destruction of the Athenian Akropolis, Aristandros saw ‘lying on the ground before the temple a statue of Ariobarzanes, the former satrap of Phrygia, and since certain other favourable signs occurred, he approached the king and declared that he would be victorious in a great cavalry battle and certainly so if he joined battle in Phrygia’.35 There is a high likelihood that this is a vaticinium ex eventu, but it presumably was created soon after the events. The demolished statue of the former Phrygian satrap Ariobarzanes heralded the end of Persian rule in Asia Minor and allowed Aristandros to predict his king’s victory at the Battle of the Granikos in Hellespontic Phrygia. The sign takes on another dimension of significance if we recall that Ariobarzanes, the guest­ friend of the Spartan Antalkidas, had been one of the architects of the King’s Peace. The fallen statue should illustrate to the Greek reader that the disgraceful King’s

Kallisthenes (FGrHist 124) F 31; see Arr. Anab. 1.26.2; Plut. Alex. 17.6 and cf. Xen. An. 1.4.18, where the extraordinary low water of the Euphrates is understood as a divine sign, i.e. that the river is bowing down at the coming of King Kyros III. 33 Not all Greeks, and certainly not the Athenians, bought the story, as demonstrated by Menander’s parody (Plut. Alex. 17.7); cf. Edmunds 1971, 368: ‘When Callisthenes said that the sea withdrew before Alexander, he was praising Alexander as Alexander undoubtedly wanted to be praised; but to Menander’s audience the notion of the sea’s obeisance was only laughable.’ 34 Instinsky 1949; Zahrnt 1996; Briant 2018. 35 Diod. 17 .17 .6 : Τοῦ δὲ βασιλέως ἀναζεύξαντος ἐκ τῆς Τρῳάδος καὶ καταντήσαντος πρὸς τὸ τέμενος τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς ὁ μὲν θύτης Ἀλέξανδρος κατανοήσας πρὸ τοῦ νεὼ κειμένην εἰκόνα χαμαὶ τοῦ Φρυγίας ποτὲ σατραπεύσαντος Ἀριοβαρζάνου καί τινων οἰωνῶν αἰσίων ἄλλων ἐπιγενομένων προσῆλθε τῷ βασιλεῖ καὶ νικήσειν αὐτὸν ἱππομαχίᾳ μεγάλῃ διεβεβαιοῦτο καὶ μάλιστ’, ἂν τύχῃ περὶ τὴν Φρυγίαν ἀγωνισάμενος. The reference to the θύτης Alexander is most probably an error for Aristandros. 32

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Peace and the situation it created in Asia Minor now definitively were a thing of the past, and that Alexander was intent on liberating the Greek cities of Asia Minor.36 3) In his short book on ‘Alexander the Great at the Hellespont’, Hans Ulrich Istinsky convincingly argues that the script that determined Alexander’s performances while crossing from Europe to Asia is based upon a Herodotean interpretation of the Iliad and Xerxes and that consequently this symbolic staging heralds the conquest of Asia and the foundation of a world empire.37 According to some ancient sources, rule over Asia or the entire oikoumene was granted to Alexander already in the cradle, just like his invincibility. Justin, for example, states that on the day of Alexander’s birth, two eagles – an omen duplicis imperii, Europae Asiaeque – continually sat on the roof of his ancestral home, a prodigium magnitudinis so vague that it could not be attributed more precisely to a single time or context.38 Who, however, was the first to claim that the fire in the temple of Artemis at Ephesus broke out on the same night on which Alexander was born, and that Magi who happened to be present in Ephesus prophesied that the coincidence spelled disaster for Asia? While Plutarch cites Hegesias of Magnesia as his source, Cicero refers to Timaios of Tauromenion, so that we can trace the popular story back at least to the late 4th or early 3rd century BC.39 The story was potentially created as Alexander approached Ephesus on his march into Asia Minor, toppled the Persian-friendly oligarchy, restored the exiles, and introduced a democracy. According to Arrian, Alexander also ordered the Ephesians to spend the taxes that had formerly been paid to the Persians on the Artemision, which had been heavily damaged during the civil­war like conflicts that preceded Alexander’s arrival. In connection to this and other attested privileges that made it possible to quickly rebuild and complete the temple, the priests may have been the first to tell the story that connected the fate of the sanctuary with the person of Alexander – doing so in a way that was pleasing to the king, in that they also indirectly prophesied his rule over Asia. According to Plutarch, another sign with similar meaning occurred in Lycia by the city of Xanthos: ‘a spring, which at this time, as we are told, was of its own motion (αὐτομάτως) upheaved from its depths, and overflowed, and cast forth a bronze tablet bearing the prints of ancient letters, in which it was made known that Significantly, Kallisthenes began his Hellenika with an account of the King’s Peace, which he obviously regarded as a low point of contemporary Greek history, as indicated by the contrasting excursus about the battle at the Eurymedon (F 15–16): Meyer 1899, 4–5; Jacoby 1919, 1694– 1695; cf. Flower 2000, 110 (and passim, arguing for the broad popularity of panhellenism with the Greek public and its continuous relevance for Alexander). On the general interpretation of the campaign in terms of ‘revenge’, Kallisthenes fully agrees with Isokrates, who repeatedly criticised the Spartans for the King’s Peace: see e.g. or. 4.175–182, 5.99–100, 12.105–107, ep. 9.8; cf. Diod. 14.110.4, 15.19.4. 37 Instinsky 1949, 61–67; cf. Prandi 1985, 82–93. 38 Just. Epit. 12.16.5. 39 Plut. Alex. 3,5–7; Cic. Nat. D. 2.69. The story is also mentioned, without indication of its source, by Arist. Mete. 371 a 30; Cic. Div. 1.47; Strab. 14.1.22; Val. Max. 8.14 ext. 5; Ael. NA 6.40; Solin. 40.2–5. 36

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the empire of the Persians would one day be destroyed by the Greeks and come to an end’.40 Already the mere fact that the story concerns Greeks and its broader context in Plutarch indicate, as various scholars have remarked in the literature, that Kallisthenes must be the author of this story. By emphasising the Greeks, the sign not only prophesied a change of rulers in Asia, but also utilised the motif of Greek revenge or liberation.41 The famous oracle about the Gordian Knot, in contrast, did not highlight ‘revenge’ or ‘liberation’, but rather rule over Asia or the conquest of Asia. In this famous story, Alexander’s method of untying the knot, whether by force (Kallisthenes) or by cunning (Aristoboulos) depending on the version, demonstrates his invincibility and irresistibility.42 4) Plutarch and the vulgate authors also combine both motifs with Alexander’s consultation of the oracle of Ammon in the Libyan desert, where rule over Asia is even elevated to world domination or the rule over all mankind.43 But to all appearances, what motivated Alexander most of all to undertake the long and time-consuming detour through the desert was the question of his immediate divine parentage. Again, without going into details, I refer to Brian Bosworth and Andrew Collins, who in my opinion convincingly showed that Alexander viewed himself as the son of Zeus even before he visited the sanctuary of Ammon and sought oracular confirmation.44 In addition to Arrian’s analysis, Bosworth laid particular emphasis on the report of an eyewitness transmitted in abridged form by Strabo: And to this statement Callisthenes dramatically adds that, although the oracle of Apollo among the Branchidae had ceased to speak from the time the temple had been robbed by the Branchidae, who sided with the Persians in the time of Xerxes, and although the spring also had ceased to flow, yet at Alexander’s arrival the spring began to flow again and that many oracles were carried by the Milesian ambassadors to Memphis concerning Alexander’s descent from Zeus, his future victory in the neighborhood of Arbela, the death of Darius, and the revolutionary attempts in Lacedaemon. And he says that the Erythraean Athenaïs also gave out an utterance concerning Alexander’s high descent; for, he adds, this woman was like the ancient Erythraean Sibylla.45

If one prefers not to declare these statements fictitious – and this would be difficult, because Kallisthenes wrote for contemporaries who could easily refute obvious fabrications – then the Milesians must have known what Alexander wanted to hear 40

41

42 43 44 45

Plut. Alex. 17.4 (trans. B. Perrin). Αὐτομάτως and related words (like the verb αὐτοματίζειν) are often used by Greek authors, especially by Plutarch, to indicate divine intervention; cf. Trampedach 2015, 215–216. Zahrnt 1996, 137–138, 150 n. 13 argues, with excessive dogmatism, that the motif of rule over Asia is incompatible with the theme of revenge, but the Lycian sign mentioned above proves the opposite: there is no reason why the two motives should not coexist harmoniously. Cf. S. Müller 2018, 135–138. Plut. Alex. 18.1–4; Arr. Anab. 2,3; Curt. 3.1.14-18; Just. Epit. 11.7; Marsyas (FGrHist 136) F 4; cf. Squillace 2018, 151–152. Plut. Alex. 27.6; Diod. 17.51.2; Just. Epit. 11.11.10; Curt. 4.7.26. Bosworth 1977; Collins 2012, 2014; cf. Sekunda 2014; Zahrnt 2016, 302–307; Caneva 2016, 12–13. Strab. 17.1.43 (trans. H.L. Jones).

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some time before his journey to the Ammoneion.46 If this is correct, then the Siwah episode would be yet another example of the notable theatricality of Alexander’s publicity work as executed by Kallisthenes. The king had apparently planned long in advance to be acclaimed the son of Zeus by the oracle of Zeus-Ammon and so rise up to the same league as Herakles, Perseus, and Dionysos.47 ADDRESSING THE ARMY

Further examples could be cited to show that Alexander used divination during the first half of his Asian campaign to convey his self­conception to the Greek public and posterity with Kallisthenes’ help, but I would like to discuss briefly some cases in which a different addressee seems to appear: the army. In general, it was precisely on military campaigns, that is, in a situation subject to contingencies, that divination served as a way to counteract the soldiers’ uncertainty, potentially allay their fears, and raise their confidence.48 Much depended on the charisma of the seer in question. By means of extispicy during operations, the seers created a constant communicative and performative bond between the army and the gods. Less routine, but in certain circumstances just as effective, spontaneous signs such as birds or unexpected and unusual natural phenomena could be subjected to strategic calculations if the general and seer were equal to the situation and could devise a convincing interpretation (that is, one appropriate to the situation).49 Besides its power to motivate the soldiers, divination also helped them cope with crises as they occurred on Alexander’s campaign. It is not surprising that many signs are recorded in connection with sieges, conspiracies, and mutinies. In several cases, divination also serves to pre-empt the negative symbolic implications of Alexander’s wounds in battle. Whether at Gaza, on the Iaxartes, or before the attack on the Multan Citadel in India – Alexander allegedly ignored omens at his sacrifices and the warnings of seers and paid for it with his health. It was not hybris or scepticism, but rather honour and his sense of responsibility that led him on each occasion to enter battle personally despite the warnings. The divine linking of his injuries with military success Bosworth 1977, 73: ‘Presumably any such oracles would have been worded with careful vagueness, so that Callisthenes some eighteen months later could relate them to actual occurrences.’ In referring to the Branchidai and the reappearance of the Didymean spring at Alexander’s arrival, Kallisthenes characteristically also makes use of the motif of revenge/liberation. 47 Arr. Anab. 3 .3 .1 –2 ; on theatricality in the Hellenistic world, see Chaniotis 1997 , who calls Alexander ‘a great master in the dramatic staging of his private and public life’ (236). Kuhlmann 1988, 144–157; S. Pfeiffer 2014; and Caneva 2016, 16–17, 19–22 convincingly argue that in consulting the Ammoneion in the Libyan desert Alexander probably sought legitimation from the relevant Egyptian audience too. 48 Greenwalt 1982 emphasises the collaboration of the seer(s) in leading the army; Pritchett 1979, 58–60, analyzes military ‘divination as a means of building morale’; see also King 2013, 107–108 and in general Flower 2008, 153–187. 49 Trampedach 2015, 562. 46

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ensured that his aura of invincibility remained intact. Even the strokes of personal misfortune that Alexander suffered became tokens of the gods’ favour.50 Already the seer Aristandros could have explained to the army that their injured king had in no way lost the support of the gods, but rather his physical integrity had been sacrificed on the altar of common success. The seer’s military function is even more conspicuous in the days and hours before the Battle of Gaugamela. After the Macedonian army successfully crossed the Tigris, a lunar eclipse occurred; according to Arrian, Aristandros responded with a sacrifice, an interpretation, and a prophecy. The ominous sign was, he reassured the soldiers, favourable for the Macedonians and Alexander; the great battle would be fought in that month and bring victory. Aristandros here made use of an interpretation that Herodotos put in the mouth of Persian magoi on the occasion of a (fictional) solar eclipse, when the Persian invasion army set forth from Sardes in early 480 to conquer Greece.51 Literary allusions of this kind are typical of Kallisthenes’ account. Accordingly, I also believe that Plutarch introduces his depiction of the Battle of Gaugamela with a lengthy paraphrase of Kallisthenes, before he openly cites the court historian.52 He first gives another example of the confrontation between Parmenion and Alexander, which in the scholarly literature – and in my view: correctly – is attributed to Kallisthenes. This is followed by a passage in which Plutarch describes with unmistakable Homeric echoes how Alexander puts on his armour before the battle,53 gives commands and instructions to set up the battle lines, and rides on another horse along the lines before his actual war horse, Boukephalos, is brought to him immediately before the beginning of the battle. Plutarch continues in this epic manner: On this occasion, he made a very long speech to the Thessalians and the other Greeks, and when he saw that they encouraged him with shouts to lead them against the Barbarians, he shifted his lance into his left hand, and with his right appealed to the gods, as Callisthenes tells us, praying them, if he was really sprung from Zeus, to defend and strengthen the Greeks. Aristander the seer, too, wearing a white mantle and having a crown of gold upon his head, rode along the ranks pointing out to them an eagle which soared above the head of Alexander and directed his flight straight against the enemy, at which sight great courage filled the beholders, and after mutual encouragement and exhortation the cavalry charged at full speed upon the enemy and the phalanx rolled on after them like a flood.54

Trampedach 2015, 129–131, 174–176. For details, see Trampedach 2015, 63–73. On Herodotos as a historiographic model for Kallisthenes see Prandi 1985, 82–93; S. Müller 2018, 137–138. 142 n. 45. Kallisthenes’ insistence on divination seems to be influenced by Herodotos (and, of course, Homer; cf. above n. 21). 52 Plut. Alex. 32; cf. Jacoby 1919, 1700–1701; Devine 1994, 96–99. 53 See Bosworth 1977 , 59 : ‘The whole passage has a strongly Homeric flavour, reminiscent of such great set pieces as the arming of Patroclos. As in Homer there are conventional formulaic descriptions of armour and weapons, with detailed statements about the history of each piece.’ 54 Plut. Alex. 33.1–3 (trans. B. Perrin). The passage includes Kallisthenes (FGrHist 124) F 36. 50 51

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In Plutarch’s depiction, the eagle is not entirely unexpected. In a prayer accompanied by a strong gesture, Alexander evokes the support of the gods. He cites his descent from Zeus, as confirmed by the oracle of Ammon. Zeus himself responded by sending the bird and thereby conveying that he had granted the prayer. The soldiers were accordingly motivated to join battle now with high confidence. The course of events follows the conventional pattern that already appears in Homer and which would also be used by Herodotos and Xenophon: the sign appears in the situation of the impending battle, is triggered by the general’s prayer, which concludes his exhortation, and fills the soldiers with fresh courage.55 This formally stereotypical sequence, which seems so obvious, convincing, and self-contained, already had appeared in Kallisthenes, as Plutarch himself says. In the official account, this mantic communication demonstrated Alexander’s closeness to the gods and illustrated the practical efficacy of this closeness in critical situations.56 On account of their epic associations, birds, and especially the eagle as messenger of Zeus, were particularly well-suited. In order to convey the desired image, Kallisthenes drew inspiration not only from Homer and Herodotos, but also from Xenophon, and indeed both his Anabasis and the Kyroupaideia.57 The impressive scene is still presumably not just a piece of fiction. Alexander had good reason to exhort the Greek cavalry on his numerically weak left wing in particular before the battle, because success depended significantly on whether the left wing could hold until Alexander himself managed to break through on the right wing.58 Whether an eagle flew somewhere on the broad field of battle or not59 – credibly persuading the soldiers that a sign had occurred promising success confirmed the heroic self­understanding of their king and ultimately had a positive influence on moral. Now the trusty seer came into play. It was his task to reassure the army of the constant care of the gods and to increase the soldiers’ confidence in fortune and the competence of their general.60 By mak55 56 57

58 59 60

See e.g. Hom. Il. 8.236–252 (cf. Trampedach 2015, 110); similarly: Hdt. 9.61.2–62.1; Xen. An. 3.2.8–9, Hell. 7.1.31.

For obvious reasons, given his Greek audience, Kallisthenes also highlighted the contribution of Greek detachments at the final victory, as emphasised by Zahrnt 2006, 158–160. Xen. An. 6.5.2; Cyr. 2.1.1. See Due 1993; S. Müller 2016c, 185. McGroarty 2006 nevertheless answers the question, ‘Did Alexander the Great read Xenophon?’ primarily in the negative, acknowledging only the influence of the small eulogy Agesilaus. I believe that Alexander knew much more of Xenophon’s works; cf. Plut. Alex. 8,2: ἦν δὲ καὶ φύσει φιλολόγος καὶ φιλαναγνώστης. Hamilton 1969, 87; Brunt 1976, 512–514 (App. IX 5–6). In the words of Curt. 4.15.26: sive ludibrium oculorum sive vera species fuit. No wonder that immediately before the battle of Kunaxa the only message Kyros wants Xenophon (the character) to disseminate to the whole army is the positive results of the pre-battle sacrifices (Xen. An. 1.8.15). In a similar vein, Polyaen. 4.3.14 (trans. P. Krentz / E.L. Wheeler) refers to Alexander: ‘Whenever Alexander heard from the seers that the sacrifices were favorable, he ordered them to carry the victims around and show them to the soldiers, so that when they saw as well as heard about the victicms they would have high hopes about the danger ahead.’ –

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ing a shrewdly staged appearance, Aristandros proved himself equal to the dramatic moment: conspicuous in a white robe and with a golden crown on his head, the hoary seer rode along the ranks, pointing to the heavens and announcing the good news of the sign of the eagle. Just as Kallisthenes propagated the heroic Alexander for a distant audience and for posterity, Aristandros now did so for a close audience, the army. Like Kallisthenes, Aristandros and Alexander had enough literary education to model their actions on historical precedents. Of course, the real performance should not hastily be equated with its literary representation. What the two have in common, however, is the king and his self-conception: Alexander believed in his direct descent from Zeus, tried to live up to this pedigree, and wanted to be seen in this light and measured by this standard, both by his closest associates and his soldiers, and by contemporaries living far away and posterity. CONCLUSION

In my opinion, the various stories about divination in the ancient Alexander histories should not be viewed as literary inventions, at least not in general. Rather, I believe that most of these stories derive from the reports of the official court historian Kallisthenes, who published them with Alexander’s blessing. These divination stories emphasise the piety of Alexander, who thus can count on the unfailing support of the gods in return. Moreover, the various kinds and acts of divination that appear in these stories illustrate the leitmotifs of Alexander’s life and mission: his invincibility and irresistibility, his panhellenic war of revenge and liberation, rule over Asia and the whole world, and his divine parentage. Nevertheless, divination was not only used as a public relations tool for a distant Greek audience; it also, of course, was utilised for near addressees, Alexander’s soldiers – in order to motivate them to fight, to allay their fears and to cope with crises. Alexander relied on close collaboration with Kallisthenes and his chief seer Aristandros of Telmessos to take advantage of divination in the way I have described and to stage symbolic actions and divine communication with epic connotations. Kallisthenes and Aristandros might have been something like spin-doctors to Alexander. I do not mean that they routinely invented propaganda to hide something or to deceive someone – propaganda in which the king himself did not believe.61 Rather, with their help, Alexander An eagle at the right moment, flying in direction of the enemy, is, of course, even more effective because the omen is easily seen and understood by everybody: cf. Xen. An. 6.5.2, 6.5.21; Xen. Kyr. 2.1.1, 2.4.18–20; Plut. Timoleon 26.6 (with Trampedach 2015, 122–125, 136–137, 173–174). For epic examples see Trampedach 2015, 109–121. 61 As Squillace 2018 argues, e.g. in his conclusion (156 ): ‘The procedure, that sees Alexander himself as author of messages/gestures, and his army as recipient, is always the same: – Alexander covers truth coining a “new truth” personally or through his entourage – Alexander covers the truth suffocating the dissent’. But symbolic actions, I would argue, are not about truth. Be that as it may, Squillace comes to a conclusion similar to my own: ‘In fabricating his

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created a heroic role for himself that he subsequently tried to live up to. In the midst of the campaign, somewhere in Baktria, his two collaborators somehow were lost. Without Alexander’s trusted collaborators, divination became routine; Alexander kept it functional, but the thrill was gone.

propaganda Alexander has the support of historians such as Aristobulus (but also Callisthenes), rhetoricians such as Anaximenes, seers, such as Aristander, who gave substance and reliability to messages and symbolic gestures and contributed to creating the consent’. In this sentence I would only replace the term ‘propaganda’ with ‘self-representation’ (see above n. 12).

3 ALEXANDER AND ATHLETICS OR HOW (NOT) TO USE A TRADITIONAL FIELD OF MONARCHIC LEGITIMATION* Christian Mann The considerations outlined in this article are divided into four sections. First, a general description will be given of how ancient rulers engaged in agones to legitimise their leadership. It is only against this background that Alexander’s dealings with athletics can be put into perspective – the peculiarity, not noticed in previous scholarship, is that he did not apply the usual strategies of Greek rulers, but instead excessively relied on a different form of athletic and musical contests, for which I propose the category of ‘campaign agones’. A description of these campaign agones, their disciplines and participants will follow, and, finally, an interpretation of Alexander’s relationship to athletics with regard to the volume’s general aim, a better understanding of the king’s strategies to legitimise his power. AGONES AND THE LEGITIMATION OF GREEK RULERS

First, we must look away from Alexander the Great and broaden the focus in order to recognise how exceptional his actions were. In general, Greek rulers applied two patterns of action whenever they wanted to engage in agones to boost their legitimacy: they aimed at agonistic victories and had these glorified in image and song, and/or they founded agones explicitly connected to themselves. Let us look at agonistic victories first: in the gymnic and musical disciplines of Greek contests, those striving for victory had to compete personally, which required talent and time-consuming training. In the hippic disciplines, on the other hand, money played the most important role because neither charioteers nor jockeys were *

The evidence on which this paper is based will be discussed in greater detail in a forthcoming book on Alexander’s handling of divination and athletics, written in German together with Kai Trampedach. I was given the opportunity to present my ideas in Heidelberg, Innsbruck, Berlin, Tübingen and at the Villa Vigoni. For suggestions and advice, I am very grateful to Ory Amytai, Johannes Bernhardt, Alexander Meeus, Robert Rollinger, Sebastian Scharff, Sebastian Schmidt­ Hofner, and Kai Trampedach. I am also indebted to Alexander Meeus for linguistic improvements.

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declared winners, but rather the owners of the horses. It is therefore no surprise that wealthy rulers were, in all eras, frequently represented among the victors of the hippic disciplines. Some examples may suffice here: for the tyrants of the 6th century BC, Kleisthenes of Sikyon; for the 5th century BC, Hieron of Syracuse and Arkesilaos of Kyrene; for the 4th century BC, Dionysios I of Syracuse. During the Hellenistic Period, it was primarily the Ptolemies who used the hippic contests for self-presentation. It is clear enough that the agonistic participation of Greek rulers was a broad phenomenon not limited to certain eras or regions.1 In the present context, it is significant that the Macedonian kings before Alexander the Great also attributed importance to the agones. According to an anecdote told by Herodotos, Alexander I was allowed to participate in the Olympic stadion race because he proved his Greekness by referring to his Argive descent.2 The historicity of king Archelaos’ victories with the quadriga in Olympia and Delphi, mentioned by Solinus, is very doubtful,3 but there is archaeological evidence for the hippic activity of the Argeads in the later 5th century BC: a tripod with a dedicatory inscription, found in the royal tombs of Vergina, implies the victory of a king or a person close to the king at a festival at Argos.4 Philipp II triumphed in Olympia in the horse-race (356 BC) and with the quadriga (352 and 348 BC); in addition a victory in the two-horse chariot race, probably in Delphi, was celebrated on the royal coinage. With this equestrian involvement, Philipp pursued a double goal: on the one hand, he publicly and effectively underpinned his affiliation with the world of the Greeks, which was questioned by his opponents; and on the other hand, triumphs at the costly hippic contests were considered a sign of economic and political strength. As Donald Kyle writes: ‘King Philipp II (359–336) used sport and sanctuaries to legitimise his extension of power over Greece’.5 In addition to participation in the hippic contests, the creation of agones is also well documented for ancient rulers of various eras. In the Greek tradition, the foundation of many agonistic festivals is linked to the names of tyrants: The Olympic Games with Pheidon of Argos, the Pythia with Kleisthenes of Sikyon, the Panathenaia with Peisistratos.6 While the historicity of these attributions cannot be established conclusively, one example of an agon founded by a predecessor of Alexander on the Macedonian throne is unquestionable: Archelaos I established the Olympia 1

2 3 4

5 6

A comprehensive study of the agonistic activity of ancient rulers is a desideratum. To date the Deinomenids and the Ptolemies have attracted the greatest attention; for an introduction, see Mann 2013; Hose 2015, with bibliography. Hdt. 5.22; cf. Just. Epit. 7.2.14. See Mari 2002, 31–36. Moretti (1957, no. 349) dates the victory to 408 BC. For the debate surrounding the credibility of the information, see Adams 2008, 59 with n. 12. Andronikos (1984, 164–166) had initially dated the object to 450 BC, but later followed the suggestion of Pierre Amandry (430–420 BC). J. Engels (2010, 93) attributes the victory that is mentioned on the tripod to King Archelaos. Kyle 2015, 225; for the coins see Ritter 2002, 137–144. Lunt 2014, 123–124, with sources and bibliography.

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at Dion, a festival for Zeus Olympios with contests in various disciplines.7 Some consider this festival a kind of ‘anti-Olympics’ for the Macedonians, who at that time were not yet permitted to compete at Olympia, while others view the reinforcement of the regal reputation in Macedonia as the objective of the creation.8 During the Hellenistic Period a vast number of agones was founded by kings and frequently named after them, e.g. the Ptolemaia, Eumeneia or Antigoneia.9 Roman generals10 and later on Roman emperors also became namesakes of agones. ALEXANDER’S EXCEPTIONAL RELATIONSHIP TO AGONISTIC FESTIVALS

Unlike his father and other predecessors on the Macedonian throne, Alexander did not take part in the competitions at Greek festivals. Plutarch offers an explanation for his agonistic abstention: For it was neither every kind of fame nor fame from every source that he courted, as Philip did, who plumed himself like a sophist on the power of his oratory, and took care to have the victories of his chariots at Olympia engraved upon his coins; nay, when those about him inquired whether he would be willing to contend in the foot-race at the Olympic games, since he was swift of foot, ‘Yes’, said he, ‘if I could have kings as my contestants’.11

The quote attributed to Alexander can hardly be taken literally. Plutarch uses it to model his ‘philosophic’ Alexander controlling his pursuit of fame, and in 344, 340 or 336 BC – not to mention later years – Alexander’s participation in the Olympic stadion race was not a realistic option.12 He could, however, have had horses run in his name, even when he himself was far away in the east; the fact that he did not do so requires further explanation, especially because the behaviour of earlier Argeads actually would have led to different expectations. According to Donald Kyle, Alexander’s abstention from the competitions was due to an oriental concept of leader7

8 9 10 11 12

Arr. Anab. 1.11.1; Diod. 17.16.3–4. While both sources attribute the foundation to Archelaos, they give different information regarding the location of the event: Diodoros places the agon in Dion, Arrian in Aigai. According to Bosworth (1980b, 96–97), who takes other sources (schol. Dem. 19.192; SEG 48.781) into account, the mistake is Arrian’s; Adams’ (2007, 131; 2014, 338) attempt to save the details about the location provided by Arrian fails through its confusion of ‘Olympia’ with ‘Iso-Olympic’ contests (cfr. Scanlon 1997, 4). In an article published in 1998 (147–152), Mari followed Arrian’s attribution to Aigai: Alexander staged an agon at Aigai as a replacement for the Olympia at Dion that were not on the schedule in that year. But see now Mari 2018c, 303 and 308, in favour of Dion. For a detailed discussion of the Olympia in Macedonia see Mari 1998. Roisman 2010, 156, with bibliography. Cf. Di Nanni Durante 2015: Appendix II, with many examples. E.g. Soteria kai Moukieia (IVO 327) or Leukolleia (App. Mith. 76). Plut. Alex. 4.5 (trans. B. Perrin); cf. Mor. 179d and 331b. Adams 2007, 126.

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ship, which would have made it impossible for him to compete with subordinates in contests he might lose.13 We will return to this idea later; at this point it should only be noted that recent archaeological research on the Philippeion of Olympia has revealed strong indications that this structure’s conception and construction progress should be attributed to Philipp II, not to Alexander.14 This means that, apart from the proclamation of the Exiles Decree in 324 BC, very little remains for Alexander’s activity at Olympia, the most important site of the Greek agonistic world.15 A similar void confronts us on the second level: while Alexander did organize the Olympia of Dion in 335 BC,16 he did not found any new agon, even if this is often claimed by scholars. Such claims seem to result from a mix-up between two different categories of Greek contests, as illustrated by the following example. After Alexander’s recovery from a serious illness, Arrian reports the following: Ἀλέξανδρος δὲ ἐν Σόλοις θύσας τε τῷ Ἀσκληπιῷ καὶ πομπεύσας αὐτός τε καὶ ἡ στρατιὰ πᾶσα καὶ λαμπάδα ἐπιτελέσας καὶ ἀγῶνα διαθεὶς γυμνικὸν καὶ μουσικὸν (‘At Soli Alexander sacrificed to Asclepius and held a procession of his whole army, with a torch relay race and athletic and musical competitions’).17 Moretti postulates that Alexander established an agon called Asklepieia in Soloi,18 but that is not what the source says. It merely mentions how Alexander sacrificed to Asklepios and held gymnic and musical contests as well as processions and torch relays. In an entirely similar way, Arrian describes celebrations following the conquest of Tyros in 332 BC: Ἀλέξανδρος δὲ τῷ Ἡρακλεῖ ἔθυσέ τε καὶ πομπὴν ἔστειλε ξὺν τῇ δυνάμει ὡπλισμένῃ: καὶ αἱ νῆες ξυνεπόμπευσαν τῷ Ἡρακλεῖ, καὶ ἀγῶνα γυμνικὸν ἐν τῷ ἱερῷ καὶ λαμπάδα ἐποίησε. (‘Alexander sacrificed to Heracles and held a procession in his honour, with his forces under arms; there was a naval review too in honour of Heracles, and Alexander held athletic games in the temple enclosure and a relay torch race’).19 In this passage, after the sacrifice, other ceremonies are mentioned as well, including a gymnic contest. The situation here is more complicated, as Hellenistic texts, including 2 Maccabees, refer to penteteric Herakleia at Tyros, and scholarship regularly traces back this festival to Alexander.20 However, given the many examples of foundations of festivals by Hellenistic kings, a Hellenistic origin for this festival is more likely. Plausibility also speaks against the establishment of a penteteric agon immediately after the devastating destruction of the city, and obviously the contests of 332 and 331 BC do not fit into a penteteric cycle. And 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Kyle 2015, 230. Schultz 2009, with further bibliography. Cf. von den Hoff, this volume. Cf. supra, n. 7. Arr. Anab. 2.5.8 (trans. P.A. Brunt); cf. Curt. 3.7.3–4. ISE II, p. 106; similarly Di Nanni Durante 2015, 11. Arr. Anab. 2.24.6 (trans. P.A. Brunt). 2 Macc 4:18–20. The commentaries on this passage regularly refer to the quoted passus and trace the contests back to Alexander (e.g. D. Schwartz 2008, 226–227). Cf. Bonnet 2015, 325: ‘En quinze occasions, durant son bref règne, Alexandre institua des jeux.’

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to mention a third example, the Βασίλεια of Alexandria were not established by Alexander,21 but by the Ptolemies. There is a quite simple reason for the misinterpretation of Alexander’s agones: they belong to a category that is not yet established among scholars of ancient athletics. Most of the agones, including the most famous ones such as the panhellenic competitions at Olympia and Delphi, were made to be permanently and regularly repeated – mostly in a penteteric or trieteric rhythm – and had a fixed name according to the deity being honoured, a fixed location and a network of rules and traditions regarding organisation and disciplines. Alexander’s agones, on the contrary, were something quite different: he performed a sacrifice to a deity, organised contests with and for his army and then moved on; in no way do the sources even hint at any agon being founded or any intention of permanence. For contests of this kind, I would like to propose the term ‘campaign agones’.22 Like the festivals at sanctuaries and in the context of burials, they are linked to sacrifices, while their peculiar feature was that they were performed in the presence of an army during a war. A few such campaign agones are documented for the Classical and Hellenistic Periods,23 but they are not found in such abundance in any other context as in the campaigns of Alexander the Great:24 Source(s)

Year

Place and Context

Disciplines

Sacrifice

Arr. Anab. 2.5.8 Curt. 3.7.3–4

333 BC

Soloi, after Alexander’s recovery from illness

gymnic and musical

to Asklepios

Arr. Anab. 2.24.6

332 BC

Tyros, after the capture of the city

gymnic

to Herakles/Melqart

Arr. Anab. 3.1.4

332 BC

Memphis, after the arrival in Egypt

gymnic and musical

to Apis and other gods

Arr. Anab. 3.5.2

331 BC

Memphis, after the return from Siwah

gymnic and musical

to Zeus Basileus

Arr. Anab. 3.6.1 Plut. Alex. 29

331 BC

Tyros

gymnic and musical

to Herakles/Melqart

Arr. Anab. 3.16.9

331 BC

Sousa

gymnic

according to the patrios nomos

As assumed by Robert 1933, 136; Koenen 1977, 29–31. For a more detailed analysis of this category see Mann 2020. 23 Hdt. 7.196; Thuc. 6.32.2; Xen. An. 1.2.10, 5.5.6, 4.8.25–28 (cf. Diod. 14.30.3); Plut. Cleom. 12. 24 Overviews of the contests organised by Alexander can also be found in Oliva 1993 , 95 –96 ; Mari 2002, 236 n. 1; Adams 2007, 130–138; Di Nanni Durante 2015, 17–20; Lehmann 2015a, 208–213. The counts differ as the connection of the details found in the Vulgate with the agones mentioned by Arrian is not always clear, and there are debates if the two agones in Memphis might be only a single one. The agon in honour of the Indian sage Kalanos is unanimously excluded from the list. It is mentioned by Athenaios (10.437a) and Claudius Aelianus (VH 2.41), but not by Arrian, who describes the death of Kalanos in great detail (Anab. 7.3, cf. 7.18.1). 21 22

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Source(s)

Year

Place and Context

Disciplines

Sacrifice

Arr. Anab. 3.25.1

330 BC

Zadrakarta/Hyrkania

gymnic

to the gods, according to the nomos

Arr. Anab. 4.4.1

329 BC

Alexandria Eschate

gymnic and hippic

to the gods, according to the nomos

Arr. Anab. 5.3.5–6 327 BC

before crossing the Indus River

gymnic and hippic

to the gods, according to the nomos

Arr. Anab. 5.8.3

326 BC

Taxila, after crossing the Indus River

gymnic and hippic

to the gods, according to the nomos

Arr. Anab. 5.20.1

326 BC

at the Hydaspes River, after the victory over Poros

gymnic and hippic

to the gods

Arr. Anab. 5.29.1–2

326 BC

at the Hyphasis River, after the decision to return

gymnic and hippic

to the gods, according to the nomos

Arr. Anab. 6.28.3 Arr. Ind. 36.3 Diod. 17.106.4–5

325 or 324 BC

Karmania, after crossing Gedrosia

gymnic and musical

Zeus Soter, Herakles, Apollon Alexikakos, Poseidon

Arr. Anab. 7.14.1 Plut. Alex. 72.1 Diod. 17.110.7–8

324 BC

Ekbatana

gymnic and musical drinking contest

as usual after some successful event

Arr. Anab. 7.14.8–10

323 BC

Babylon, Hephaistion’s burial

gymnic and musical

–

Arr. Anab. 7.23.5

323 BC

Babylon

naval contests

–

In addition, there was another gymnic agon, which did not take place in Alexander’s presence, but was organised by Nearchos before the departure of the fleet.25 Alexander thus was not the only commander of his empire who organised campaign agones. But nevertheless: even if we disregard the contests at Hephaistion’s funeral – one might classify them as funeral contests, which have a long tradition in Greek history26 – the high number of Alexander’s campaign agones remains astonishing. And as (almost) all Greek historical writers placed wars at the centre of their narratives and some of them reported campaign agones, it cannot be a plausible explanation to attribute this merely to asymmetries of the source tradition. If campaign agones are passed down more rarely for other wars than for Alexander’s campaigns, the most convincing inference is that Alexander organised more events of this kind than others did.

25 26

Arr. Ind. 21.2. Cf. Hom. Il. 23.257–897; Hes. Op. 653–658. For a collection of epigraphical evidence, see Rol­ ler 1981.

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There might be one exception to the rule that Alexander did not found new agones: In a passage that has remained unnoticed in this context27 Strabo refers to a letter of Alexander to the citizens of Ilion: ‘… when Alexander went up there after his victory at the Granicus River he adorned the temple with votive offerings, gave the village the title of city, and ordered those in charge to improve it with buildings, and that he adjudged it free and exempt from tribute; and that later, after the overthrow of the Persians, he sent down a kindly letter to the place, promising to make a great city of it, and to build a magnificent sanctuary, and to proclaim sacred games’.28 It is hard to decide if this letter is authentic or a forgery,29 but what is clear is that there is no evidence for a foundation of an agon at Ilion by Alexander.30 A brief, provisional conclusion: Alexander’s relationship to athletic contests is marked by the abstention from normal practices of Greek rulers; he did not take part in the contests himself and did not create any new agonistic festivals. This fact requires particular emphasis because it has not been observed by previous scholarship. Alexander might have been ‘an intermediary rather than a radical innovator’31 in some respects, but in the field of athletics he certainly was an innovator – especially the striking break with the politics of Philipp II needs to be pointed out.32 Only against this background an explanation of his preference for campaign agones can be attempted. ALEXANDER’S CAMPAIGN AGONES: CONTEXTS, PARTICIPANTS, DISCIPLINES

In the few sources for campaign agones before Alexander the Great, we encounter them in two types of situations: the first is the celebration of a happy turn of events, as described in Xenophon’s Anabasis, when the Greeks held an agon after they had reached Trapezous and had thus overcome the greatest dangers. The second is the beginning of a major undertaking, such as the naval contest of the Athenian fleet on

27 28

29 30 31 32

And would have remained unnoticed by myself if Alexander Meeus had not drawn my attention to it. Strab. 13.1.26: Ἀλέξανδρον δὲ ἀναβάντα μετὰ τὴν ἐπὶ Γρανίκῳ νίκην ἀναθήμασί τε κοσμῆσαι τὸ ἱερὸν καὶ προσαγορεῦσαι πόλιν καὶ οἰκοδομίαις ἀναλαβεῖν προστάξαι τοῖς ἐπιμεληταῖς ἐλευθέραν τε κρῖναι καὶ ἄφορον: ὕστερον δὲ μετὰ τὴν κατάλυσιν τῶν Περσῶν ἐπιστολὴν καταπέμψαι φιλάνθρωπον, ὑπισχνούμενον πόλιν τε ποιῆσαι μεγάλην καὶ ἱερὸν ἐπισημότατον καὶ ἀγῶνα ἀποδείξειν ἱερόν (trans. H.L. Jones). Cf. Ziegler 1998, 686. For Alexander’s letters in general cf. Monti 2016, with further bibliography. It was Seleukos Nikator who founded an agon at Ilion (IG XI[4] 1036: ll. 4–10; IK.Troia 31: ll. 9–12); cf. Meeus, this volume. Mari 2018c, 299. Alexander’s contests are frequently regarded as a continuation of Philipp’s politics: Brown 1977; Slowikowski 1989; Romano 1990.

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their departure towards Sicily in 415 BC.33 Both kinds of occasions are also found in the sources for Alexander the Great: the contests after Alexander’s recovery in 333 BC in Soloi, after the painstaking, but ultimately successful siege of Tyros in 332 BC, after the crossing of the Gedrosian Desert in Karmania (325/4 BC) belong to the first category. The agones in Tyros, before the army advanced to the heartland of the Persian Empire (331 BC), and before the Indus Crossing (327 BC) belong to the second category. The sources provide little information concerning the specific execution of the agones. Our most important source, Arrian, gives rather stereotypical accounts of the contests, using the same formulas in the same order: first he mentions sacrifices and the deity the sacrifices are for, or the general formula, ‘Alexander sacrificed in accordance with the nomos’. 34 Then, the categories of contests are named – musical, gymnic, hippic, although never all three together – as well as other elements of the festival, such as parades or torch relays. On some occasions, important decisions, like the appointment of governors, follow the campaign agones in Arrian’s account.35 This schematic description of the contests suggests Arrian had no specific purpose here, and for instance did not use the campaign agones for giving the readers a certain impression of Alexander’s character. More likely, Arrian just followed his sources, whether this was Ptolemaios, Aristoboulos or someone else. While there is no way to find out which texts Arrian actually used for the campaign agones, it is possible, but far from certain, that the information goes back to the Ephemerides. Diodoros of Sicily, Curtius Rufus, and Plutarch name far fewer agones than Arrian does; they also do not mention them in a standardised formulaic way, but point out specific circumstances like famous participants (see below). Concerning the participants, there is only little and scattered information. The usual assumption is that it was the soldiers who competed. In general, this is correct, but it is worth taking a closer look at the evidence. One source of extraordinary significance is a marble statue base from Amphipolis, published in 1971, which surprisingly has not attracted much interest to date.36 It bears the following inscription: ἡνίκα Ἀλέξανδρος Τυρίαν δορὶ νῆσον ἐρεί[ψας] Ἡρακλέα τιμαῖς ηὖξεν ἀεθλοφόροις, Ἀντίγονος Κάλλα δισσοὺς τόθι πρῶτος ἑταίρων ὁπλίτου σταδίου τ’ ἀμφέθετο στεφάνους.

Xen. An. 4.8.25–28; Thuc. 6.32.2. In the winter of 418/17 BC, the Athenian commander Demosthenes announced an agon, it was a trick to draw the garrison of Epidauros out of the fortress near Epidauros (Thuc. 5.80.3). 34 θύσας τοῖς θεοῖς ὡς νόμος (Arr. Anab. 3.25.1, 4.4.1; very similar in 5.3.6 and 5.8.3). 35 The appointment of nomarchs is mentioned by Arrian immediately after the second agon in Memphis, the appointment or confirmation of satraps after the agones in Sousa and Zadrakarta. 36 Editio princeps: Koukouli-Chrysanthaki 1971. Cf. ISE II 113; BÉ 1973, 286; improved text in Albanidis 1995–1998. 33

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When Alexander conquered with the spear the island-city of Tyros and exalted Herakles with prize­bringing competitions, Antigonos, son of Kallas, was the first of the hetairoi to win double wreaths for the hoplites (i.e. race in armour) and the stadion.

The attribution of Antigonos’ athletic victories to Alexander’s first agon in Tyros is beyond doubt; the epigram and Arrian’s account correspond in connecting the contests to the capture of Tyros and sacrifices to Herakles.37 The identity of the victor remains unclear; although the name Antigonos was quite common in ancient Macedonia, no son of Kallas bearing this name is known from other texts. An Antigonos won the stadion in Olympia in 292 and 288 BC,38 but he is out of the question due to chronological reasons, while the identification of Kallas’ son with the Antigonos mentioned as a commander under Ptolemaios I in 304 BC is possible.39 Πρῶτος ἑταίρων surely does not refer to the rank of Antigonos in relation to other hetairoi, but is rather to be understood in terms of the ‘I was the first’­motif that is well­ known for agonistic epigrams: in this genre, it is often emphasised that victories were achieved ‘as the first Ionian’, ‘as the first both in wrestling and pankration’, ‘as the first woman’ and so on.40 Antigonos therefore proudly points out that he was the first of all hetairoi who was successful in two disciplines. This formula also indicates that the participation of high­ranking officials of the Macedonian army in the campaign agones was viewed as a usual phenomenon. The monument was only set up after some time (ἡνίκα), probably when Antigonos returned to his Macedonian home. Other sources testify that Macedonian generals in Alexander’s army spent time on athletic training: according to Athenaios, who follows Phylarchos and Agatharchides, ‘Perdiccas and Craterus, who were fond of athletic exercises, had men follow them with hides fastened together so as to cover a place an entire stadium in extent; and then they selected a spot within the encampment which they had covered with these skins as an awning; and under this they practised their gymnastics’. Pack animals transported the sand for the mobile palaistra.41 Plutarch reports a similar anecdote for Leonnatos; Strabo states that the Indians produced a large number of strigils for Alexander’s army, indicating a large requirement for these typical athletic objects.42 There will not be much impetus to take these details literally, particularly because they are assumed to be exaggerations as part of the discourse about the pompous luxury in Alexander’s army. On the other hand, Antigonos, who was referred to above, is a sure example of a high-ranking Macedonian soldier who took part in athletic contests, and there is no reason to assume that he was an exception. 37 38 39 40 41

42

For the stress on conquest here and in similar inscriptions see Wallace, this volume. Moretti 1957, no. 527 and 533; RE I, 1, 2421 s.v. Antigonos 11. Diod. 20.98.1. Ebert 1972, no. 43; Paus. 6.13.6, 6.15.10. Ath. 12.539c: Περδίκκᾳ δὲ καὶ Κρατερῷ φιλογυμναστοῦσιν ἠκολούθουν διφθέραι σταδιαῖαι τοῖς μεγέθεσιν, ὑφ᾽ αἷς περιλαμβάνοντες τόπον ἐν ταῖς καταστρατοπεδείαις ἐγυμνάζοντο (trans. S.D. Olson). Plut. Alex. 40.1; Strab. 15.1.67.

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As well as the soldiers, however, agonistic specialists are attested as participants of Alexander’s campaign agones. Arrian reports the following on the first agon in Memphis: ‘Thence he crossed the river and went to Memphis, where he sacrificed to the gods, especially Apis, and held athletic and musical games; the most famous performers of their field came to him there from Greece’.43 There is disagreement about the exact meaning of ἀμφί in this sentence: while Brunt in his Loeb translation interprets it as referring to specialists both for the gymnic and the musical contests, Wirth understands τεχνίτης ἀμφί τι as a ‘specialist for something’.44 The latter seems to offer the better solution because when agonistic specialists are specifically named as participants of Alexander’s agones, they are always actors. Regarding the second agon in Tyros (331 BC), Plutarch reports that Alexander, like the other spectators, followed the competition between the famous tragedians Thessalos and Athenodoros with great interest.45 The further east Alexander’s campaign advanced, the less frequent musical contests became, with none at all happening in India anymore. This can most plausibly be explained by the difficulties of having the actors travel such long distances. However, the gymnic and hippic agones could be contested by the soldiers themselves.46 After the return from India, participants from Greece are mentioned once again. Two different sources give the high number of 3,000 participants, but contradict each other regarding the context: Plutarch connects the information with contests in Ekbatana (324 BC), Arrian with the funeral games for Hephaistion in Babylon.47 While the latter does not explicitly mention that these 3,000 men came from Greece, it is his only mention of a number in the context of the campaign agones; this only makes sense if the participants did not come from the army. It is therefore obvious that one of the two authors – or their source – made a mistake; the most plausible explanation is that Plutarch confused the contests in Ekbatana, during which Hephaistion died, with the funeral games for Hephaistion. Furthermore, bringing together such a number of actors and musicians to lend a special splendour to the contests makes more sense for the funeral games for Hephaistion, for which Alexander generally deemed no expense too high. Finally, it should also be mentioned that famous athletes were part of Alexander’s army. The Athenian Dioxippos, Olympic victor in the pankration in 336 BC,48 43

44 45 46 47 48

Arr. Anab. 3.1.4: ἐκεῖθεν δὲ διαβὰς τὸν πόρον ἧκεν ἐς Μέμφιν: καὶ θύει ἐκεῖ τοῖς τε ἄλλοις θεοῖς καὶ τῷ Ἄπιδι καὶ ἀγῶνα ἐποίησε γυμνικόν τε καὶ μουσικόν: ἧκον δὲ αὐτῷ οἱ ἀμφὶ ταῦτα τεχνῖται ἐκ τῆς Ἑλλάδος οἱ δοκιμώτατοι. This agon was not organised spontaneously but planned some months in advance: Bloedow 1998. Brunt 1976: ‘… the most famous performers in both athletics and music …’. G. Wirth (in: Wirth / von Hinüber 1985, 189): ‘die berühmtesten Künstler ihres Faches’. Plut. Alex. 29. This difference between musical contests on the one hand and gymnic and hippic contests on the other is emphasised by Oliva 1993, 96–97, and Lehmann 2015a, 207. Plut. Alex. 72.1; Arr. Anab. 7.14.8–10. On his athletic career, see Decker 2014, no. 30.

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performed a special duel not mentioned by Arrian, but in the Vulgate: naked and armed only with a club, he fought against the hetairos Korrhagos, who was armed with typical Macedonian weapons – javelin, sarissa, and sword – and defeated him.49 This episode is highly interesting in many respects, above all because of the rift it caused between Greeks and Macedonians in Alexander’s army. However, in our context, the question of why and in which function Dioxippos actually was in Alexander’s army is much more interesting. Scholars have suggested that the famous athlete joined the army to demonstrate his skills during exhibition matches for Macedonian officers.50 However, the possibility that Dioxippos also participated when athletic contests were held for the army should not be excluded. The same applies for the Cretan Olympic victor Philonides, who is mentioned as a courier (hemerodromos) in Alexander’s army.51 The reports about Alexander’s campaign agones provide little information about age groups and disciplines. According to Arrian, gymnic contests for boys took place in Ekbatana in 324 BC.52 The participants were unlikely to be soldiers, nor is it very plausible that young athletes were brought to Media from Greece. In analogy with the agon described by Xenophon,53 the most likely option is that these boys were prisoners of war. Regarding the disciplines, dithyrambs and tragedy are named for the musical contests in Tyros in 331 BC, but details are missing for the gymnic and hippic disciplines. The usual disciplines in Olympia and generally in Greece – races and combat sports, perhaps also discus and javelin throwing – can be assumed for the gymnic contests, and horse races for the hippic contests. The idea that Alexander’s contests also involved chariot races54 is not plausible: while a horse race can be organised for the cavalry with little additional trouble, chariot races required special equipment and also considerable practice on the part of the charioteer. Xenophon provides a somewhat more detailed description of a campaign agon in the Anabasis passage that has already been referred to several times (4.8.27–28): as disciplines, he lists the stadion race for boys, and for men the dolichos (longdistance run), wrestling, boxing, and pankration as well as a horse race. The contests for boys are predominantly performed by prisoners of war, and those for men by the soldiers themselves, sometimes according to their regional specialisation: the Cretans, famous for their long-distance runs, took part in this discipline in large numbers. An important difference to the competitions in the Greek sanctuaries was the difficult terrain: the ground was unusually hard for combat sports, which the Spartan organiser of this campaign agon justified in typically laconic style. In the 49 50 51 52 53 54

Diod. 17.100–101.2; Curt. 9.7.16–26; Ael. VH 10.22; Aristoboulos (FGrHist 139) F 47 (=  Ath. 6.251a). Brown 1977, 83 (Dioxippos as ‘entertainer’). Paus. 6.16.5; IVO 276 and 277; cf. Wallace, this volume. Arr. Anab. 7.14.1. Xen. An. 4.8.27. Günther 2013, 296. A basis for the assumption is not named, the sources only generally speak of a hippic agon.

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horse race, the run first went steeply downhill and, on the way back, equally steeply uphill, which presented great challenges for the riders but provided great enjoyment to the audience. The essential characteristics of this agon, like the disciplines, the improvised terrain, the participation of soldiers, but also of others, will have been characteristics of the Alexander’s campaign agones as well. THE FU NCTION OF CAMPAIGN AGONES

No source provides explicit information on the motives that led Alexander to holding athletic and musical competitions during his campaigns, probably because ancient authors held the motives self­evident. Scholars have offered a whole range of explanations, but there has been no debate on this issue, since competing approaches have either been ignored or only selectively discussed. For this reason, an overview of the positions should first be provided. The theory that contests were held in order to relax and entertain the soldiers shall be referenced only briefly.55 These aspects are certainly relevant; however, they do not supply a satisfactory explanation in themselves, as there would have been many other possibilities of ensuring relaxation and entertainment. Religious motives, which Franz Hampl assumes, also do not suffice. While it is correct and important to emphasise the connection of agones and sacrifices, the way in which Hampl drew a dividing line between a ‘religious sphere’ and a ‘cultural-political sphere’ does not seem productive.56 In the world of ancient paganism, almost every important act was combined with sacrifices, and the agones too were incorporated into the communication with the gods; but that does not necessarily mean that they did not also have a political function. W. Lindsay Adams attributes a military function to the agones: ‘Cavalry exercises to coordinate their actions with the infantry were a necessity’.57 To underpin this theory, Adams could have pointed out that Agesilaos organised contests in Ephesos, where the best respective units – in the categories of hoplites, riders, peltasts, and archers – were awarded with prizes.58 However, cross-unit exercises to improve coordination between the troop sections are not mentioned in this context either. As for Alexander’s campaign agones, the sources consistently call them gymnic, hippic, and musical, indicating the usual disciplines of the competitions at Greek sanctuaries, so it seems quite clear that it was individuals who competed, not units. The inscription of Antigonos, son of Kallas, also points in this direction.

Weiler 1975, 275; Adams 2007, 131. Hampl 1954, 126. 57 Adams 2007, 136. 58 Xen. Hell. 3.4.16–18. 55 56

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David Lunt adopts a completely different approach, which understands the agones as part of Alexander’s efforts in striving for victoriousness.59 In his opinion, Alexander abstained from taking part in contests because he was afraid of the risk of defeat, and for this reason resorted to the organisation of agones with their aura of victoriousness. Without wanting to contest the significance of victoriousness for Alexander or ancient rulers in general, it seems to me that this theory can neither explain Alexander’s non-participation in the major panhellenic contests nor his organisation of campaign agones. Risk-avoidance was very obviously not Alexander’s most important creed and, given his spectacular military successes, his victoriousness was not up for debate. According to another explanation that essentially goes back to Johann Gustav Droysen, the contests served as a tool to bring the barbarians closer to Greek culture.60 Here reference is primarily made to the first agon in Memphis: Alexander is said to have proven his reverence for Egyptian traditions – while pointedly distancing himself from the Achaimenids –, but he also wanted to add a decidedly Greek touch. For this reason, he held sports and musical contests to familiarise the Egyptians with Greek culture and to initiate their Hellenisation. One objection to this explanation, already put forward by Hampl,61 is that it does not fit most agones on Alexander’s campaign: one would expect the competitions to be organised at the centres of Alexander’s emerging empire, rather than in locations such as Tyros, whose population had just suffered a massacre at the hands of Alexander’s troops, or in areas like Hyrkania, Karmania, and the Indus region. For the purpose of Hellenisation, one­off campaign agones would have made less sense than the creation of permanent agones and gymnasia. While it can be observed that athletics served as marker of Greek identity during the Hellenistic period, with Alexander this does not seem to be the case. Rather, it should be taken into account that the agon was connected to a symbolic occupation of the conquered country. This would make sense especially in Egypt, which was captured without a struggle and, for this reason, experienced no demonstration of Alexander’s military strength. Organising an agon could be interpreted as a sign of power, as shown by Philipp II’s presiding over the Pythian Games in 346 BC. A Hellenistic example for a campaign agon exists with Kleomenes, who had a theatre set up in which he held musical contests in the chora of Megalopolis, therefore in enemy territory, an action which Plutarch interprets as a demonstration of power.62 Other aspects seem to possess greater relevance. Long campaigns gave rise to many caesuras through the process of war itself – battles, the end of sieges etc. Lunt 2014. Droysen 1952, 197: ‘er ließ dort von hellenischen Künstlern gymnische und musische Wettkämpfe halten, zum Zeichen, wie fortan das Fremde hier heimisch, das Einheimische auch den Fremden ehrwürdig sein werde.’ This view (e.g. Wilcken 1931, 107–108) is dominant in older German scholarship; it is, however, also still represented in more recent works. 61 Hampl 1954, 125–126. 62 Plut. Cleom. 12. 59 60

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Caesuras can also, however, be deliberately set by army commanders. These kinds of caesuras are important for injecting meaning into campaign stages and thus boosting troop motivation. After all, without denying the specific, sometimes entirely material interests of soldiers, the conviction of participating in something important is central for the soldiers’ willingness to endure troubles and hardships and to put their lives on the line. Against this background, agones, after great successes or before heading for unknown areas and combined with sacrifices and days of rest, have a psychological effect. An example is the naval contest shortly before Alexander’s death, which was quite exceptional during Alexander’s campaigns. The fleet, equipped for the planned campaign to Arabia, in which it was intended to have a significant role, was symbolically boosted by this contest. A further function of the contests exists in the army experiencing a sense of community during agones. Alexander’s recovery from a severe illness was, as the sacrifice to Asklepios shows, the official occasion for the contests carried out in Soloi in 333 BC, but there was a further factor: after several months, during which many units had been detached for special tasks, the army was reunited again. During contests – and during athletic contests even more so than during musical ones –, participants recognise each other as essentially being of equal rank because they compete under the same rules and with an open outcome. The spectators also form a community whose attention is directed at the same event. The contest in Soloi may therefore also have been motivated by the wish to provide the reunited army with an experience of community. The situation was similar with the agon before the Indus Crossing, where several previously separately operating army units had also come together again.63 It is possible that the integrative aspect played a special role in this contest because shortly before, 700 Indian cavalrymen had been sent as reinforcements to Alexander’s army.64 Their participation in the hippic contests is not explicitly mentioned in Arrian’s short report, but it is entirely conceivable that the new arrivals could have put their skills to the test in the ambivalent context of competition and community formation, which is so typical of sports. In a different campaign, this is explicitly pointed out: Xerxes had a horse race organised after arriving in Thessaly, in which the Persians competed against the newly arrived Thessalian reinforcements.65 It is clear from the mentioned duel between Dioxippos and Korrhagos that sports not only had an integrative effect but could also highlight fault lines. Particularly for this reason, Alexander’s agones may correspond to the function of channelling the spirit of competition living within ancient armies. A final aspect would be the imitation of Achilleus. The Homeric hero represented a role model for Alexander,66 and several parallels can be found in the field of athletics: firstly, Plutarch describes Alexander as ποδώκης and thus uses the epithet of Adams 2007, 137. Arr. Anab. 5.3.5. 65 Hdt. 7.196. 66 Hölscher, this volume. 63 64

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Achilleus common in the Iliad.67 Secondly, the only athletic contest in which Alexander himself took part is the race in Troy,68 which is rather to be comprehended as a ritual imitation of the hero’s race. Otherwise, and this is the third parallel, Alexander did not compete in, but rather organised contests, exactly like Achilleus did in book 23 of the Iliad. And if we believe that Alexander really intended to found an agon at Ilion (see above, with n. 28–30), that would have been an allusion to this heroic contest. The imitation of Achilleus is especially clear from the funeral games for Hephaistion, operated at great expense and characterised by Alexander’s excessive display of grief. CONCLUSION

A monocausal explanation of Alexander’s campaign agones is not possible and not the objective of this article. Differences must be expected from contest to contest. One key finding with regard to the present volume’s topic is that Alexander’s dealings with athletics relate to the army.69 This is a fundamental difference from his father and predecessor: Philip’s participation in the Olympic and Pythian Games was oriented towards a panhellenic audience, to whom he wished to demonstrate his affiliation with the Greek world, his power and victoriousness. Alexander had no need for this: as the leader of a campaign which was clearly declared as a panhellenic operation, his Greekness was uncontested, just like the fact that he was the most powerful man in the Greek world. I do not wish to follow Kyle’s theory that Alexander refrained from having horses and chariots race in the hippodromes due to his oriental conception of leadership. Still, it is true that Alexander moved in a completely different orbit than earlier Greek rulers. He is perhaps the only person in Greek history for whom an Olympic victory would not constitute a huge prestige boost, and he had no need of it to legitimise his leadership. What was essential for Alexander was to have an effective, motivated army devoted to him, and this was the audience he addressed with his exceptional handling of athletics.

Plut. Alex. 4.5, Mor. 179d; ποδωκέστατος in Mor. 331b; Hölscher, this volume. Plut. Alex. 15.4. 69 According to Lehmann (2015a, 209–210), Alexander targeted the Greek public with the second agon in Tyros; here, Lehmann refers to the presence of Greek embassies. This is, however, only a side aspect of the general picture of Alexander’s campaign agones. 67 68

4 VIOLENCE AND LEGITIMATION THE SOCIAL LOGIC OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT’S ACTS OF VIOLENCE BETWEEN THE DANUBE AND THE INDUS – A CONCEPTUAL OUTLINE AND A CASE STUDY*

Matthias Haake für Justus Cobet zum 25. Mai 2019 Eine Analyse der Gewalt, die nicht auch vom Raum und von der Kultur spricht, in denen sie sich entfaltet, wird keine Antwort auf die Frage finden, welche Handlungsmöglichkeiten sich Menschen in Gewalträumen bieten.1

PRELIMINARY REMARKS

Among the huge amount of ancient and post­antique adaptions of the figure of Alexander the Great, Klaus Mann’s novel Alexander: Roman einer Utopie from 1929 unquestionably counts as one of the most unconventional ones.2 This becomes exemplarily evident in one of the novel’s pivotal scenes. In this scene near the end

*

1 2

This slightly revised version of my conference paper is not a systematic analysis, but a first attempt at conceptualising Alexander’s acts of violence as legitimatory acts and – hopefully – part of a future research project on sovereign violence and legitimation of sole rulers in the ancient Mediterranean world; see already the short remarks in Haake 2015, esp. 283–284. – For inviting me to participate in the conference and for the opportunity to bring my ideas up for discussion in the wonderful atmosphere on the upper side of Lake Como as well as for their most valuable comments on a first draft of this article, I would like to thank Alexander Meeus (Mann­ heim) and Kai Trampedach (Heidelberg). I am also grateful to the participants of the conference for their critical and encouraging remarks. For various reasons, I am indebted to Anna Haake (Münster), David Lambert (Bielefeld), and Claire Taylor (Madison, WI). Thanks are also due to George Boys-Stones (Toronto), Johanna Hanink (Providence, RI), Nino Luraghi (Oxford), and Wilfried Nippel (Berlin). Baberowski 2015, 43. K. Mann, Alexander. Roman einer Utopie. Mit einem Vorwort von J. Cocteau (1931) und einem Nachwort von D. Heißerer, Reinbek ²2006; for an English translation, see K. Mann, Alexander. A Novel of Utopia. Foreword by J. Cocteau. Translated by D. Carter, London ²2016. On the rather sparsely received novel in general, see Kroll 1979, 70–78; Neumann 1986, 44–46, and Heisserer’s Nachwort in the 2006 German edition of the novel (pp. 229–253).

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of the book, dying Alexander is confronted with a celestial envoy, and a dialogue arises between the mortal, who had recently claimed divine honours,3 and God’s envoy. In the course of the dialogue, the king remembers bewailing the countless men who had died for him, and he defends himself by saying that each and everybody for whose death he was responsible and particularly those he had killed had loved him. His lengthy explanations, which process from vindication to confession, culminate in the angel’s prophecy, the novel’s climax, that Alexander, whose name ‘marks the end of one era of world history and the beginning of a new one’,4 will return in another guise being able to die for those who he loves – and not the other way around.5 Without a doubt, Droysen’s conceptualisation of the Hellenistic epoch as paving the way for Christianity clearly resonates in Mann’s arrangement of the outlined passage, and in this, the figure of Alexander serves as its poetic concretion.6 Yet, another aspect is more important in the current context. For although the hero’s pathetic catharsis before his agonising death is a highly original arrangement of the figure of Alexander, the leitmotif that underlies this scene in particular and the novel in general, contains a most traditional lineament: the Macedonian conqueror’s violence, which is also the current paper’s concern. Many of Alexander’s contemporaries already considered his violence to be a central theme of any discussion of the king and towards the end of antiquity the Christian writer Orosius characterised him as ‘truly an abyss of miseries and fiercest cyclone for the entire East’.7 However, ancient authors not only had to grapple with the violent facet(s) of Alexander, which had already come into view following his campaign (this was a most appropriate topic to discuss Alexander and his rule according to well-established criteria in the Greek discourse on sole-rulership), but consequently also modern scholars necessarily did and continue to do so. Thus, it cannot come as a surprise that the set of multi-layered, diverging, competing, and even conflicting images of Alexander in the ancient sources – a kaleidoscope in the very proper sense – can be traced back to their authors’ intentional valuations of Alexander’s acts of violence. The same holds true for modern scholarship: every treatment of Alexander’s character and doings eventually amounts to the question how the modern scholar decides to position Alexander in relation to (his) violent 3 4 5

6

7

On the much­debated topic Alexander and deification, it might suffice to refer to Anson 2013,

83–120.

Droysen 2012, 3; for the German original, see Droysen 1877–78 I.1, 3. See K. Mann, Alexander. Roman einer Utopie, ²2006, 221–227, esp. 223–226. On Mann’s depiction of the Alexander figure in the perspective of classical scholars, see the short remarks by Cartledge 2004, 263, 343; Stoneman 2008, 228; see also S. Müller 2011a, 129–131. Mann knew Droysen’s Alexander; see Kroll 1979, 70. On Droysen’s concept of the Hellenistic period (i.a., Droysen 1833, 548–551 and 2012, 390–396 [=  D roysen 1877–78 I.2, 296–305]), at least partially in Hegel’s wake (Hegel 1992, 331–338), see Rebenich 2008, 135–138; Sebastiani 2015. Oros. 3.7.5. On this passage, see Döpp 1999, 209–212, esp. 209–210.

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deeds.8 The (value) judgements on Alexander oscillate between two extremes, condemnation and admiration, often depending on the contemporary historical context, which implicitly or explicitly provides the framework and so, in the end, defines the respective treatments of Alexander. In giving an answer to the questions, what is the relation between Alexander and violence and how is it to be evaluated, every historian, be it consciously or unconsciously, is confronted with the ‘problem of historical judgment formation’.9 Three quotations from the 19th century might serve paradigmatically to illustrate this point. They demonstrate instructively the range of how historical research, to this day, treats the theme ‘Alexander and violence’. Two of the following passages were written by protagonists of historical scholarship in the penultimate century, while the third one belongs to the enfant terrible of classical studies in those days, a man who finally preferred to become a philosopher rather than remaining a classical philologist. 1) When the 25-year-old Prussian son of a pastor Johann Gustav Droysen published his Alexander in 1833, he had – anachronistically speaking – favoured theorising over source criticism.10 Be this as it may, in considering the much-debated burning of Persepolis, Droysen stated notoriously, and in a somewhat Hegelian spirit: However, great men possess the right to be judged according to their own measure, and in what one calls their mistakes, there lies a deeper meaning than in the whole morality they have the courage to defy. Bearer of the ideas of their times and their people they act with dark passion, which carries them – as far as their profession beyond the horizon of ordinariness – to the lonesome realms of historical greatness, that can be only seen with a look of admiration.11

Unquestionably, Droysen was generally willing to impose exceptional standards in the appraisal of Alexander’s (and comparable candidates’) extraordinary deeds and to adjust generally accepted normative rules in accordance with the supposedly

The term kaleidoscope is borrowed from Baynham 2003, 29. As to the countless images and (re-)constructions of Alexander in the ancient sources as well as in modern scholarship, see besides Baynham 2003 e.g. Spencer 2002; Stoneman 2008; Demandt 2009, 405–483; Briant 2010, 153–185 and 2012b; Wiemer 2015a, 16–49, 189–214; Briant 2016; Boardman 2019; see also the collected volume Moore 2018. Interestingly enough, biographies of Alexander are generally written by male historians; see now, however, S. Müller 2019. 9 On this topic, ‘Alexander und das Problem der historischen Urteilsbildung’, see Heuss 1995. 10 See Nippel 2008, 32. 11 See Droysen 1833, 248 n. 53. On this passage, not incorporated in the second edition of Droysen’s Alexander from 1877, see Nippel 2008, 27; Wiemer 2012, 130–131. For the Hegelian impact on this passage, a short notice in Hegel’s posthumously published Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Geschichte is important; see Hegel 1992, 334: ‘Es würde zu der großen weltgeschichtlichen Gestalt Alexanders nicht heranreichen, wenn man ihn, wie die neueren Philister unter den Historikern tun, nach einem modernen Maßstab, dem der Tugend oder Moralität, messen wollte.’ See also Hegel 2015, 347. Droysen attended Hegel’s Vorlesungen on the philosophy of history at the Berlin University in the winter term 1828/29: see Bravo 1968, 171. 8

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impartially ascribed, yet nevertheless subjectively perceived, greatness of a historical (generally male) figure realising his role as agent of the ‘Weltgeist’.12 2) In contrast, Droysen’s younger Swiss contemporary, Jacob Burckhardt, adopted a different perspective in relation to Alexander. In his posthumously, never­supposed-to-be-published Weltgeschichtliche Betrachtungen he wrote: Even old times present a picture of horror when we imagine the sum of despair and misery which went to establish the old world empires, for instance. Our deepest compassion, perhaps, would go out to those individual peoples who must have succumbed to the kings of Persia, or even to the kings of Assyria and Media, in their desperate struggle for independence. All the lonely royal fortresses of individual peoples (Hyrcanians, Bactrians, Sogdanians, Gedrosians) which Alexander encountered marked the scenes of ghastly last struggles, of which all knowledge has been lost. Did they fight in vain?13

Whereas Droysen treated Alexander’s victims as unavoidable and ultimately necessary collateral damage in order to bring about and manifest world-historical greatness, Burckhardt’s deliberations are shaped by the perspective of the victims of the Macedonian conqueror and other likewise ambitious rulers. By emphasising the price of the deeds of supposedly great men (to whom Burckhardt was by no means fundamentally averse), the perspective of ‘the sage among historians’14 gives rise to criticism of Alexander’s bloody deeds. 3) Radically different from both Droysen and Burckhardt is the account of the latter’s temporary colleague at the University of Basel, Friedrich Nietzsche. In his Homer’s Wettkampf he described an especially disturbing act of violence by Alexander in the context of the successful siege of Gaza in 332, which will be discussed in more detail later: Thus, the Greeks, the most humane people of ancient time, have a trait of cruelty, of tiger-like pleasure in destruction, in them: a trait which is even clearly visible in Alexander the Great, that grotesquely enlarged reflection of the Hellene, and which, in their whole history, and also their mythology, must strike fear into us when we approach them with the emasculated concept of modern humanity. When Alexander has the feet of the brave defender of Gaza, Batis, pierced, and ties his live body to his chariot in order to drag him around to the scorn of his soldiers: this is a nauseating caricature of Achilles, who abused the corpse of Hector at night by similarly dragging it around; but for us, even Achilles’ action has something offensive and horrific about it. Here we look into the abysses of hatred.15

Both Droysen and Burckhardt, despite their differing evaluation regarding Alexander’s acts of violence, have one ‘systematic’ approach in common: they put the king as historically and socio-culturally de-contextualised individual in the centre of their It is exactly this position, for which Droysen was already blamed by one of his earliest critics: see Kinsky 1993, 159–163, on the damning review by Krüger 1851, 27–30. 13 Burckhardt 1979, 333–334; for the German original, see now Burckhardt 2000, 536. 14 Gundolf 1936, 281, cited by Cassirer 2007, 612. 15 Nietzsche 1994, 187; for the German original, see Nietzsche 1973, 277–278. On Nietzsche’s Homer’s Wettkampf, see Vogt 2013. 12

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deliberations. Whereas the former negated Alexander’s violent deeds as valuation standard for this incorporation of a great man under world-historical auspices, thus exculpating him, the latter made use of the conqueror’s violent (mal)practices as a means to adjudge him. Nietzsche, however, the anti-classicistic iconoclast, chose another way, namely an explanatory attempt. Even though his idea of a ‘national character trait’ of cruelty of the ancient Greeks is nowadays by no means appropriate, Nietzsche’s pointing to (contemporarily spoken) cultural patterns of conduct, according to which, in his view, Alexander had acted, the philologist-turned-philosopher (unconsciously) opened up the methodological path for historians to take in a treatment of the subject ‘Alexander and violence’. In this respect, the current study considers itself a contribution to a more contextualising and less character-driven approach to Alexander the Great,16 which is particularly important, because the form of violence that will be dealt with here has no justifiable place in ‘modern Atlantic culture’ anymore.17 Time and again, this factor has led to misleading conceptions in modern approaches to Alexander. Therefore, it might be worth to recall in this context a universal and important demand on historians, which Moses Finley once phrased in the following way: ‘It is easy to score points over a dead society, more difficult and more rewarding to examine what they were trying to do, how they went about it, the extent to which they succeeded or failed, and why’.18 ALEXANDER, VIOLENCE AND THE QUEST FOR LEGITIMACY – SOME METHODOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS

Some twenty years ago, Trutz von Trotha stated in his fundamental article Zur Soziologie der Gewalt that violence was an analytical stepchild of general sociological theory.19 Maybe it is too much to speak of a ‘violent turn’ in social, cultural and historical studies, but over the last two decades violence surely has become an increasingly present and relevant subject in various research areas, not least as a result of recent political events and developments.20 It thus cannot come as surprise

See in this respect also Howe 2016, 177, with reference to Borza 1967, xi. See Reemtsma 2013, 123–124. 18 See Finley 1983, 84. 19 See von Trotha 1997, 10. 20 In the field of sociology, anthropology, political sciences, and (ancient) history, this resonates, e.g., in Heitmeyer / Soeffner 2004; Bertrand 2005; Urso 2006; Zimmermann 2013; Allély 2014; Baberowski 2015; Münkler 2015; Howe / Brice 2016; Riess / Fagan 2016; Champion / O’Sullivan 2017; Xydopoulos / Vlassopoulos / Tounta 2017; Foraboschi 2018. See also the anthology of relevant texts from antiquity to modern times by Müller­Salo 2018. 16 17

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that Alexander the Great has also recently come into focus again as a worthwhile research object.21 There can be no doubt that Alexander’s acts of violence towards peoples, individuals, or various kinds of material objects have always been an integral part of the scholarly interest in Alexander. What has notably begun to change in recent years, however, is the way to approach this topic. Whereas well-established attempts to understand Alexander’s violent deeds as consequence of his individual character or disposition have begun to be considered less cogent, borrowings from sociological and anthropological theories of violence help to shed new light on old questions. The attempt to conceptualise Alexander’s deeds of violence as legitimatory acts as outlined in this paper rests upon two pivotal preconditions. 1. The point of departure is what might be called the ‘Weberian turn’ in the study of (ancient) monarchies, which has radically changed modern research on sole rulership. By adopting (mostly explicitly, but occasionally also rather unconsciously) Max Weber’s ‘sociology of domination’,22 a new grammar for considering sole rulership has become applicable, that is, thinking about monarchic rule not starting out from the ruler, but from the ruled.23 With Weber’s ‘sociology of domination’ in mind, Alexander’s rule can be persuasively outlined along the Weberian type of the charismatic ruler in the sense that Alexander had to prove his ability to rule towards a continually growing and ever more heterogenous number of ruled again and again by means of extraordinary deeds.24 Thus, Alexander appears virtually as its perfect concretisation – with the limitation that the ideal type never occurs in its absolute, ideal, pure form in reality.25 Even though Alexander was doubtlessly a most powerful ruler, his position (as king of the Macedonians, hegemon of the Korinthian League, pharaoh of Egypt, king of Asia, heir to the Achaimenids, and conqueror of an continuously expanding empire) was never indisputable by his subjects, but was always in need of legitimation. This holds even truer since Alexander’s realm in statu nascendi, whose military conquest provided a particular, twelve years long

See Heckel / McLeod 2015; Anson 2015b; see also Asirvatham 2016. M. Weber 1978, 212–301; for the German text, see now M. Weber 2013, 449–591. On Weber’s ‘sociology of domination’, see the contributions in Hanke / Mommsen 2001. 23 Following Gotter 2008, 174–175. Needless to say that both Gotter and the present author, are deeply influenced by Gehrke 2013b, the ground­breaking article that considerably influenced this ‘Weberian turn’. See also the introduction to the present volume. The current state of debate on monarchical rule in the ancient Mediterranean world is mirrored in Rebenich 2017. This development in the study of ancient monarchy should be seen against the wider background of the development of a ‘new or cultural history of politics’ since the 1980s, for which see fundamentally Rohe 1990. 24 For the concept of charismatic rule, see M. Weber 1978, 241–245 [=  M. Weber 2013, 490–497]. On Weber’s concept of charisma, see recently Bruhns 2014, 149–153. 25 See M. Weber 1978, 20 [=  M. Weber 2013, 170]. 21 22

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‘Ermöglichungsraum’ for acts of violence,26 was not a consolidated and pacified dominion, but little more than a vast conquered agglomeration of incompatible and culturally, historically, politically, religiously, economically, and ethnically highly diverse areas in which the Macedonian king asserted power in multiple ways.27 This meant that, depending on the situation, different groups of subjects were/had to be the addressees of legitimising communicative or performative acts by Alexander.28 However, as inherently unavoidable as these acts of legitimation were in Alexander’s highly diverse empire, they could also prove to be problematic: unmistakable messages designed and intended for a particular target group under specific circumstances could be decoded and interpreted differently by other groups on other terms. Thus, legitimatory actions could possibly entail de-legitimatory potential.29 2 . In his programmatic article Elemente einer Grammatik des Massakers, Jacques Sémelin stated that violence is a realm of ‘impenetrable darkness’.30 Nonetheless, there need to be analytical premises on the basis of which acts of violence can be conceptualised. This is especially so if one is concerned with historical constellations that must be discussed regardless of debates about processes of modernisation or civilisation respectively, which are so prominent in the modern sociology of violence. It is again Max Weber, who shows the way, and it is Trutz von Trotha, who has put Weber’s insight into words as follows: ‘Especially in the context of the formation and preservation of rule, violence is an instrumentally rational means and a form of power, which is not to be assigned to the irrational side of power without complication’.31 With these reflections in mind, it is possible to formulate the following hypothesis in respect of Alexander and his violent acts: from the beginning of his reign in the summer of 336 until his death in June 323, Alexander always had to legitimise his position and since this took place in the context of both formation of rule and conquest of empire, violence did not just happen, but it had a legitimatory function, too. Or, as Heinrich Popitz, conceiving violence as an act of power,32 has expressed it in his book Phänomene der Macht, which has been characterised a ‘sociological anthropology of power’:33 ‘Total violence serves individual and institutional legitimation of the ruler (…)’.34 26

27 28 29 30 31

32 33 34

For the untranslatable term ‘Ermöglichungsraum’ (Baberowski 2008, 17), i.e., a scope where acts of violence can be committed under particular, ‘fruitful’ circumstances, see Baberowski 2008, 2012. See especially Gehrke 2013b, 76. See the respective remarks on Hellenistic kingship by Haake 2013, 180. In this context, see the categorical remarks by Gotter 2008, 185–186. See Sémelin 2006, 40. See von Trotha 1997, 12: ‘[G]erade im Kontext der Herrschaftsbildung und -aufrechterhaltung [ist] Gewalt ein zweckrationales Mittel [… und] als Machtform nicht den irrationalen Seiten der Macht umstandslos zuzuweisen […].’ In this context, see also Popitz 1992, 49. On violence as ‘act of power’ (in German: ‘Machtaktion’), see Popitz 1992, 44–52. Thus von Trotha 1997, 16. See Popitz 1992, 53: ‘Absolute Gewalt dient der persönlichen und institutionellen Legitimation des Herrschers (…).’

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A CASE STUDY: THE CONQUEST OF GAZA AND THE DEATH OF BATIS – ALEXANDER ‘THE BRUTE’?35

In the autumn of the year 332, after two months of siege, Alexander and his troops conquered the strategically and economically important city of Gaza.36 According to the intentions of their authors, ancient sources give varying accounts of this event.37 Diodoros of Sicily simply mentions the conquest of the city in passing and laconic brevity.38 The same is true of Flavius Josephus’ depiction of the siege and conquest of Gaza in the Jewish Antiquities: he is much more interested in Alexander’s contact with the Jews and, thus, the ‘Gazan affair’ merely forms the historical­ narrative framework of this alleged encounter.39 Strabo, however, merely states mistakenly that Gaza remained deserted after it had been destroyed by Alexander.40 The siege and capture of Gaza are also mentioned by Plutarch in his Life of Alexander; however, Plutarch’s main interest is the fulfilment of an omen given to Alexander during the siege – namely a wound and the city’s conquest – and, above all, the king’s magnanimous dispatch of ‘great quantities of the spoils’ to ‘the beloved ones at home’.41 More detailed is Arrian’s account in the Anabasis of Alexander.42 Arrian’s narrative comprises an extensive depiction of the siege of Gaza, the promising omen, a wound of the king, and an outline of the city’s capture along with its consequences: the heroic death of the defenders of the city fighting to the bitter end, the sale of women and children into slavery, and the repopulation of the depopulated city from tribesmen living in the surroundings of Gaza, which became a fortress city.43 Two further detailed accounts of Alexander’s siege and capture of Gaza stem from Curtius Rufus’ History of Alexander the Great and from the rhetorical tractate 35

36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43

A wordplay, seizing on ‘Achill das Vieh’ in Christa Wolf’s story Kassandra (Darmstadt/Neuwied / Berlin [Ost] 1983, 84, passim; for the English translation, see Cassandra, translated by J. van Heurck, New York 1984, 24, passim). For an account of Alexander’s ‘Syrian campaign’, see Schachermeyr 1973, 212–221; Bosworth 1988a, 64–68; Lane Fox 2004, 178–193; Heckel 2008, 65–71; Lyons 2015, 40–45; Wiemer 2015a, 107–109. On the siege of Gaza, see D.W. Engels 1978, 58–59; Högemann 1985, 47–49; Romane 1988; see also Lonsdale 2007, 108, 118–119, 136, 147, 154. On the sack of Gaza, see Maitland 2015, 5–7. On the differing accounts of Alexander’s siege and capture of Gaza, one might refer to Spina 1989b. Diod. 17.48.7. See Prandi 2013, 76 ad loc. Joseph. AJ 11.7.3–4. On the entire passage and its context in Josephus, see Spilsbury / Seeman 2017, 88–94, 117, 119. See also Gruen 1998, 189–198; Amitay 2010, 119–120. Strab. 16.2.30. On this passage, see Seibert 1985, 83 n. 28; Biffi 2002, 221 ad loc. Plut. Alex. 25.3–5. On this passage, see Hamilton 1999, 64–66 ad loc.; Trampedach 2015, 129–131. Arr. Anab. 2.25.4–27.7 with Bosworth 1980b, 257–260; see also Kuhrt 2007 I, 444 no. 23. Arr. Anab. 2.25.4–27.7 For their brave resistance against Alexander, Polybios praised the people of Gaza in his fragmentarily transmitted account of Gaza’s fate under Antiochos III (Pol. 16.22a): see Walbank 1967, 52–528 ad loc.; Billows 2000, 291–293.

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On Literary Composition by Dionysios of Halikarnassos, who quotes at length the Alexander historian Hegesias of Magnesia, the first of the ‘Asianists’.44 As interesting as their depiction of Alexander’s siege of Gaza – including an assault on Alexander’s life unattested in the already mentioned sources – might be, for the purposes of the present investigation, another aspect of their ‘Gazan accounts’ is of much larger interest: namely what they report about the fate of the Persian commander after his capture in the course of the seizure of Gaza. In this respect, Curtius Rufus relates: Betis, after fighting a gallant battle and being exhausted by many wounds, was deserted by his men, but nevertheless fought on with equal vigour, although his armour was slippery alike with his own blood and that of the enemy. But since he was the target of weapons from all sides, his strength at last gave out and he came alive into the power of the foe. When he was brought before the king, Alexander, usually an admirer of valour even in an enemy, exulting, young as he was, with insolent joy, said: ‘You shall not die as you have wished, but be sure that you shall suffer whatever can be devised against a captive’. Betis, gazing at the king with an expression not only undaunted but haughty, answered not a word to his threats. Then Alexander cried: ‘Do you not see how determined he is to keep silence? He has not bent his knee, has he? Has he uttered a word of entreaty? Yet I will overcome his silence, and, if in no other way, I will put an end to it by groans’. Then his wrath changed to frenzy, for even then his new fortune suggested foreign customs. For while Betis still breathed, thongs were passed round his ankles, he was bound to the king’s chariot, and the horses dragged him around the city, while the king boasted that in taking vengeance on an enemy he had imitated Achilles, from whom he derived his race.45

The violent fate of Gaza’s brave commander, whose name is differently transmitted in the relevant sources and who is said to have been a eunuch46, is also described by two Greek writers: Dionysios of Halikarnassos and – through him – Hegesias of Magnesia, who can reasonably be dated to the first half of the third century BCE.47 Before Dionysios quotes the Magnesian’s narration of Batis’ death he vigorously censures Hegesias’ style and presentation of the incident,48 and offers a short outline of the fatal occurrence in his own words. This runs as follows: Alexander, when besieging Gaza, a strongly fortified position in Syria, is wounded during the assault and captures the place after some time. Carried away by anger, he massacres all the surviving inhabitants, allowing his Macedonians to kill anyone they should meet; and having captured their commander, a man who was highly honoured for his position and his appearance, he

Curt. 4.6.7–31; Dion. Hal. Comp. 18.123–126 Usener / Rademacher (=  p. 142–146 Usher) =  BNJ 142 F 5. 45 Curt. 4.6.25–29 (trans. J.C. Rolfe); cf. Atkinson 1980, 341–342 ad loc.; S. Müller 2016a, 28. 44

On Batis (and the various forms of his name in the ancient sources), who was a eunuch according to Arr. Anab. 2.25.4, see Briant 2002, 275; Heckel 2006, 71; Spilsbury / Seeman 2017, 117 n. 1103. In this context, one might also mention Berve 1926 II, 104–105 no. 209; Altheim / Stiehl 1964–1969 I, 171–175. 47 See Staab 2004, 127; cf. Prandi 2016b. 48 For Dionysios’ most critical appraisal of Hegesias’ outline of the incident, see Dion. Hal. Comp. 18.123. 46

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Matthias Haake gives orders that he should be bound alive to a war-chariot and that the horses should be driven at full speed before the eyes of all; and he kills him in this way.49

Hegesias’ own more detailed account, however, reads as follows: The king advanced, leading his division. Some plan had been formed by the enemy commanders to meet him as he approached; for they had come to the conclusion that, if they overcame this one man, they would rout his host at the same time. This hope led them on to daring, so that never before had Alexander been in danger to such a degree. One of the enemy fell on his knees, and Alexander thought he had done so in order to ask for mercy. Having allowed him to approach, he narrowly avoided the thrust of a sword which the man carried under the flaps of his corslet, so that the blow was not mortal. Alexander himself despatched the man with a blow on the head with his sabre, but the king’s followers were inflamed with spontaneous anger. In fact, so completely did the man’s insane daring banish pity from the minds of everyone who saw or heard of it, that six thousand barbarians were cut down at the trumpet signal which followed. Baetis himself, however, was brought before the king alive by Leonatus and Philotas. And Alexander, seeing that he was corpulent and tall and savage-looking (for he was black in colour too), was seized with loathing for his appearance as well as for his designs against his life, and ordered that a bronze ring be drawn through his feet and that he should be dragged round, naked. Pounded with the pain of passing over many rough pieces of ground, he set up a scream. And it was just this detail which I mention that brought people together. The pain racked him, and he kept on yelling like a barbarian, begging Alexander for mercy and addressing him as ‘Lord’; and his peculiar language made them laugh. His fat and swelling flesh suggested another creature, a Babylonian beast of ample proportions. So the troops made sport of him, mocking with the coarse mockery of the camp an enemy who was hateful in appearance and clumsy in his manner.50

Undeniably, beyond the structural resemblance of Hegesias’ and Curtius Rufus’ accounts, there are some differences in the depiction of the Achilleus­like desecration of Batis’ body by Alexander,51 and this has given rise to divergent scholarly positions as regards Hegesias’, Dionysios’, and Curtius Rufus’ source(s).52 Even though a definitive solution probably is impossible due to the ‘scene of devastation’ of the transmission of the Alexander historians, it seems plausible to assume that all authors ultimately depend on one and the same line of tradition originating in the late fourth or early third century.53 That this tradition can be traced back to the

Dion. Hal. Comp. 18.123 (trans. S. Usher); see also Auberger 2005, no. 5, 460–462. BNJ 142 F 5 =  Dion. Hal. Comp. 18.124–126 (trans. S. Usher); see also Auberger 2005, no. 5, 460–462. On the highly problematic manuscript tradition of Dionysios’ On Literary Composition, see with particular consideration of the Batis story Donadi 2000; Prandi 2016b ad loc. On the involvement of Philotas and Leonatos in Batis’ capture according to Hegesias, who is the only author who relates this aspect, see Heckel 2016, 53–54, 109. 51 For a comparison of the two versions by Hegesias and Curtius Rufus, see Spina 1989a. 52 For a comprehensive overview, see Prandi 2016b ad loc. 53 See most recently Gilhaus 2017, 316–317. 49

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Hellenistic historian Kleitarchos,54 however, has become more doubtful in recent years.55 Closely related to the question of sources, though more important in the present context is the highly controversial question of the historicity of Batis’ ill-treatment. In a way, the course for this ongoing debate was already set in the nineteenth century, and thus, two protagonists of the historiography of antiquity belonging to that century, one from Germany and the other from Great Britain, might serve as examples. It was no less a person than Droysen himself, who held that the story was nothing but a worthless piece of literature from a historical point of view.56 George Grote by contrast, who vindicated in his monumental History of Greece the point of view that Hegesias’ credibility was beyond doubt, opposed this position.57 Since the late nineteenth century, however, many scholars agreed on the fictional character of Batis’ ferocious killing, either because of distrust in the historical accuracy and trustworthiness of the relevant authors in combination with the silence of authors like Arrian and Plutarch or because of Alexander’s character, which was considered incompatible with such a cruel deed.58 Yet, over the last decades, scholarly doubts about Batis’ ‘Hektoresque’ death have been decreasing and it has become more and more accepted that the brave commander of Gaza was indeed dragged to his death at the behest of Alexander.59 For good reasons.

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See already Perrin 1895, 62, and furthermore Hammond 1983, 128 and 1993a, 57; Bosworth 1988a, 68; see also approvingly Staab 2004, 127–128 n. 5. Contra Pearson 1960, 248 n. 29; Prandi 1996, 138 n. 61. See also Maitland 2015, 18–19, who is of the opinion that it might have

been Hegesias to whom the tradition should be ascribed. This has to do with an ongoing debate on the date of Kleitarchos resulting from a papyrus comprising a fragmentary text On Hellenistic Historians by an unknown author published in 2007: POxy. LXXI 4808. Despite the statement in col. I.9–17 (=  BNJ 137 T 1b), Prandi 2012 has argued, that there is no compelling reason for a low dating of Kleitarchos to the (mid of the) third century as has been deduced from this papyrus fragment (see, e.g., Lehmann 2015a, 16), but that the widely accepted high dating of Kleitarchos to the late fourth / early third century is still reasonable; see also Lane Fox 2018a arguing for a date before ca. 300. See, however, V. Parker 2009; Gilhaus 2017; Schorn 2018, 210–214; for an overview on the debate, see S. Müller 2014, 90–92. A low date for Kleitarchos need not mean that Hegesias should be dated after Kleitarchos, since the temporal priority between the two authors is by no means beyond question: see Lehmann 2015a, 71–72 n. 97. See Droysen 2012, 491–492 n. 81 [= Droysen 1877 I.1, 301 n. 2]. See also already Droysen 1833, 200 n. 47. See Grote 1888, X, 91–93. See most influentially Perrin 1895; see also Niese 1893, 82–83 n. 5; Meyer 1924, 268 n. 1; Tarn 1948, 267–268; C. Robinson 1952, 170; Pearson 1960, 247–248; Hammond 1983, 126 and 1997, 96; Auberger 2005, 462 n. 437; Demandt 2009, 157–158; Lehmann 2015a, 70–78, esp. 71–73. See Radet 1931, 102–107; Welles 1951, 434; Ameling 1988, 680–682; Bosworth 1988a, 68 and 1996, 22–23 with n. 59; Dandamaev 1989, 324; Green 1991, 267 with 541 n. 58; O’Brien 1992, 84–86; Cartledge 2004, 147–150, 302; Lane Fox 2004, 191–193; Stoneman 2004, 46–47; Heckel 2009a, 35–36; Worthington 2014, 178–179; Wiemer 2015a, 109. In contrast,

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1. Even though it is an obvious notion to understand the mode of Batis’ killing as a partial Alexandrian imitatio Achillis,60 it is important to underline that – according to a fragment of Aristotle – in fourth-century Thessaly it was a customary practice to drag corpses around tombs.61 The fragment’s context in Porphyry’s Homeric Questions on the Iliad and additional information by Kallimachos make clear62 that the Aristotelian passage concerns a traditional form of punishment of murderers performed at their victims’ graves.63 Whether this Thessalian punishment was carried out as desecration of the perpetrator’s corpse when he was already dead – as did the Thessalian Achilleus with Hektor in the Iliad 64 – or whether the delinquent was indeed dragged to his death – as happened to Hektor in two well­known fifth­ century Attic tragedies65 – must remain an open question. In any case, the Thessalian evidence shows that Alexander’s decision to drag Batis to his death need not have been solely inspired by a literary model and that in the world of Alexander this mode of death was not only known from literature. Against this background, along with the literary evidence discussed in the following paragraph, Batis’ way to die must be considered as a culturally imaginable practice to execute an offender in real life. It is puzzling that these Aristotelian and tragic passages are only very rarely considered in the debates about the historicity of Batis’ death as described by Hegesias, Dionysios, and Curtius Rufus. Furthermore, another relevant piece of evidence seems to have been disregarded completely, namely a fragment of Herakleides Lem-

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see most recently S. Müller 2019, 123. Schachermeyr 1973, 219–220 with n. 242 is not entirely clear in his position as regards his evaluation of the Batis story. See Curt. 4.6.29; cf. Dion. Hal. Comp. 18.126–128 Usener / Rademacher (= p. 146–148 Usher). On Alexander as ‘new Achilleus’, see Ameling 1988; S. Müller 2006a; Briant 2018, 10–15; Hölscher, this volume; but cf. the sceptical remarks by Heckel 2015; Maitland 2015. It is important, however, to underline a difference between the Homeric Achilleus and Alexander in the case under consideration: the former abused Hektor’s corpse by dragging him around the city of Troy and the grave of Patroklos, the latter had Batis dragged to death. Arist. frg. 156 Rose³ =  frg. 389 Gigon ap. Porph. Quaest. Hom. ad Il. Ω 15–6 MacPhail, Jr. Callim. frg. 588 Pfeiffer =  frg. 404 Asper ap. Procl. In R. 391 c (I, p. 150 .14 –15 Kroll); see R. Pfeiffer 1949, 407 ad loc., also Schrader 1880, 268 comm. ad 10 sqq. For this Thessalian tradition, see the reference to Ovid’s Ibis in the following note. For bringing in the mentioned Thessalian evidence, see Lane Fox 2004, 193 with 521. According to Ov. Ib. 331–332, it was first the Thessalian Eurydamas who was dragged around the tomb of his victim, Thrasyllos, for punishment: see R. Ellis 2008, 126 ad loc. Hom. Il. 22.395–405 with de Jong 2012, 162–165 ad loc.; see also Hom. Il. 24.14–17. For later literary adaptions and developments of the ‘drag to death-plot’, see the concise overview by Horsfall 2008, 239–240 ad Verg. Aen. 2.272–273. See Green 1991, 541 n. 58. The two instances are Soph. Aj. 1029–1031 and Eur. Andr. 399–400. There is an ongoing debate among scholars, whether Soph. Aj. 1028–1039 is (entirely or partially) an interpolation or not; if these verses are indeed an interpolation, then it is plausible to assume, that they were interpolated in the fourth century. For a detailed discussion with a clear position to follow the interpolation thesis, see recently Finglass 2011, 429–431 and 431–432 ad vv. 1029–1031. For a differing position on vv. 1029–1031, see West 1978, 116–117, with the objections by Lloyd­Jones / Wilson 1990, 32–33 ad vv. 1028–1039. On the Euripidean passage, see Stevens 1971, 144 ad loc.; Finglass 2011, 431.

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bos’ Excerpts of the Aristotelian Constitutions, even though its content is known to a considerable number of ancient authors, both Greek and Latin.66 Herakleides transmits the following tale on pre­Solonian Athens, whose final part is in its very structure also known from Aischines, who made use of it in his oration Against Timarchos:67 ‘After he (i.e., Hippomenes, one of the Codridae) (…) captured an adulterer with his daughter Limone, he killed him by yoking him to his chariot, and he shut her up with a horse until she died’.68 Even more detailed about the adulterer’s fate is the Diegesis of an extremely fragmentarily preserved Kallimachean aition:69 ‘And after he (i.e., Hippomenes) had beaten the man who had lain with her (i.e., Leimone) with his spear he bound his corpse to a horse, so that it was dragged through the town’.70 Of course, these sources do not give proof of the historicity of Batis’ savage demise by being dragged to death. Yet, they show that this way of killing was at least present in the Greek mindscape of the fourth century and that it was in fact more present than one might be ready to expect. In addition, the Thessalian practice attested by Aristotle suggests that even for some Greeks of Alexander’s day someone’s being dragged to death could be part of their horizon of experience, or, at any rate, that it was more real for them than a tale from the remote past for the Athenians. 2. The silence of the sources is always telling. Doubts about the historicity of Batis’ death as outlined by Hegesias, Dionysios, and Curtius Rufus have occasionally been justified with reference to the allegedly deafening silence of well­informed and purportedly more trustworthy authors like Arrian and Plutarch.71 However, that both authors (or their respective sources) did not mention Batis’ cruel death by command of Alexander can be explained just as well by the intentions of the respective authors.72 Neither the Plutarchan (unquestionably ambivalent) nor the Arrianean (almost consistently positive, chivalric) Alexander are easily compatible with a far too transgressive and ferocious Alexander,73 who readers might imagine as responsi-

66 67 68 69 70 71 72

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See Harder 2012 II, 742–743, with the literary parallels. Unfortunately, the respective passage from the Aristotelian Constitution of the Athenians has not survived. Aeschin. In Tim. 182. On this passage and further literary parallels, see Fisher 2001, 331–334 ad loc. Heraclid. Lemb. frg. 1 Dilts =  Arist. frg. 611.1 [p. 371.8–12] Rose³ = Tit. 143.1.1.1 (p. 564) Gigon (trans. M.R. Dilts); see Polito 2001, 24–26. Callim. Aet. frg. 94 Harder =  frg. 106 Asper =  frg. 94 Pfeiffer (P.Mil.Vogl. I 18, col. III.25–26); frg. 95 Harder =  frg. 107 Asper =  95 Pfeiffer (POxy. XVIII 2170, frg. 2.1–5). Callim. Aet. frg. 95a Harder (see also I, 101 Pfeiffer; p. 160 Asper) =  Dieg. III.26–33 (P.Mil.Vogl. I 18, col. III.26–33; trans. A. Harder); see Harder 2012 II, 742–746. See already Droysen 1833, 200 n. 47 and 2012, 491–492 n. 81 [=  D roysen 1877–78 I.1, 301 n. 2]. See Baynham 2003, 22. In this context, it is highly instructive to bear in mind Bessos’ punishment as outlined by Arrian and his comment on this ‘barbaric’ act of Alexander: Arr. Anab. 4.7.3–4; see Bosworth 1988b, 147–148. On Alexander and heroic transgression, see Aletsee 2016, esp. 147.

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ble for the vicious death warrant.74 As to Arrian’s and Plutarch’s deafening silence, a considerable number of modern scholars apparently stand in their tradition in so far as they, too, do not mention or discuss the Batis episode in their works.75 3. Isolated cases are always difficult to explain. Therefore, it is necessary to ask for the structures and the social logic behind the case, an endeavour that requires contextualisation and the need to associate the relevant issue with other comparable examples, if they exist. In the case of Batis’ brutal treatment after the capture of Gaza, there are numerous matching instances in the course of Alexander’s campaign: namely all those occurrences of the massive use of violence by Alexander and his army after the successful overcoming of stubborn and long-lasting resistance. This holds true from the beginning of the Macedonian king’s reign, when he surrendered the rebellious people in the northern Balkans in 335, until the subjugation of the people along the Indus valley in the years of 326 and 325, which include incidences that are often characterised by a fierce use of violence against groups or individual leaders.76 Since the massive and brutal use of violence by Alexander and his army against collectives is usually not called into question in modern scholarship, one might wonder whether it seems easier for many modern historians to accept acts of unspecified force against groups than an act of detailed outlined savagery against an individual member of the ruling class mentioned by name and presented at least with some character traits. Even though for nearly two hundred years Batis’ gruesome death has caused discomfort among historians of antiquity in many respects – and perhaps consciously or unconsciously with a Herodotean ideologeme in mind77 –, there is thus good reason not to reject this account of Batis’ fate, but to accept his killing as outlined by Hegesias and Curtius Rufus as historically true. However, accepting the historicity of the nature of Batis’ death – or, phrased more reservedly, the historicity of a most violent death of Batis by command of Alexander78 – is not tantamount to adequately 74

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Much has been written on the Plutarchean and the Arrianean depictions of Alexander; see recently S. Müller 2014, 124–132. See also Stoneman 2004, 47. The intentional absence of Batis’ fate in Plutarch can be instructively underlined with reference to the fact that Plutarch indeed knew Hegesias’ Alexander history and referred to it in his biography of Alexander: Plut. Alex. 3.5–9 (BNJ 142 F 3). This aspect is widely disregarded in modern scholarship. E.g. Wilcken 1967; Wirth 1991; Mossé 2001. A comprehensive analysis of all the numerous acts of violence in the course of Alexander’s campaign and the presentation of the results in form of a history of Alexander’s campaign under the auspices of history of violence is a desideratum, but would go far beyond the scope of the present paper and its restricted, exploratory intention. For the time being, see most recently Anson 2015b; Heckel / McLeod 2015. On Alexander’s campaign along the river Indus, see instructively Bosworth 1996, 133–165. Following Howe 2016, 177, it is important to see Alexander’s warfare in the tradition of Macedonian warfare. See the change of views between the Aeginetan Lampon and the Spartan king Pausanias in the aftermath of the battle of Plataiai in Hdt. 9.78.1–79.2. On this passage, see Flower / Marincola 2002, 244–247 ad loc. See Lauffer 1978, 85; Barceló 2007, 132; Heckel 2008, 120.

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comprehending or interpreting the act (and in this respect, the situation is, in a way, comparable to the scholarly dispute about the interpretation of the Homeric ‘model’, Achilleus’ dealing with Hektor’s corpse79). A most telling example is the finding that ‘[t]he aim (sc. of Batis’ killing) was the deterrence of resistance (…) of (…) Gaza, but the means verged on the sadistic’.80 There is, no doubt, much truth in the first half of the sentence, though the second part must be considered rather unsatisfactory, since it cleaves to a psychologising or pathologising approach to explain Alexander’s deed(s) and does not deliberate a deeper meaning of the extreme form of violence that is Batis’ way to die. Occasionally, it has also (unconvinicingly) been attempted, as in many other cases,81 to see Alexander’s severe and well-attested wound at the gates of Gaza as a reason for Batis’ cruel treatment.82 Both approaches are by no means only perceptions in modern scholarship. Rather, the interpretative scheme of the figures of the mad and the furious Alexander was already widely used by ancient authors in order to explain the recurrent outstanding atrocities Alexander granted to individuals or collectives he had beforehand vanquished after strong resistance. However, assuming that Batis was indeed killed by being dragged to death, a different explanatory attempt, which takes into account the quest for legitimacy and the respective potential of violence, promises to offer a more convincing explanation. The control of the Levant, with its important fortified harbour cities and garrisoned places, was of central importance for Alexander after the battle of Issos if he did not just want to defeat the Persian Great king Dareios III, but wanted to seize the Persian Empire.83 The weight Alexander gave to the conquest of the Phoinikian coast becomes most evident in his immense effort to capture those places whose inhabitants had decided to resist, namely most famously Tyros, one of the most powerful Phoinikian cities, and, always a little bit in its shadow, Gaza,84 a place 79

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See Segal 1971, 12–17, esp. 13 n. 1, 41, 63; E. Hall 1989, 25–28; Vernant 1991, 70–71; van Wees 1992, 128–130. It might be worth to refer to Aristotle’s considerations about Achilleus’ wreaking revenge on Hektor’s corpse: see Lossau 1979, passim. See Cartledge 2004, 150. It is a recurrent narrative in the ancient sources and in modern scholarship to explain cruel punishments of defeated enemies in the course of Alexander’s campaign with wounds of the king; see, most recently, Heckel / McLeod 2015, 247–252. Yet, for Alexander being wounded in battle must have been something taken­for granted: due to his fashion to fight on the front line as heroic leader, wounds were inevitable, especially in hard-fought combats, which generally preceded merciless punitive actions. Thus, it seems not very reasonable to presume an immediate rational nexus between wounds and ferocities. See Green 1991, 266; Bosworth 1996, 22; see also Heckel / McLeod 2015, 247–252, esp. 248. Alexander’s wound is attested by Dion. Hal. Comp. 18.123; Plut. Alex. 25.3; Arr. Anab. 2.27.2; Curt. 4.6.25. See Seibert 1985, 80–83; Bosworth 1988a, 64–68; Briant 2002, 828–832; Heckel 2008, 65–71. See also Rop 2017, 71. See Lane Fox 2004, 193. See n. 36 with the relevant bibliography on Alexander’s campaign in the aftermath of the battle of Issos in late 333 and the beginning of his Egyptian expedition in late 332. – On the siege of Tyros, see also Bonnet 1988, 51–59 and 2015; Green 1991, 247–263;

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which was of the highest importance for economic and military reasons due to its geographic location.85 The fortune of both cities displays some similarities, but also a number of differences. In the end, Alexander and his troops were able to capture Tyros and Gaza after time- and resource-consuming sieges, and both cities befell a savage fate. While Gaza’s destiny has already been outlined at length, the fate of Tyros has to be briefly brought into focus. At the storming of Tyros, some thousands of the defenders met their death in the cause of a bloody slaughter,86 and many more of the Tyrian population were afterwards sold into slavery,87 whereas the king, Azelmikos (ʽOzmilk), and some Tyrian nobles together with Carthagian envoys who had taken refuge in the temple of Melqart, had more luck: not only did they survive, but Azelmikos also remained in his former position.88 However, as ‘a grim warning of the futility of resisting the conqueror’,89 it is said, that two thousand of the defenders of Tyros were crucified along the coast after the city’s capture,90 which was celebrated with sacrifices to Melqart/Herakles, a great procession in honour of the god, and athletic games.91 Whereas massacring parts of the inhabitants of a city in the course of its conquest and the (partial) enslavement of the inhabitants of a captured city must be considered as common practice in Greek and Hellenistic warfare,92 the crucifixion

85 86

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88 89 90

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Ashley 1998, 237–249; Lonsdale 2007, 114–119. Cf. Verkinderen 1987 on the situation of the Phoinikian cities under the late Achaemenids and under Alexander. See Briant 1982a, 155–159, 164–165, 174–176; Högemann 1985, 48–49; Graf 1994, 184. The casualty figure differs in the sources: Arr. Anab. 2.24.3–4 mentions 8.000 killed defenders; Curt. 4.4.16 gives the number 6.000, and Diod. 17.46.4 claims that it were more than 7.000 ‘who were cut down fighting’. Again, the number of those, who were sold into slavery, varies: Arr. Anab. 2.24.5–6 gives the number of 30.000, whereas according to Diod. 17.46.4 more than 13.000 Tyrians were enslaved. See also Volkmann 1990, 112. See Arr. Anab. 2.24.5 and the numismatic evidence from Tyros: Elayi / Elayi 2009, 388–389. See also Lemaire 1987; Briant 2002, 1048. So Bosworth 1988a, 67. Diod. 17.46.4 (trans. C.B. Welles): ‘The king (…) crucified all the men of military age. These were not less than two thousand.’ – Curt. 4.4.17 (trans. J.C. Rolfe): ‘After that the king’s wrath furnished the victors with an awful spectacle; 2000 men, for the slaying of whom frenzy had spent itself, hung nailed to crosses along a great stretch of the shore.’ – On the quoted passages, see Prandi 2013, 71–72 ad loc.; Atkinson 1980, 312–313 ad loc. – See also Iust. 18.3.18: ‘Therefore, Alexander the Great, when he conducted war in the East some time later and after he had conquered their (i.e., the Tyrians’) city, like an avenger of public security, crucified all those, who had survived the battle, in memory of the old massacre.’ Arr. Anab. 2.24.5; see also Diod. 17.46.6; Adams 2007, 132–133 and 2008, 63–64. One of the successful participants of the athletic games, the otherwise unattested hetairos Antigonos, son of Kallas, is known from a dedicatory inscription of his own from Amphipolis: ISE II 113; see Ma 2018, 150–152; Mann, this volume. See Volkmann 1990; Ducrey 1999. See also Jackson 1970, 41–43; Gilhaus 2018.

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of two thousand of the defenders, if historically true,93 is by no means everyday practice in Greek and Hellenistic wars, but rather exceptional.94 Yet, the particular circumstances during Alexander’s campaign help to expound the mass crucifixion of the Tyrian defenders, as well as the dragging to death of the Gazan commander Batis, and make it possible to show the social logic of these cruel forms of collective and individual killing, which, however, fall in the category of the ‘verdict of victory’.95 To be sure, Alexander had triumphed over Dareios at Issos in late 333, but despite this victory and its positive consequences, the military situation of his campaign in 332 was by no means without difficulties: the Great king had been able to escape from the battlefield and was organising a large new army with contingents from the Eastern part of the Persian Empire; the Persian fleet constituted still a dangerous threat for Alexander in the Eastern Mediterranean; in Northern Asia Minor, scattered troops of Dareios needed to be overpowered by the satrap of Greater Phrygia, Antigonos Monophthalmos, in tedious fighting, and in mainland Greece, the Aegean, and on Crete, the Spartan king Agis III made disturbances.96 It is this demanding situation, in which Alexander’s decisions about the crucifixion of two thousand Tyrians and the atrocious killing of Batis must be ‘read’ and that opens the opportunity for a better understanding of the social logic which underlies Alexander’s dealing. This context includes also one further important aspect that happened during the siege of Tyros and which is generally disregarded by modern scholarship in this context: Alexander’s conclusion to reject Dareios’ (second) offer to negotiate,97 which was tantamount to an aggravation of the conflict, since henceforth it was evident that continued fighting would be inevitable. Of course, the cruel acts of punishment of the defenders of Tyros and of the commandant of Gaza are expression of a ‘shock and awe’-strategy,98 and their dimension has to be considered against the background of the particular and situational circumstances during Alexander’s campaign; it is helpful also to bear the highly oppressive, but also very successful strategy of Artaxerxes III against the Sidonian 93

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It seems more plausible to accept the historicity of the crucifixion than to deny it: see Schacher­ meyr 1973, 218 with n. 240; Baynham 2003, 21; Strauss 2003, 141; Lane Fox 2004, 191; Heckel 2008, 68; Wiemer 2015a, 108. Ducrey 1999, 213, has collected the respective evidence for the crucifixion of individuals as well as small and large groups after military successes; cf. Jackson 1970, 44. One of the cases of crucifixion Ducrey refers to is that of the Sogdian dynast Ariamazes at the order of Alexander (Curt. 7.11.28): see Heckel 2006, 44. In this respect, see Chaniotis 2005, 183, with reference to Pol. 13.3.4 and Ager 1996, no. 74, I, l. 105–107 (= I.Priene 37, l. 105–107; see now Magnetto 2008, 42, l. 139–141). On the situation in 332, see Heckel 2008, 65–71; Wiemer 2015a, 105–106. There has been much debate on Dareios’ embassies to Alexander after the battle of Issos due the difficult source situation. The embassy to Alexander during the siege of Tyros is differently attested in Arr. Anab. 2.25.1–3 and Curt. 4.5.1–9. For the entire problem, see R. Bernhardt 1988. See Anson 2015b, 224–226; also Gehrke 2013a, 46.

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upheaval in the 340s in mind.99 Yet, the semantics of both deathly occurrences at Tyros and Gaza still extend beyond the spread of fear and dread by shock and awe. The acts of killing after the long-lasting sieges signify Alexander’s absolute victory in either case and express his supreme mastery by having discretionary power over the lives and the bodies of the subjected people. This becomes particularly (and terribly) evident in the case of Batis: his way to die, and the concomitant destruction of his body – a form of ‘autotelic violence’100 – are a manifestation of Alexander’s superiority and his lasting victory over his enemy,101 and served as a kind of total violence for the legitimation he needed because of his position as an conqueror en route.102 In general, the more Alexander was in need of legitimation in a particular situation, the more ferocious his acts of violence had to be.103 For various reasons, the capture of Gaza framed a particular scope,104 which helps to explain Alexander’s decision for his chosen polyvalent violent act of legitimation with poly­semantic communications towards different addressees.105 At Gaza, Alexander arrived at the most southern place of his campaign along the Mediterranean East coast, which had started more than two years earlier with the passage of the Hellespont and the visit of Troy in the spring of 334 with a number of Homeric reminiscences and acts in memory of Alexander’s (mythical) ancestor Achilleus and his much beloved friend Patroklos.106 Thus, in a manner of speaking, one might consider Batis’ killing as echo of the Trojan events and grasp the Homeric Achilleus-related ‘mise-en-scenes’ at Troy and Gaza as a kind of an ideological frame that marks the first phase of Alexander’s campaign. Before the beginning of the Egyptian expedition, Batis’ execution in the form of a demonstration of power has to be seen as clear statement and blatant threat addressed to everybody (especially among the office­ holders, but also among larger groups of local populations) who was still faithful to Dareios III and ready to resist Alexander.107 Another addressee of the staging of Batis’ gruesome death was certainly Alexander’s army. For the soldiers, who had to manage a time- and resource-consuming siege before the capture of Gaza and faced further military tasks, the death of the enemy commander by physical destruction was a substantiation of their king’s victoriousness, a crucial aspect for Alexander leading his army in a distant world far away from the soldiers’ Macedonian and

99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106

107

It might suffice to refer to Wiesehöfer 2016, esp. 109. On autotelic violence, meaning violence aiming for the destruction or at least the damage of the body, see Reemstma 2013, 106, 116–124. Following Popitz 1992, 53–54, 67. See Popitz 1992, 53. In this repect, see Anson 2015a, 99–100. On the concept of ‘Ermöglichungsraum’, see above with n. 26. On the particular situation of the capture of Gaza, see above with n. 96. On the beginning of the campaign and its enactment, see Instinsky 1949; Zahrnt 1996; Lane Fox 2004, 109–115. The acts in memory of Achilleus are attested in Arr. Anab. 1.12.1; Plut. Alex. 15.8; Diod. 17.17.3. On ‘Darius and His Faithful [office­holders]’, see Briant 2002, 842–852.

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Greek homelands. Finally, the form of Batis’ killing, an extraordinary deed in the very proper sense, served the legitimation of conquest, which was highly relevant because Alexander required legitimation by conquest, meaning that he consistently had to demonstrate being a victorious king. That audiences different from Alexander’s primarily intended addressees conceptualised his act(s) of violence not as legitimatory acts, but used them for discrediting him, is another story, which has to do with diverging reception of particular social actions in various contexts, but not connected with their original meaning. PRELIMINARY CONCLUDING REMARKS

If one is ready to accept the theoretical framework that violence plays an important role in the context of legitimation of rule, then it is necessary to reconceptualise Alexander’s numerous and various acts of violence during his reign and to call established explanatory models such as revenge for wounds or individual character traits into question. Provided that it is indeed historically true that the Gazan commander Batis was dragged to death after the capture of Gaza, a case study has been outlined on the preceding pages. Whether and to what extent this model will prove sustainable, has to be shown by further studies on Alexander’s many acts of violence against individuals, groups, people, and objects in his never-ending need for legitimation between the Danube and the Indus. In so doing, it will be important to bear in mind that violence has to be considered as one course of action available to Alexander, though not as an inevitable necessity,108 as is shown by many occurrences from Athens to India in which Alexander did not use violence, but for various reasons decided to act differently. The much­debated topic ‘Alexander and violence’ is still open for further investigations towards a better understanding of Alexander.

108

In this context, see Baberowski 2008, 9.

II LOCAL PERSPECTIVES AND INTERACTIONS

5 ALEXANDER’S DEDICATIONS TO THE GODS: SACRED SPACE, PIOUS PRACTICE AND PUBLIC LEGITIMATION* Ralf von den Hoff Alexander’s strategies of legitimation were executed as communicative acts, embedded into a complex system of relations between actors, spaces, media and messages.1 The actors include Alexander himself, persons acting in his name, different audiences and addressees – local and distant, Greek and foreign, military and civic, in different social roles. The spaces include, among others, cities and sanctuaries as well as the courtly realm, the military battlefields and camps. A wide range of media was involved in these acts of communication – real-life performances, historiography, coins, dedications and donations, to name only some of them – each of them related to particular actors and spaces. Finally, the meaning as well as the cultural and political sense of these communicative acts were not restricted to intentional messages, but they were embedded into different realms of knowledge and expectations, while, on the side of the audiences, they resulted in different kinds of effects and connotations – which were necessarily rooted in the character of each communicative space and in the potential, tradition and rules of the involved media.2 Hence, in order to evaluate Alexander’s legitimation strategies and the legitimising potential of his activities, we have to consider his communicative acts and the communicative framework related to them. This particularly includes the tension between experiences and expectations which laid the ground for the effects of the communicative offerings made by the king in different media and spaces: Which offerings did Alexander submit to which audiences? Which experiences were touched, and how did these acts add to re-shaping the existing expectations in order to broaden or strengthen the basis for the legitimation of the king? *

1 2

Thanks go to the organisers of the Villa Vigoni conference for inviting me to contribute a paper to this collection. I owe further thanks to Martin Beckmann and Alexander Meeus, who corrected my English, and to Peter Schultz, who provided drawings of the Philippeion from his earlier studies, which can be re-published here. My research on Alexander has been carried out in the Collaborative Research Center (SFB) 948 ‘Heroes – Heroizations – Heroisms’ at Freiburg University, which is gratefully funded by the German Research Foundation (DFG). Dally 2014; cf. already Schneider / Fehr / Meyer 1974. Cf. for the Roman imperial period: von den Hoff 2011.

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The objective of the following case study is to make a contribution to answering these questions. Its focus is on a particular arena of legitimating communication: the sacred space of the public sanctuaries, with its specific audiences, that is authorities, visitors and the gods. Its topics are the offerings that Alexander made in this religious space. The study will be restricted to material dedications and votiveofferings, which were permanently present and visible within the sanctuary – mainly statues, altars and buildings. This will provide the opportunity to understand the visual effects and the sense ascribed to these artefacts in the light of existing experiences and traditions in relation to the resulting imagination of the legitimacy of the king as their author. It is one of the undeniable factors of the mediality of dedications in sanctuaries, that they necessarily positioned the dedicator towards the human addressees as well as towards the gods. Hence, they touch both: Alexander’s religious legitimation, which is discussed in depth in other papers of this collection,3 and the legitimising political and social roles, qualities and intentions ascribed to the king. PHILIP II AND THE PHILIPPEION: A CLOSE READING OF THE BACKGROU ND

Alexander was by far not the first royal dedicator in a Greek sanctuary. Kroisos of Lydia and the Deinomenids of Syracuse could be mentioned among his predecessors.4 In the periods before Alexander, the panhellenic sanctuaries, such as Olympia and Delphi, were the most prestigious spaces to dedicate artefacts in the sacred realm. It was this arena that Alexander’s father Philip II used for his dedicatory activity. Philip’s offerings in sanctuaries predestinated the expectations of the public audiences still relevant under Alexander. It remains unclear if Philip already engaged in funding temple building, which has been suggested for Delphi.5 The Philippeion in Olympia was the most prominent dedication in Greece initiated by Philip.6 Pausanias refers to this monument:7 ‘The Metroon is within the Altis, and so is a round building (οἴκημα περιφερές) called the Philippeion. On the roof of the Philippeion is a bronze poppy which binds the beams together. This building is on the left of the exit over against the Prytaneion. It is made of burnt brick (ὀπτῆς πλίνθου) and is surrounded by columns. It was Φιλίππῳ δὲ ἐποιήθη (‘built by/for Philip’) after the fall of Greece at Chaironeia. Here are set statues of Philip and Alexander, and with them is Amyntas, Philip’s father. These works too are by Leochares, and are of 3 4 5 6 7

Cf. Hölscher and Trampedach in the present volume. Kroisos: Michels 2012. – Deinomenids: Krumeich 1991; Nenci 1993. – Cf. Kaplan 2006. See below n. 87. – For Philip’s representation in the realm of material culture see also Ferrario 2014, 290–312. Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 329; further references below n. 12. Paus. 5.20.9–10. For the statues of Eurydike and Olympias transferred to the Heraion already before Pausanias’ time: Paus. 5.17.4; cf. Lapatin 2001, 116.

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ivory and gold, as are the statues of Olympias and Eurydice’. What we can conclude from this passage is that there was a round, columned building (tholos) in Olympia’s sanctuary of Zeus, built after 338 BC. In its cella five statues were installed representing three generations of the Macedonian Argeads. As far as the dedicator is concerned, there has been a discussion about the translation of the dative case Φιλίππῳ in Pausanias’ text.8 Taken as a dativus auctoris, the Philippeion must have been founded by Philip II, and that means that the concept and the start of the construction must be dated before his death in 336 BC.9 If, on the other side, it had been set up ‘for/to Philip’, its date could also be later, under the rule of Alexander.10 The reference of the building to Chaironeia, which Pausanias explicitly mentioned and, thus, must have been inscribed on the monument in some way, makes it fairly improbable that it was commissioned and dedicated after the beginning of Alexander’s Persian campaign, that is after 334, when the political agenda in Greece was different. Furthermore, one could ask what the meaning of ‘set up for/to Philip’ could have been. John Ma recently confirmed that in the epigraphic record of the Hellenistic period such a dative case almost exclusively refers to monuments of the ruler cult in the realm of the Greek poleis.11 Such a cult was not appropriate in the panhellenic sanctuary of Olympia, where dedications to and cults of local recipients were the rule, but not cults of foreign intruders. If we take into account the archaeological evidence, the image becomes clearer. The physical remains of the Philippeion have been identified in the Altis (fig. 1).12 Accordingly, the building was a tholos with 18 Ionic columns standing upon a krepis of three steps and surrounding a circular cella (fig. 2). The roof was covered with burnt tiles, the walls consisted of limestone, while the krepis, the columns, the floor, the wall base and the fringe of the roof were made of Parian marble. Hence, Pausanias erred when he spoke of ‘burnt brick’ as the building material. In contrast to the Ionic outer appearance, the inner walls of the cella were subdivided by nine semicolumns of the Korinthian order. In the cella, a statue base made of Parian marble is preserved in a small distance (c. 1.5 m) from the rear wall. It is c. 5 m wide and Damaskos 1999, 266 n. 52; Lapatin 2001, 116–117. Schultz 2007, 208–210 and 2009, 131–132. 10 The only other Philippeion is a stoa in Megalopolis dedicated ‘for/to’ Philip, as Paus. 8 .30 .6 explicitly (!) says, even though buildings called ‘[name]eion’ conventionally were indeed places of worship of the named person, like a Homereion or a Theseion. Possibly, Pausanias mentioned this conventional situation in Megalopolis, because the other Philippeion in Olympia was different. The idea that a king never ‘honoured himself’ (Bringmann et al. 1995, 404), so that building and statues could not have been part of the same dedication, is not convincing, because images of dedicators were extremely common votive dedications in Greek sanctuaries, cf. now Keesling 2017, and already Lapatin 2001, 117. 11 Ma 2013b, 18–20. 12 Schleif / Zschietzschmann 1944; Miller 1973; Seiler 1986, 89– 103; Hintzen­Bohlen 1992, 26–29; Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 329; Huwendiek 1996; Schmidt­Dounas 2000, 17–18, 200–201; Schultz 2009; van de Löcht 2009; Herrmann 2013, 76– 99; Keesling 2017, 93–98. 8 9

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Fig. 1: Plan of the Zeus sanctuary of Olympia in the Roman period (detail). After: E. Curtius / F. Adler: Olympia. Die Ergebnisse der vom Deutschen Reich veranstalteten Ausgrabungen. Karten und Pläne, Berlin 1897, Blatt IV.

has the form of a circle segment. This base was not only built from the same marble as the floor, the patterns of tooling are also identical to other stones of the Philippeion, as Peter Schultz has observed. Furthermore, the pi-shaped clamps used to build the base are of the same size and form as the clamps used in the other walls of the Philippeion.13 This confirms definitely that there is no physical sign of an interruption of the building process and no sign of any re-organisations of this process. Hence, the Philippeion, including the statues, was commissioned and erected in only one single project.14 Finally, the style of the ornamentation of the architecture, the mouldings and the profile line of the wall base follow patterns of the fourth century more than of the turn to the third century.15 All these arguments, taken together Schultz 2009, 129–139. For later restaurations after earthquakes: van de Löcht 2009, 64; Herrmann 2013, 82. 15 Bauer 1973, 96, 103– 106; Miller 1973; Townsend 2003; Schultz 2007, 210–211 and 2009, 133–163. 13 14

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Fig. 2: Reconstruction drawing of the interior of the ‘Philippeion’ at Olympia. Drawing by David Boggs, courtesy of Theran Press.

with Pausanias’ statement, indicate that it is far more probable that the Philippeion was commissioned immediately after Chaironeia. Hence, it was rather Philip II who commissioned the building – even though it cannot be excluded that a period of less than two years until his death were not enough to complete the installation. Hence, it could well have been Alexander under whom the tholos was finished after 336, but nothing points to any changes in the building’s design and statuary equipment.16 Thus, the statue base is an authentic record of the visual design Philip II wanted to be given to the cella of his votive­offering.17 Four marble blocks of the crowning layer of the base are preserved each with cuttings in the upper surface (fig. 3). The fifth block on the left of the viewer is missing. The sockets are the only physical remains of the statues set up in the Philippeion, and they confirm that, in this case Further arguments in favor of a start before 336 and a dedication shortly after 336 under Alexander: Lapatin 2001, 116–118. 17 Bringmann et al. 1995 , 405 Abb. 155 –157 ; Lapatin 2001 , 115 –119 , 149 no. 43 fig. 217 –226 ; Schultz 2007, fig. 135–139, 2009, 140–154 fig. 12 (also for the following argumentation); Herrmann 2013, 95–96 fig. 37. 16

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Fig. 3: Drawing of the statue base crown in the ‘Philippeion’ at Olympia. Drawing by Chrysanthos Kanellopoulos, courtesy of Theran Press (names added by Ralf von den Hoff).

too, Pausanias misunderstood what he saw: such sockets on the surface of marble blocks are definite signs of marble statues set up on these blocks. Hence, at least the lower parts of the statues, including feet and legs, must have been made of marble. This excludes the idea that the five portraits were chryselephantine statues in the original sense.18 Chryselephantine statues consisted of a wooden inner structure, while the naked parts were made of ivory or marble and the garments were gilded.19 Probably Pausanias’ misunderstanding resulted from the outer appearance of the Argead portraits, which resembled such chryselephantine cult statues. This would mean that the naked parts, like faces and arms, were left in yellow-white marble, while the garments were covered with gold or golden colour.20 Be that as it may, the statues were made by Leochares, and the shape of each socket can serve as an indication of the size and the iconography of the statue set up in this place. The outmost statue on the right-hand side of the viewer must have been a female statue due to the regular, trapezoid contour of its socket. A long garment reaching to the ground around the covered feet – and resulting in such a regular shape of the statue’s plinth – was typical of female marble statues in the late Classical and Hel-

Schultz 2007, 220–221 and 2009, 151–154; cf. Lapatin 2001, 117–118. Lapatin 2001, passim. 20 Cf. Paus. 9.4.1, for a particular form of a statue with wooden and marble parts, cf. Lapatin 2001, 61 (‘pseudo-chryselephantine’). 18 19

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lenistic period.21 No other preserved socket resembles this design. Hence, the second female statue, which existed according to Pausanias’ description, must have been set up on the only socket missing today that is on the outmost left block of the base. The other sockets are less regular in shape, which points to statues with one leg in front supporting the weight, the other foot free and set back.22 One of the preserved sockets is obviously smaller in size than the other two remaining ones, which points to a smaller statue. Hence, the two older men, that is Amyntas and Philipp, would have been standing in the centre and on the first block to the right side of the viewer, while the still younger Alexander occupied the position to the left of the centre.23 If one allows Philip’s statue to take the central position, then Amyntas stood at Philip’s left side together with his wife Eurydice, while Alexander, Philip’s son, stood to the dedicators right side between his mother Olympias and his father. Nothing more can be said with certainty about the design of the statues. Due to the size of their sockets, they must have been life-size. The male statues could have been wearing a cuirass or the Macedonian chlamys, while the female statues had long garments, as we have seen.24 A visitor in the Altis, approaching the Philippeion, would have seen a rich and splendid Ionic tholos. If he could enter the cella, he saw – in front of the magnificent Korinthian half-columns and set up on a base of ca. 1,5 m height which stood on a marble floor – a genealogic gallery of Argead statues shimmering in white and gold, illuminated by the light, which came through the door and the two windows at its sides. As far as the experiences and expectation are concerned, such a building and staging of statues in a sanctuary is not difficult to classify.25 The architectural type of a tholos has its origins already in the 6th century BC. Tholoi were built in sanctuaries, and they were used as treasuries housing precious votive­offerings. Only in Epidauros, in the early fourth century BC, the tholos was a ritual building.26 In the later fourth century BC, the decoration of tholoi was enriched, for example by semicolumns on the inner walls. Thus, the Philippeion can be counted among the most modern and most richly designed specimens of this architectural type in its period of 21 22 23 24

25

26

Lapatin 2001, 116; Schultz 2007, 216–218, 2009, 143–148. Also confirmed by Lapatin 2001, 116. Cf. Schultz 2007, 213–216, 218–220 and 2009, 147–151; Lane Fox 2011c, 364. Lapatin 2001, 116, is less sure. Cf. Schultz 2007, 218–220 and 2009, 147–151, whose argumentation concerning the possibly ‘heroic’ character of the male statues remains hypothetical; for suggested identifications of the statues and their portrait heads in the round see also Lapatin 2001, 118–119. – For chlamydati in the Daochos monument, below n. 32. Lapatin 2001, 117–118; Schultz 2009, 154–163 (also for the following argumentation). Cf. for the ‘Rundbaumotiv’, typical for a tholos: Lauter 1986, 176–179. – For recent interpretations of the Philippeion: Huwendiek 1996; Edelmann 2007, 180–183; Scott 2010, 12, 210–212; Lane Fox 2011c, 364–365 (who denies any possibility to explain the circularity of the building); Freitag 2011, 83; Ferrario 2014, 310. For the tholos in Epidauros see now Prignitz 2014 and recently Schultz et al. 2017.

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construction. It was also the first building in marble in Olympia.27 This observation and the architectural semantics of the tholoi made it an extraordinary treasury with a sacral character without being necessarily a temple or a place of cult. Treasuries, indeed, were anything but unusual in Olympia.28 A terrace in the northern part of the Altis, just next to the Metroon (fig. 1), was completely covered with such architectural dedications, set up by different poleis of the Greek world from the sixth century BC on. On the other hand, using the round and peristatic design of a tholos for a treasury was without precedent in Olympia, as was its position in the Altis. The Philippeion not only was set apart from the other treasuries, it was also set apart from the ‘forest’ of statuary votive­offerings, surrounding the central place of gathering in front of the temple of Zeus (fig. 1).29 Built at an extraordinary place near the outer wall of the temenos and its entrance in the north, the tholos was an eye-catcher for visitors inside and outside the sanctuary. Furthermore, Philip’s tholos found its place near to the oldest and most venerable places of cult and tradition within the temenos: it stood behind the oldest peripteral temple, built in the old-fashioned Doric order, the Heraion, which helped to highlight the modern design of Philip’s dedication. And it was also near the oldest place of cult within the Altis, the Pelopion. Thus, the Philippeion was implanted into the early history of the sanctuary and into its mythological tradition. Herakles, the founder of the cult of Pelops in Olympia and the forefather of the Argeads, was the interface between myth and the present age, between Olympia and Philip.30 The entanglement of aesthetic impact and semantic sense with myth, history and actuality singles out the Philippeion in front of the background of common experiences – and thus made the dedicator a particularly outstanding, tradition-oriented person. This leads to the third dimension of expectations and experiences. Usually, a treasury was set up by a polis, and the name of the collective dedicant could be read above the door of the treasury. In the light of such expectations, the Philippeion must have been acknowledged as a particular case: It was a king from Macedonia who was its dedicator. A monarch took over the traditional role of a polis, which underlined Philip’s individual or at least familial authority and his new position in Greece. Finally, the Philippeion housed a particular treasure. Its purpose was staging the five statues of members of the Macedonian royal family. One has to realise that multi­figured groups of portrait statues were anything but unusual in Greek sanctuaries of the 4th century BC. Most of them – also in Olympia – had been dedicated after successfully finished wars, as was the Philippeion, or by families to thank the gods.31 Like the portraits in the tholos, the statues constituting such monuments were Scott 2010, 210–211. Treasuries in Greek sanctuaries: Partida 2000; Hering 2015. 29 Hölscher 2002. 30 Seiler 1986, 101; Scott 2010, 211–212. 31 Ioakimidou 1997; Löhr 2000. 27 28

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static in posture. But a genealogical portrait group set up to remember a victory and thus relating the military success to a family, was unusual, as was the sacralisation of its architectural frame and its topographical embedding into a mythologically charged space, which we both have observed in the case of the Philippeion. Such an ambitious design and context underlined the autonomy of the dedicant and of the individuals depicted in the statues. The best parallel for such a genealogical statue group is the monument of the Thessalian tetrarch Daochos in Delphi set up in the thirties of the fourth century BC.32 In Delphi, the genealogy reached back even further and included eight marble statues depicting men from six generations of the family. In addition to this, Apollon, the recipient of the dedication, was the starting point of the genealogy to the viewer’s right. Daochos’ dedication was also set up within a building, but the design of the architectural frame was less ambitious than the Philippeion, and particularly the architecture lacked all signs of a visual sacralisation. Judged against this background, the autonomy and the almost sacral qualities of the members of the Argead family, as presented in Olympia, become obvious. The distance and separation of the Macedonian royals from the real world is also clearly underlined in the Philippeion. In comparison to the surrounding buildings and statues in the Altis, the splendour and luxury of Philip’s tholos as well as the material and spatial distance of the gold-shimmering – but not over life-size – statues, set up in a separate room not unlike cult-statues, must have been striking. The aesthetics of the monument oscillated between sacrality, splendid extraordinariness and references to conventional traditions of representing human beings in sanctuaries, leaving open a definite or explicit semantic – even though there is no clue to a definite divine status or cult for Philip at this place.33 On the other hand, the Philippeion could be read also in a different manner: The most splendid and magnificent object (perikalles agalma) has always been the most appropriate dedication to a god, in order to demonstrate the eusebeia of the dedicant – and such a magnificent object the Philippeion was, indeed, as we have seen. Hence, the donor of such a monument could claim highest piety as his quality: Philip gave to the gods what was the gods’ due; he offered thanks to Zeus as he was indebted to the highest Olympian. By the same token, Philip became a benefactor of the sanctuary itself, which he adorned by a magnificent building. All these messages counterbalanced the king’s visual claims of autonomy and sacrality. Finally, the visual syntax of the statue group has to be explained (fig. 3). If Philip took the central position, which is most probable, he was claiming a dominant and distinct role compared to the other members of his family. Furthermore, the three Daochos monument: Dohrn 1968; Geominy 1998, 2007a, 2007b; Jacquemin / Laroche 2001; Aston 2012; Keesling 2017, 108–111. 33 Lapatin 2001 , 118 (‘elevated status’); Ferrario 2014 , 311 (‘not explicitely … divine’); 353 32

(‘connect his image with the divine’); for the connotation of a chryselephantine statue cf. Diod. 17.115.1 (θαυμαζομένων παρ᾽ ἀνθρώποις) with Lapatin 2001, 119, 164.

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male Argeads occupy the centre of the group, while the wives received marginal positions, thus accentuating the male line of genealogy as a core element of the Argead self-image. Nevertheless, in contrast to the Daochos monument, the wives were not left out, in order to showcase the oikos and not only the male kin as another basis of the Argead dynasty. Hence, the architectural and the statuary design of the Philippeion does not imply an explicit statement about rulership and legitimation, but the monument could be understood as a communicative statement defining status and political claims of the Macedonian royal oikos and of Philip, who was the hegemon of the Korinthian league, when he dedicated the monument. While his victory over the Greeks was Philip’s motivation to thank Zeus,34 by doing so, the royal dedicator visually defined himself as a pious worshipper of Zeus, the highest Greek god, and as a benefactor of the panhellenic sanctuary in Olympia. If one takes existing experiences and expectations as the background for Philip’s dedication as a communicative act, one could argue that he claimed an extraordinary, distant and autonomous position vis-à-vis the panhellenic community, gathering in the Altis,35 and that he created an aura of sacrality and luxury as applied to the Argeads in order to demonstrate his authority. By the same token, he inscribed the Macedonian royal family into the history, myth and traditions of this sanctuary as a prestigious panhellenic Greek ‘space of religious memory’, and he demonstrated a dynastic claim based upon the traditions of the oikos unity. All of these statements were, indeed, related to the legitimation of his rule, even though they are far from claiming conquest and victory as the basis of this rule – if the male statues had been cuirassed statues, this would at least have been underlined iconographically. ALEXANDER’S DEDICATIONS

Alexander’s material and visually perceptible dedications comprise different genres of objects. All these dedications can be dated to the period of his Persian campaign after 334 BC.36 The epigraphic and literary records bear witness to a large number of Freitag 2011. Cf. generally for Macedonian activities in Greek sanctuaries: Mari 2002. 36 Some dedications were left out here, because they seem to be later constructions, like the weapons dedicated to Asklepios in Gorytos/Akarnania (Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 328; Bringmann 2000, 41), an inscription in the Letoon/Lycia (Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 302; Bringmann 2000, 40–41; cf. Wallace 2018b, 166), the dedication of the horn of a Scythian donkey in Delphi (Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 334; cf. Miller 2000, 271–272) and the dedication of a spear to Artemis (Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 367; Bringmann 2000, 41). – The authenticity of another dedication to Asklepios is disputed (Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 327; Bringmann 2000, 38–39), as are the dedications mentioned in Alexander’s ‘testament’ (Bringmann 2000, 39–40). – The statement ‘Die Aktivität Alexanders in griechischen Heiligtümern beschränkte sich – soweit die archäologische und schriftliche Überlieferung erkennen lässt – auf die Vollendung des Philippeions’ (Hintzen­Bohlen 1992, 30), is a misjudgement. 34 35

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altars, which Alexander dedicated to the gods and the heroes. These include altars set up near the borders of his dominion and altar dedications marking his crossing of frontiers: the altars for Zeus, Athena and Herakles dedicated after the disembarkation in Asia and the altars for the river gods in India and in Sogdia, to name only some of them.37 Other votive dedications were made in return for victories: after the siege of Thebes, after the battle at the Granikos river, after Issos at the shore of the river Pinaros, in Tyros and Lindos.38 These acts corresponded to traditional and conventional war and conquest practices; they underlined the piety and the gratitude of the conqueror not without claiming particular qualities and rulership for him. Female members of Alexander’s family also followed the conventional practices of dedications, even though the material value of their votive­offerings was exceptionally high and the sanctuaries, where these offerings were dedicated, were presti­ gious, like in the case of Olympias’ dedication on the Athenian Akropolis.39 In the following, two particular practices of dedication will be discussed in detail: Alexander’s dedications after the battle at the river Granikos and his temple dedications. The Granikos dedications In the aftermath of Alexander’s first victory over the Persian army at the river Granikos in Asia Minor (334 BC),40 votive dedications made by the king addressed different audiences at three different places. Best known is the dedication of weapons from the booty of the battle. Alexander dedicated 300 shields, as Plutarch testifies, or 300 panoplies, if we follow Arrian, on the Athenian Akropolis.41 Both Arrian and Plutarch quote the inscription, which must have been attached to these votives: ‘Alexander, son of Philip, and the Greeks save the Lakedaimonians, won these from the Barbarians who inhabit Asia’. We do not know exactly where these weapons were set up or attached on the Athenian Akropolis. The quotation of the dedicatory inscription definitely points to a prominent position in the sanctuary. On the east side of the Parthenon on the Athenian Akropolis, the architrave blocks are covered 37

38

39 40 41

Zeus, Athena, Herakles after disembarkation in Asia: Arr. Anab. 1.11.7; river gods in India: Curt. 9.4.14; Olympian gods at the Hyphasis river: Diod. 17.95.1; Arr. Anab. 5.29.1; in Sogdia: Plin. HN 6, 49. – Cf. another altar dedication in Bahariya/Egypt: Bosch­Puche 2008; Wallace 2018b, 166. – Cf. Grüner 2005 for altar dedications near frontiers. Siege engine and ship in Tyros: Arr. 2.24.6; after Granikos (see below): Strab. 13.1.26; Diod. 18.4.5; cf. Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 247; after Issos: Curt. 3.12.27; after Thebes (pendant lamp): Plin. HN 34.14; cf. Bringmann et al. 1995, K Nr. 307; Wallace 2018b, 170; after Gaugamela (?) in Lindos: Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 194; Bringmann 2000, 59; cf. Higby 2003; weapons in Elymais/Iran: Joseph. AJ 12.9; cf. Wallace 2018b, 170–171. Olympias: Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 1; Roxane: Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 3; cf. Themelis 2003, 163–165. For the battle see now: Kunst 2018. Plut. Alex. 16.17–18 ; Arr. Anab. 1.16.7; cf. Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 2; Bringmann 2000; 37, 57–58; Schmidt­Dounas 2000, 86, 88–91; von den Hoff 2003, 173–174; Themelis 2003, 163.

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with clamp holes serving to fix 14 shields above the temple’s entrance (fig. 4).42 This fixing cannot be dated, but possibly the holes belong to Alexander’s dedication – even though, if this is true, most of the booty must have been stored elsewhere. Dedicating weapons from war booty is an old tradition, and attaching such weapons high above on an architectural façade was a common practice in Greek sanctuaries, witness the shield from the battle at Tanagra, fixed at the temple of Zeus in Olympia,43 and the shields attached to the wall below the temple of Athena Nike on the Athenian Akropolis.44 One could also compare the shields from the battle at Sphakteria and other encounters, which were visible in the Stoa Poikile in the Athenian Agora.45 Thus, the genre of Alexander’s dedication was conventional and followed existing expectations. The epigraphic reference to the Korinthian League, to which the Spartans did not belong, is obvious, but the phrasing also refers implicitly to the fights between Greeks and Persians, namely to the Persian wars: almost 150 years before Alexander. In 480/79, the ‘barbarians’ from ‘Asia’ destroyed the Athenian Akropolis and in 490 they were fought by the Greeks ‘save the Lakedaimonians’ at Marathon. Hence, Alexander’s dedication was presented as an act of piety towards Athena; it implicitly classified his victory in Asia Minor as a revenge for the Persian desecration of the Athenian sanctuary, and thus the king appeared as a defender of Greece, of Greek religion and as an avenger of the Athenians and the Greeks. He took legitimation for his own conquest from inscribing his victory into the glorious Athenian and Greek history, the mission of which he accomplished46. Even though the form of the dedicatory inscription was conventional, its wording, starting with the name of Alexander, testifies to the first position and autonomy the king claimed. But it also included – in the second place – the Greeks participating in the conquest of the barbarian land, in history and in Alexander’s days. Hence, the dedicatory inscription was a legitimation of both Alexander’s unity with and his ruling position as a ‘liberator’ of Greece. Despite the fact that the Athenian Akropolis was the place of memory of a Persian de-sacralisation and thus a sacred space of a high symbolic power for all Greeks, the main addressees of the dedication in Athens were the visitors of the Akropolis, that is, mainly Athenians. Also, the explicit exclusion of the Spartans in the inscription followed an Athenian point of view related to Marathon. A panhellenic audience would have been better addressed in a sanctuary like Delphi, where panhellenic dedications related to the Persian wars were still visible in the late fourth century BC. Thus, Alexander’s dedication in Athens primarily assured the 42

43 44 45 46

Hurwit 1999, 253–254; Schmidt­Dounas 2000, 88–91 fig. 26–27; von den Hoff 2003, 174 with n. 7; Themelis 2003, 163 with n. 10; it remains open, if the golden shields, Lachares removed later in the 4th century (Paus. 1.25.7), have been shields of Alexander’s dedication. Paus. 5.14.4. Lippmann et al. 2006. Paus. 1.15. 4 (‘in the stoa’); one of these shields is preserved in the Agora Museum in Athens, Inv. B 262: http://agora.ascsa.net/id/agora/object/b 262. Cf. Wallace, present volume.

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Fig. 4: Attachment holes for dedicatory shields on the east architrave of the Parthenon in Athens. Photograph by Ralf von den Hoff.

Athenians of the king’s care for them and of their leading role in Greece, of which the Macedonian king was a worthy heir. This is far from Philip’s self-related address to a panhellenic audience. And even though the sheer number of the weapons that Alexander dedicated in Athens exceeded usual quantities, his dedication also lacks any signs of auto-sacralisation. A second dedication after the Granikos battle addressed another audience, even though the divine addressee was the same. We know from Strabo that Alexander dedicated anathemata to Athena in Ilion after the battle. In Ilion, he had also prayed for support before the encounter, and in Ilion, Xerxes had already sacrificed before he attacked Greece and destroyed Athens.47 Hence, also this dedication implicitly related Alexander’s conquest to the Persian wars. But this message was not directed to Athens. In contrast to the Athenian dedication, the votive­offering in Ilion rather positioned Alexander in the realm of the panhellenic epic heroes of Homer’s Troy, thus using the symbolic power of Troy as a panhellenic ‘space of memory’ and 47

Strab. 13.1.26; cf. Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 247; Bringmann 2000, 57–58, 60; Erskine 2001, 226–228 with n. 15. – For Alexander’s visits in Ilion, also before the Granikos battle (Diod. 17.18.1; Arr. Anab. 1.11.7) see Erskine 2001, 105, 226–231; Hertel 2003, 238–244; Courtier 2004; Wallace 2018b, 178–179.

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inscribing the king’s conquest into the Greek mythological tradition. The direct addressees in Ilion must have been mainly local or regional, such as visitors from Asia Minor, rather than a permanently present panhellenic audience. The third place of an Alexander dedication after Granikos was Macedonia. In the sanctuary of Zeus Olympios in Dion he dedicated a group of bronze statues, which depicted the 25 hetairoi of the Macedonian cavalry who had been killed in action in 334. The statues included a portrait statue of Alexander, and possibly also statues of the nine foot soldiers who fell at the Granikos. Lysippos from Sikyon was the artist of these statues, which were called the turma Alexandri.48 It is not easy to get an impression of the appearance of this monument. It is clear at least that the well-known early imperial bronze statuette of Alexander attacking on horseback from Herculaneum, produced together with another bronze horse and possibly with a statue of a riding Amazon, can hardly be taken as a reliable testimonium in order to reconstruct the king’s statue in the turma, even though it is very probable that Alexander like his fellow cavalrymen was depicted on horseback and possibly also in a pose comparable to the bronze statuette.49 It is also very uncertain whether the Roman marble statues of cuirassed riders from the late Republican period, found in Lanuvium, were set up together. They do not necessarily form a coherent monument.50 Hence, it remains an open question whether they copy or imitate the statues of the turma. None of the preserved descriptions of the turma attest any statues of adversaries, and a battle situation is never mentioned. On the other hand, reliefs of fallen soldiers and riders in the 4th century do not depict them in quietly standing postures, but rather as victors in battle and only sometimes including their adversaries.51 Consequently, this could have been the case in Dion as well. What we can take for granted is that Lysippos’ turma Alexandri in Dion was a quite large monument with more than 20 statues in a military guise, which focused upon the memory of the fallen Macedonians and their still living king. Group monuments of military units, dedicated by the victors, had been known from other sanctuaries before Alexander, witness the monument of the Spartans after Aigospotamoi in Delphi with almost 40 static statues including a portrait of

Plut. Alex. 16; Vell. Pat. 1.11.3–4; Plin. HN 34.64; Arr. Anab. 1.16.4; cf. Calcani 1989; Bergemann 1990, 72–78; Stewart 1993, 123–130, 388–390; Bringmann et al. 1995, K Nr. 112; Bringmann 2000, 58. 49 Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale Inv. 4996: Calcani 1989, 34–35, 110, 125–129 and passim with figs. 6, 8, 61, 67, ead. 1993; Stewart 1993, 123–130, 388–390, 426 fig. 23; Cadario 2004, 34–35 pl. 3, 2; often, the statuette has been taken as an authentic copy in reduced size of Alexander’s statue in the turma (S. Müller 2006b, 11–12; di Vita 1995, 234–235 no. 27; Moreno 1995, 148–156 no. 4.18; Hansen / Wieczorek / Tellenbach 2009, 240 no. 1), but this is unprobable, cf. already Stewart 1993, 124, 130 n. 32; von den Hoff 2014, 212 n. 18; Cadario 2004, 34 n. 79. 50 Coarelli 1981; Bergemann 1990, 72–78 no. P25; Cadario 2004, 35–37. 51 A. Cohen 1997, 24–35; Arrington 2015. 48

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Lysandros as the commander of the army, who was crowned by Poseidon.52 Thus, the rather high number of statues in Dion was not without parallels. Later victory monuments like those of the Pergamene Attalids reached even higher quantities of statues in the round, but these dedications focused rather upon the defeated barbarians.53 In the later 4th century, a dynamic representation of so many soldiers, who participated in a battle, would have made the turma an iconographically innovative dedication, while the lack of any divine or heroic figures applied a certain realism to the representation. It focused upon the human combatants and their autonomy like in earlier grave reliefs of fallen soldiers. Furthermore, including Alexander visually highlighted the collectivity of the army and the king. Even after the death of Alexander’s hetairoi, this aimed at demonstrating the persistent unity of the king and his army, which also was a sign of the king’s care for the soldiers. Indeed, Alexander assured the support of the family members of those fallen at the Granikos river. The victims had been buried in Asia Minor, but their families received tax privileges at home, as we know from Arrian.54 But by the same token, the individual success of the king himself was less accentuated. As Velleius Paterculus wrote, Lysippos interponeret Alexander in the group.55 This expression seems to testify to the expectation that the king himself was a person conventionally not belonging to such a group of fallen soldiers: he had to be ‘put into it’. Hence, Alexander appeared as a primus inter pares of his hetairoi. In the central sanctuary of the highest Olympian god in Macedonia, such a visual design related the statue dedication to the local military elite and to the army. The sanctuary in Dion had been the meeting place of the army, where the soldiers set off for the Persian campaign in 334 BC. Dion also was the place of a gallery of statues of Macedonian kings.56 Thus the turma Alexandri tied Alexander and his army to the royal tradition and monarchy in Macedonia. The addressees of the turma Alexandri in Dion were local visitors and the Macedonian community, to which the depicted soldiers and Alexander also belonged. This included future soldiers and the families of those fighting together with Alexander in the east. The statues embedded the Macedonian fighting collective in the Macedonian life and in a local tradition. It was a memorial addressing those related to the Macedonian soldiers. Hence, Alexander’s turma in Dion was far from ideas of sacralisation and distance of the conqueror. It rather highlighted the collective autonomy of the Macedonians and the living presence at home of those who had fallen in Persia.57 The natu-

52 53 54 55 56 57

Paus. 10.9.7–11; cf. Ioakimidou 1997, 107–115 no. 21. For comparison to the turma cf. Rice 1993, 227–229. Hölscher 1985; Stewart 2004. Arr. Anab. 1.16.5. Vell. Pat. 1.11.4. Polyb. 4.62.2. Cf. Rice 1993, 227.

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ralistic appearance of the soldiers, which later records mention explicitly,58 could have supported this notion aesthetically. Like in Athens and Ilion, Alexander’s votive­offering in Dion also was a clear sign of his munificence towards the gods. The financial effort to design and cast more than 20 live-size bronze statues on horseback must have been very high.59 Also, the king’s care for his soldiers and for the appearance of Macedonia’s most important sacred space must have become obvious. Vis-à-vis the Macedonian audience, the dedicator presented himself as a caring, cooperative and pious ruler, respecting Macedonian traditions and belonging to the social community of the male Macedonian hetairoi. Looking back at the three dedications after the battle at the Granikos river, it appears that, in 334, Alexander aimed at a communicative triad of legitimations: he alluded to the mythical, Homeric past as a model and legitimation for his conquest60, addressing the inhabitants of Asia Minor and the mainland Greeks; he alluded to the historical past of the Persian wars in Greece as a duty of revenge, now accomplished by the king, which was the message addressed particularly to the Athenians, who had suffered the most under the Persian destruction and lost the most due to the Macedonian hegemony; and he made reference to the present campaign by presenting the Macedonian soldiers and the Macedonian state as the basis of his rule and conquest, which was his message to the Macedonians at home. Different audiences with local or regional relevance were addressed, while the panhellenic sanctuaries were left out. Following particular interests by a multi-local legitimation was Alexander’s strategy. Furthermore, the sacralisation and the autocracy of the king were less in the focus of his communicative acts in 334 compared to his father Philip’s Olympian tholos. Even though Alexander did not negate his leading autonomous position, his votive dedications rather focused upon military leadership and success, not upon absolute rule, and they left out dynastic ideas. They also did not highlight the distance to the human sphere, but rather inscribed the king’s conquest into myth, history and actual collective enterprises from the capture of Troy, via the Persian wars up to the Macedonian army. Finally, it appears that, at the beginning of his campaign, Alexander well respected the idea that a fortunate and successful conqueror and king had to appear as a pious human being, returning thanks to the gods for his success, benefits and booty and caring for the fallen soldiers. The triad of monuments after the Granikos battle let Alexander appear as a pious ruler well aware of the socially and regionally different addressees he had to reach in order to gain military legitimation and well aware of the Greek mythology and history and of panhellenic notions of memory, even though the panhellenic sanctuaries were intentionally neglected in his dedicatory practice.

Plin. HN 34.64 (‘amicorum imagines summa omnium similitudine expressit’). Just. Epit. 11.6.13; cf. Stewart 1993, 390 no. T 107. 60 Cf. Hölscher in the present volume.

58 59

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Alexander’s temples It was also in 334 BC that Alexander, during his visit in Sardis, for the first time spoke of initiating the building of a temple to the gods. Reportedly he gave order to erect a temple of Olympian Zeus at the place of Kroisos’ palace.61 We do not know if this plan was realised or even begun, but something similar happened in Priene, a Greek city in western Asia Minor. A short Greek inscription is the authentic testimonium of this act. It was cut into the upper part of the northern anta of the east side of the temple of Athena in Priene (fig. 5): ‘King Alexander dedicated the temple (naos) to Athena Polias’. Found shortly before 1869, the inscription now forms part of the epigraphic collection of the British Museum.62 The marble block is 1.21 m wide, which is the actual size of the anta itself. Its upper part is covered by the three left-aligned lines of the inscription mentioned above, followed by a sort of public archive of Priene’s early Hellenistic history and status. Below the Alexander inscription, one could read the so-called Alexander edict, the partial transcription of a royal edict concerned with guarantees of tax exemptions for Priene and mentioning some smaller communities in its vicinity, inhabited by ‘Greeks’ who were ‘autonomous and free’.63 Its letter forms are different from Alexander’s dedicatory inscription but very similar to the following texts related to Lysimachos and Priene.64 The inner wall of the anta contains texts dealing with Priene’s foreign relations in the 2nd century BC.65 Hence, the dedicatory inscription on the top was cut into the anta before the time of Lysimachos; obviously it was this inscription which gave reason to use this anta of the most sacred building of the city to publish an ‘archive of polis memory’ in order to demonstrate Priene’s relations to the Hellenistic kings and to Rome – starting with Alexander’s temple funding. Alexander’s dedication was necessarily inscribed before his death. It aims at presenting the patron of the temple – or at least its naos (cella), the inner structure, of which the anta formed the front part. Thus, obviously, Alexander gave money to erect a splendid new temple for Athena in Priene after 334 and obtained the right to dedicate the naos. Pytheos was the architect of the temple. He already participated in the building of the famous Mausoleum in Halikarnassos,66 finished shortly after 350 BC. The construction history and architecture of the temple of Athena has recently been studied by Wolf 61 62

63 64 65 66

Arr. Anab. 1.17.5–6; cf. Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 258; Bringmann 2000, 60; Schmidt­ Dounas 2000, 4 with n. 3. London, British Museum Inv. 1870.3–20.88: I.Priene no. 156; Tod no. 184; IK.Priene I no. 149, II pl. 125; cf. Heisserer 1980, 143–145 pl. 14; Bringmann et al. 1995, K Nr. 268; Schmidt­ Dounas 2000, 5; Arena 2013; Koenigs 2015, 146 fig. 120; Westcoat 2015, 184–185; see following footnotes for the other inscriptions on the anta, and for dating and interpretation also: Sherwin­White 1985; Botermann 1994; Mileta 2008, 36–40 (with reference to Kholod 2005 ); Thonemann 2013 ; Lehmann 2015 a, 109 – 114 ; Seres 2018 , 191 – 193 ; IK.Priene II pl. 184–185 (reconstruction of the anta); cf. also Kholod in the present volume. I.Priene 1; IK.Priene 1; cf. Faraguna, this volume. I.Priene 15–16; IK.Priene 2–4 I.Priene 37–42; IK.Priene 132–135. Vitr. De arch. 1.1.2, 7 praef. 11.

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Koenigs. According to his results and earlier studies, only the naos was built in the first phase of the building process, while the columns of the entrance side on the east were later set up step by step.67 Consequently, when Alexander’s inscription was carved into the stone, the northern anta on the east side formed part of the façade of the temple, while the columns, later standing in front of the cella, not to mention the pediment, were still missing. Hence, under Alexander, the dedicatory inscription was well visible for everyone. It was obviously inscribed before the temple was finished in order to present the royal patron as soon as possible in the role of the sacred building’s dedicant. Which experiences and expectations were touched by this act? The temple of Athena is not a treasury, like the Philippeion, but a house of the goddess.68 The Greek poleis had long been in charge of building such temples. Tyrants like Peisistratos in Athens or Polykrates in Samos are said to have erected complete temples as individual patrons, but we are not sure what exactly this meant.69 Possibly, it was rather a contribution to complex and expensive ventures, and the engagement of tyrants, social elites and polis was interrelated. But in the period just before Alexander autocratic rulers did indeed dedicate complete cult buildings. Idrieus, the son and successor of Mausolos of Halikarnassos, as far as we know, was the first monarch who dedicated a temple in the local Carian sanctuary of Zeus in Labraunda.70 On the other hand, even before Alexander, not only smaller buildings, treasuries etc., but also parts of a large temple could well have been donations of individual persons, witness the columns of the temple of Artemis in Ephesos, which, in the 6th century BC, Kroisos, the Lydian king, dedicated, not without putting his dedicatory inscription on each of them.71 In the light of this tradition, Alexander’s dedication in Priene was typically royal, but nothing completely new in Asia Minor. The question of individual or collective patronage of building a temple seems to have been under discussion in the time of Alexander. This is testified by Alexander’s own experience in Ephesos. In 334, he had captured the city and granted exception from tribute in order to allow the money to be used for re-building the temple of

67 68 69

70 71

Koenigs 2015, 141–151 with fig. 119; cf. already J. Carter 1983, 36–38; Rumscheid 1994, 42–43, and now Rumscheid 2014, 175–176. For the patronage of profane buildings: Schaaf 1992; for an overview of Alexander’s patronage of buildings: Schmidt­Dounas 2000, 3–8. Peisistratos (Arist. pol. 5, 1313b22–24): Boersma 1970; Kolb 1977; de Libero 1996, 94–107. – Polykrates (Hdt. 3.60): de Libero 1996, 287–296. – Cf. the Alkmaionids’ contribution to the temple in Delphi (Hdt. 5.62; Arist. Ath. pol. 19.4): Zahrnt 1989; Childs 1993. – Umholtz 2002, discussed the questions, but did not distinguish large temples and other dedications, even though the borderlines are not very clear. ILabraunda no. 16; Umholtz 2002, 262, 275; cf. ibid., 273–276 for a discussion of further architectural dedications of the Hecatomnids. Hdt. 1.92; Tod 1948, No. 6; Rumscheid 1999, 28–29 fig. 5; Umholtz 2002, 264–265 (with discussion of further examples).

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Fig. 5: Upper part of the northern anta of the east side of the Athena temple in Priene. © The Trustees of the British Museum

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Artemis, which burnt down in 356.72 Afterwards, Alexander agreed to take over the funding of the building, if his name was inscribed on the temple. But the Ephesians refused, arguing that it was ‘inappropriate for a god to dedicate offerings to gods’.73 Whatever the truth of this, it is all the more astonishing to hear such an argument because even the columns of the new Artemison, like the columns of its Archaic predecessor, were inscribed with the names of the Ephesian patrons who gave money for them.74 Hence, the problem was not Alexander’s patronage itself. We do not know if the idea of the Ephesians that he wanted to take over their temple75 or the neutrality of the sanctuary76 were the true problems. But it appears at least that the patronage of a king for the complete temple seems to have been unappreciated. If this is true, first doubts arise if the inscription in Priene indeed was meant to be related to the whole temple or only to its cella. What do we know about individual dedicatory inscriptions on temple façades and about experiences concerning this practice? Inscribing the dedicant on the façade had been a common practice for smaller buildings in Greek sanctuaries, but rather not for the main cult temple of a Greek polis.77 Doing so could question the religious duties of the polis – and thus undermine the city’s autonomy. It is interesting to see that Philip already undertook the dedication of a treasury in a sanctuary, the Philippeion, while Alexander went further in dedicating a temple inscribed with his name alone. By doing so, he expanded the royal traditions of dedicating parts of a sacred building, as we have seen, and he took over a practice of autocratic rulers in Asia Minor before his reign, witness Idrieus in Caria, who put his name on the architrave of the temple in Labraunda. Façades of temples inscribed with the name of a single person as the dedicant must have added to the notion of autonomy and agency applied to the donor. Hence, a temple dedication with such a name inscription expanded Alexander’s self-representation. Possibly, the fact that the king evidently also wanted to be perceived as a patron and donor in favour of important sanctuaries in Asia Minor underlined his pious qualities and his appropriate behaviour towards the gods. Nevertheless, the case of Priene remains particular. The placing of the dedicatory inscription on the anta, 10.3 m above the ground and on the side of the entrance, was prominent78, but in this position, Alexander’s name was not a dominating visual 72 73

74 75 76 77 78

Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 263; see recently Calapà 2009, 327–329, as well as Boffo 1985, 150–154. Strab. 14 .1 .22 ; Artemidoros/Timaios (FGrHist 566 ) F 1 50 b; cf. Bringmann et al. 1995 , KNr. 264. The encounter has been doubted as a later invention, like many other Alexander stories, but cf. Umholtz 2002, 288–289. Arist. [Oec.] 1349a 9–14; cf. Rumscheid 1999, 29. Cf. Umholtz 2002, 289. Calapà 2009, 327, who, like others, argues against a negative position of the Ephesian institutions against Alexander. Now discussed by Umholtz 2002. Cf. IK.Priene II pl. 184.

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feature. When the columned front of the temple would have been finished, the name would almost have been hidden from visitors.79 After the subsequent inscriptions were added in the early 3rd century, it remained but a ‘first step’ of Priene’s history. One wonders if such a dedicatory inscription could initially have been understood as the dedication only of the naos – which indeed it was in the days of Alexander, when nothing more had been set up – and thus as an even more conventional partial temple dedication without any competition with the polis. The exact dates of Alexander’s temple dedications remain under debate.80 It is far from clear whether the cella in Priene and its inscription were completed already in 334; a date shortly before Alexander’s death cannot be excluded either. We do not know how long after his first engagement in Ephesos in 334 Alexander suggested to fund the temple of Artemis. The ‘Alexander decree’ in Priene testifies to his favourable treatment of the Greeks in Asia Minor already in 33481, while Arrian refers to Alexander’s activities in favour of sanctuaries in Asia Minor shortly after 334.82 Alexander’s idea to build a temple of Zeus in Sardis in 334 is also in favour of an early interest in temple patronage. This temple was to be set up in the place of the royal basileia of the Lydians, thus sacralising a profane area. This act could be read as both an inversion of the Persian de-sacralisation of the Athenian Akropolis and a revenge for the Persian destruction of the sanctuary of Kybele in Sardes83, fitting Alexander’s legitimation strategy after the Granikos battle. Thus, we can conclude chronologically that a fairly early start in 334 of Alexander’s dedication of sacred buildings in Asia Minor is possible, while activities after Gaugamela cannot be excluded either.84 It is also difficult to decide if, later in Alexander’s reign up to 324, further projects of dedicating or renewing temple buildings in Greece and Asia Minor were proposed. The so-called Hypomnemata Alexandri mention some of them,85 but the authenticity of these records is disputed. Priene and Ephesos were not mentioned in this context – which could be due to the fact that they were earlier projects of the years shortly after 334. Furthermore, Priene is a rather marginal place in terms of the prestige of the sanctuary, but the Artemision in Ephesos is the most prestigious sanctuary in western Asia Minor. Alexander’s direct addressees in these two cases were both the local inhabitants and the regional communities – but of course not 79 80 81 82 83 84

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Schipporeit 1996, 216–217. See recently Arena 2013, with further bibliography; Kholod, in this volume. Cf. Faraguna in the present volume. Arr. 1.17.10; cf. Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 263. Hdt. 5,102,1. Due to the chronological uncertainties, it is also debated, if the Ephesian priest Megabyzos, who was honoured with a statue in front of the Athena temple in Priene for his activities in favor of the building of the naos (I.Priene 3, ll. 6–7, with commentary p. XI; IK.Priene 16, ll. 3–7), was a representative of Alexander’s project or rather a later donor, cf. Rumscheid 1994, 42– 43; Schipporeit 1998, 217; Arena 2013, 60–62. Diod. 18.4.2–6; Plut. Mor. 343d; cf. Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 335; Orth 2014, 561.

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without effects abroad. It is interesting to see that the lists of temple dedications in the Hypomnemata corresponds to this strategy of regionalisation – in contrast to Philip’s panhellenic interests: Delos and Delphi are the only sanctuaries of wider relevance mentioned in the list, but more than half of the temples mentioned were situated in Macedonia and in northern Greece86. To sum up, Alexander’s temple dedications in Priene and Ephesos were less explicitly related to his legitimation of rule than the votive­offerings after Granikos discussed above, but they include implicit messages concerning the self­definition of the king. More than offering votives, dedicating a temple presented Alexander as a pious patron and as a euergetes of a polis. This practice followed rather monarchic traditions, including the notion that the king took over the role of the polis in furnishing the central sacred space. On the other hand, funding and setting up a temple was not an explicit self-staging like the gilded statues of the Argeads in Olympia. Rather it was an act of common interests, contributing to the demonstration of the king’s autonomy, but not to his auto-sacralisation or autocratic appearance, even though this inscribed him into the sacred sphere. Finally, Alexander’s temple dedications addressed local communities in the conquered Greek territories and testify to a locally specified strategy of legitimation, which also was obvious in his dedications after the Granikos battle. In dedicating temples or parts of temple buildings, the disruption of existing horizons of expectations was counterbalanced by the piety and the common effect of the communicative act of patronage and benefactorship. This helped expand the limits of acceptance of the new conqueror in the Greek poleis, but it was not primarily referring to his military achievements and the conquest itself, thus preparing the important role of the Hellenistic kings as euergetai. SUMMARY

Looking back at Philip’s splendid tholos in Olympia as a background, it appears that Alexander’s votive and temple dedications enable us to draw a different image of his strategies of legitimation in the sacred space. On the one hand, at the beginning of his conquest in 334, Alexander tried to gain acceptance for his role as a military ruler in the tradition of myth and history, witness the Granikos dedications. Additionally, after the first success in 334 and in the following years, he tried to fill the role of a patron and benefactor of local and regional sanctuaries in the conquered Greek territories. Demonstrating his status as euergetes and as a pious patron of the sacred was Alexander’s second strategy of legitimation – even though we cannot be sure how early after 334 this strategy started. In the sacred space, Alexander

86

Diod. 18.4.4–5. Nevertheless, Alexander’s acknowledgment of Olympia as the most important sanctuary cannot be disputed: Diod. 17.113.4; cf. Orth 2014, 559–560.

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played the panhellenic card less than his father Philip – if at all.87 Rather he locally addressed the broad Greek audience in separate regions that is: in a polycentral strategy.88 Alexander’s only votive offering in Delphi seems to have been a bronze statue honouring the kithara player Aristonikos, who fell in a battle in Baktria, holding a lance and a kithara,89 which was a reference to local Apollon and a sign of care for one of the Macedonian soldiers rather than a panhellenic statement. In the era of the Diadochs, the important panhellenic sanctuaries regained their role as focal spaces of royal dedicatory activity, which is striking and additionally singles out Alexander’s practice.90 Alexander also focused less than his father upon legitimation by demonstration of his autocracy and sacralised position. On the other hand his autonomy as well as the unity with his army, with the Macedonians and with the Greeks not only in Athens were clearly demonstrated, and the military qualities and the traditional piety of the king as a dedicator were highlighted. A dynastic legitimation cannot be observed as an important factor in his dedications. It is clear from this limited survey that Alexander’s communicative acts of dedications in the sacred sphere reveal specific interests in and acceptance of legitimation in contrast to Philip’s tholos in Olympia. Nevertheless, one should not be mistaken about Alexander’s legitimation on a broader level. As we know from different testimonia, a certain Deinokrates offered to him the idea of transforming Mt. Athos into a colossal sitting statue of Alexander with a city in his hand.91 Even though it was never realised, this idea is a clear sign of much more far-ranging interests in the representation of Alexander as a king distanced from the ordinary and from the human sphere. But interestingly enough, such an idea is described not as a venture of the king himself, like the dedications discussed above, but as an offer of one of his subordinates. In the light of such a monumental idea, which would have transgressed by far the existing experiences and gone beyond existing limits of expectation, Alexander’s communicative offerings as a pious, but autonomous devotee in Greek sanctuaries, tied to historical, mythological and local traditions, appear even more deliberate and they support Arrian’s statement that he was ‘the most attentive with respect to the gods’.92

87

88 89 90 91 92

Scott 2010, 134, 212; cf. also Miller 2000; Mari 2002. – It is unclear, if Philip already engaged in temple building, but if so, this happened in another panhellenic sanctuary, at Delphi, cf. Miller 2000, 269–270 and also Ferrario 2014, 307–309. Diod. 17.113.3–4 reports the visit of embassies from different Greek sanctuaries to Alexander in Babylon, cf. Orth 2014, 559–560. Plut. Mor. 334f; cf. Miller 2000, 272. Orth 2014; though see also Meeus, this volume. Vitr. De arch. 2 praef. 1–4; Strab. 14.1.22; Plut. Alex. 72.5–8; cf. Stewart 1993, 28–29, 402–407; Azoulay 2016. Arr. Anab. 7.28.1.

6 COMMUNICATION AND LEGITIMATION: KNOWLEDGE OF ALEXANDER’S ASIAN CONQUESTS IN THE GREEK WORLD* Shane Wallace A king needed to communicate with his subjects. He needed to be visible to them, if not directly then at least through his imperial entourage: the army, palace, court, and officials, each symbols of the ruler’s power and presence in the lands he governed. Alexander had a great many different subjects – Greeks, Macedonians, Egyptians, Persians, Baktrians – and he was rarely if ever visible to or present with any of them. Once he stepped into Asia Minor in spring 334 the only subjects with continued direct access to the king were the army, admittedly a rather heterogeneous group. For the Greeks, direct communication through embassies and letters was difficult once Alexander crossed the Hellespont and near impossible once he passed Persepolis. Indirect, or symbolic communication filled the gap: dedications (spoils, statues, paintings), coins, communication with royal officials. This was an imperfect situation, but it contributed to the aura of Alexander’s campaigns: at the time of the Revolt of Agis in 331/0 Aischines (3.165) could dramatically describe Alexander as having ‘withdrawn to the uttermost regions of the North, almost beyond the borders of the oikoumene’. Alexander’s campaigns in central Asia marked a long-term break in communications, exacerbated by Kallisthenes’ execution in 328. Alexander returned a changed man. His Dionysiac procession through Karmania in the winter of 325/4 advertised the epiphanic return of the new Dionysus as a triumphal god.1 His reorganisation of the imperial administration and opening of new diplomatic connections with the Greeks revealed a renewed focus on the important business of direct communication with his subjects. Alexander died on the cusp of a planned Mediterranean campaign but few would have looked forward to his return. One of the major issues of Alexander’s campaigns is how he claimed legitimacy and how this was accepted by his subjects. Legitimacy could be claimed in many ways. Macedonian control of the Greek world was based first­and­foremost *

1

All dates are BC. Unless noted, translations are taken from the Loeb Classical Library. This chapter was written during a research scholarship held at the incomparable Fondation Hardt. My thanks to the editors for their very useful comments. For the Dionysiac revelry in Karmania, see Goukowsky 1978–1981 II, 47–64.

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on victory at Chaironeia and the unmatched strength of the army.2 The Macedonian military was untouchable in the late fourth century and as Alexander’s conquests grew so did the perception of Macedonian power. On hearing of the death of Philip of Macedon Phokion cautioned: ‘the army that defeated us at Chaeronea has only lost one man’ (Plut. Phoc. 16.8). Beyond pure conquest and power, Hans-Joachim Gehrke has profitably applied Max Weber’s theory of the charismatic ruler to Hellenistic kingship, aspects of which – administration and bureaucracy, finances and economy, urban foundations, ideology, myth and religion, royal machismo – are treated elsewhere in this volume.3 In this chapter I examine the connection between communication and legitimation by exploring the interaction between three groups: Alexander, the Greeks (veterans and city-states), and the Macedonian elite. Until c.328, Alexander presented his campaigns as a war of revenge fought on behalf of the Greeks by the elected hegemon of the League of Korinth, the political community of allied Greeks. His actions in Asia Minor, dedication of three hundred panoplies at Athens, and the campaign histories of Kallisthenes all furthered this message. Acceptance of this strategy of legitimation can be detected at Orchomenos, Plataiai, and Thespiai. Legitimation and acceptance was a reciprocal process over which both ruler and subjects exercised degrees of agency.4 Philip and Alexander had close alliances with many of the smaller cities of Boiotia and the Peloponnese, which helped legitimate their rule in Greece. With Athens, Sparta, and Thebes laid low, acceptance of Macedonian rule ‘allowed all the inhabitants of the Peloponnese to breathe freely and entertain the thought of liberty’ (Polyb. 18.14.6; Plut. Flam. 11.3). Dedications by Alexander’s associates, such as those of Krateros and Archon at Delphi, reveal how the Macedonian elite represented their newfound status and sought legitimation in the Greek world: personal connection with Alexander, military service, victory over the Persians, and divinity.5 ALEXANDER

Alexander was interested in how his campaigns were received back in Greece and Macedon. Arrian (Anab. 2.26.3) records that he was concerned to capture the citadel of Gaza because ‘not to take it would be a blow to his prestige when reported to the Greeks and Dareios’.6 According to Plutarch (Ages. 15.6), Alexander dismissed the Revolt of Agis in 331/0 as a ‘battle of mice’ (μυομαχία) compared with his own

2 3 4 5 6

Antiochos III’s eastern conquests helped him achieve legitimacy in Greek eyes, according to Polybios (11.34.16). Austin 1986 (warfare); Gehrke 1982, 2013 (charisma); Roy 1998 (machismo). Faraguna and von den Hoff in this volume. Mari touches on some of these issues elsewhere in this volume. On the importance of the siege of Gaza, see Haake in this volume.

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victories, which allowed Curtius (6.1.17–19) to argue that Alexander resented Antipatros’ victory because it detracted from his own. Actual knowledge, however, of Alexander’s campaigns was spread in diverse ways, not least through the League of Korinth. The League of Korinth The League was founded in winter 338/7 and consisted of a Macedonian hegemon and a representative synedrion of Greek states.7 It consciously echoed the Hellenic League of the Persian Wars, accommodating Macedonian kingship within earlier traditions of Greek power. The synedrion also provided a velvet glove with which to mask Philip and Alexander’s mailed fist. It was officially the League, not Philip or Alexander, that voted to declare war on Persia, recruit Greek troops, and destroy Thebes.8 The war against Persia was undertaken in order to liberate the Greeks of Asia Minor and take revenge for the destruction of Greek temples during the Persian Wars (Diod. 16.89.1–2, 91.2), which meant that as hegemones Philip and Alexander were the elected leaders of the Greeks, not foreign conquerors, and the war in Asia was fought for Greek freedom and revenge, not Macedonian imperialism. The League was important for Alexander during the late 330s and early 320s when he used his office as hegemon to communicate with the Greeks, legitimise his actions, and repeat the revenge theme of Macedonian propaganda. He referred to the League and the resolutions (dogmata) of the synedrion when justifying the destruction of Thebes (Diod. 17.14.3; Just. Epit. 11.3.8–11), his punishment of Greek mercenaries serving in the Persian army (Arr. Anab. 1.16.6, 3.23.8, 3.24.4–5), and his pardon of Zeleia9 and Chios (RO 84a-b).10 The League declined in importance in the early 320s as Alexander’s power grew, but it remained an important forum through which the Greeks could discuss Macedonian injunctions (Hyp. Eux. 20).11 The synedrion facilitated direct communication with the hegemon in Asia and many of its meetings concerned recent developments during Alexander’s campaigns: sending crowns after the Battle of Issos in 332,12 dispatching Spartan hostages to Alexander after the Revolt of Agis in 331/0,13 and discussing Alexander’s victories 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

Organisation and function: Dem. 17; Schmitt, SdA no. 403; Hammond / Griffith 1979, 623– 646; Bosworth 1988a, 187–197; Poddighe 2009. Wallace 2011, 2016, 2018a, 45–52. Arr. Anab. 1.17.2; Bosworth 1980b, 127–128; Schorn 2014. He may also have pardoned Lampsakos, see Paus. 6.18.2–4; cf. Val. Max. 7.3 ext. 4; Bosworth 1980b, 107–108. On this dogma, see Wallace 2011, 150–152. Heisserer 1980, 73–77 examines its decline in the 320s with a clever reinterpretation of Diog. Laert. 5.37. Curt. 4.5.11; Diod. 17.48.6. Athens also sent crowns as a polis (Aeschin. 3.162; IG II 2 1496, ll. 54–57). Diod. 17.73.5–6; Plut. Mor. 235b; Kleitarchos (BNJ 137) F 4. Spartan hostages left in July/August 330 to plead their case before Alexander (Aeschin. 3.133, 165, 254; Curt. 6.1.16–21; Diod. 17.73.5– 6) and may have met with him at Baktra (Curt. 7.4.32, 39; Yardley / Heckel 1997, 184; cf. Plut. Alex. 40.4).

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in the east (Aeschin. 3.254). In the early 320s, Alexander allegedly planned to prosecute Kallisthenes before the synedrion on his return from the east.14 The League of Korinth was a façade for Macedonian power, but such façades were important. Kallisthenes’ τὰς ᾽Αλεξάνδρου πράξεις15 The ideology of Greek revenge was not just communicated through the League. As Alexander’s official court historian, Kallisthenes of Olynthos (BNJ 124) played an important role in the dissemination of information regarding Alexander’s campaign in the Greek world. A relative of Aristotle and born at Olynthos perhaps c.370, Kallisthenes was famous for his Hellenika, which covered the years 386–356, as well as a book on the Sacred War.16 The success of his historical works inspired Alexander to recruit him as historian, though he may also have been recommended by Aristotle.17 Kallisthenes is recorded as ἐπιστολαγράφος in the second century pinakes from Tauromenion, which suggests that he had a hand in official court correspondence and helped shape the way that Alexander’s campaign was presented to the Greek audience at home.18 One thinks of the letter to Dareios from spring 332 which so strongly echoes the twin themes of Greek freedom and revenge for the Persian Wars and is clearly written in large part for a Greek audience.19 We do not know how or in what form Kallisthenes’ Deeds of Alexander was published – did it record events and was it published year-by-year? – but it appears that his work covered events up to 329 at least and was probably revised before publication.20 Arrian (Anab. 4.10) notes the importance of Kallisthenes’ work in framing the image of Alexander for the Greeks at home, but on one level it offered a literary parallel to the official account disseminated through the League of Korinth: a Macedonian­led Greek war for revenge against Persia. Kallisthenes explicitly paralleled both the Trojan and Persian wars with Alexander’s invasion.21 He claimed that the fall of Troy and the Battle of Granikos both took place in the month Thargelion (BNJ 124 F 10a-b). He also compared Persia’s capture and sack of Miletos during the Ionian Revolt with Alexander’s liberation of the city in 334/3 (BNJ 124 F 30). Bosworth has further argued that he discussed Athens’ campaign of the Eurymedon during his account of Alexander’s action in

14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

Chares (BNJ 125) F 15; Prandi 1985, 31. On the title of the work, see Kallisthenes (BNJ 124) T 23 bis (with new readings in SEG 56.1106) and T 26. Cic. Ad Fam. 5.12.2; Kallisthenes (BNJ 124) F 1. Just. Epit. 12.6.17; Plut. Mor. 1043d; Diog. Laert. 5.4; Plut. Alex. 55.7–8; Prandi 1985, 19–22. SEG 26.1123, ll. 3–4 with new readings in SEG 56.1106. Arr. Anab. 2.14.4–9; Curt. 4.1.10–14; Bosworth 1980b, 233; Atkinson 1980, 273–8. The authenticity of this letter has been questioned (Pearson 1955). Jacoby on FGrHist 124 F 36–37; Rzepka on BNJ 124 F 36–37. A. Cohen 1995; S. Müller 2006a; Heckel 2015 (Alexander and Achilleus); L. Mitchell 2007, 191–194 (Alexander and Troy).

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Pamphylia.22 The Trojan-Persian parallels had a lasting impact. In the early third century Douris of Samos dated the fall of Troy to 1335/4 BC, exactly 1,000 years before Alexander’s invasion (BNJ 76 F 41a). Around the same time, Timaios wrote that Alexander captured Tyros ‘on the day with the same name and at the same hour on which the Carthaginians had seized the Apollon of Gela’ in 406 (BNJ 566 F 106). Surviving fragments of Kallisthenes’ work frequently refer to Greek troops in Alexander’s army, which Rzepka suggests indicates his concern with depicting Alexander’s campaign as a panhellenic one.23 Alexander’s dedications24 Michael Scott has examined how Delphi and Olympia were battlegrounds of competition between Greek states during the Archaic and Classical periods, each of which sought legitimation in the eyes of gods and men by dedicating competitively prominent monuments to Apollon and Zeus.25 The victor of Gaugamela and Issos made no major dedications to celebrate those victories at panhellenic Greek sanctuaries, such as Delphi or Olympia, quite a surprise for the conqueror of the Persian Empire and one of the richest men in the ancient world.26 Indeed, the situation struck his contemporaries as unusual. In a letter to Alexander from 324/3 Theopompos criticised Harpalos for building monuments to his courtesans when there were as yet no monuments to those ‘who died in Cilicia on behalf of your kingdom and the freedom of the Greeks’ (BNJ 115 F 253). Alexander may not have made many grand dedications, but he made numerous weapons dedications throughout his campaigns: armour to Athena at Ilion in 334;27 panoplies to Athena at Athens in 334;28 a spear and shield to Artemis at Ephesus;29 perhaps another shield to Artemis;30 inscribed armour and caltrops to Athena at Lindos;31 a siege engine and ship at Tyros (Arr. Anab. 2.24.6); weapons and breast22 23 24 25 26

27 28 29

30

31

BNJ 124 F 16; Bosworth 1990. Rzepka 2016. On the subject of Alexander’s dedications, see also von den Hoff in this volume. Scott 2010. Mari 2002, 205–230, 231–244 (Alexander’s relations with Delphi and Olympia); Sánchez 2001, 265–267 (arguing for tension with Delphi in the mid-320s). See Holt 2016 on Alexander’s wealth (p. 185): ‘Alexander’s conquests enriched the king by at least 300,000 talents (1.8 billion drachmas) and perhaps as much as 400,000 talents (2.4 billion drachmas).’ Arr. Anab. 1.11.7–8, 6.9.1, 6.10.2; Diod. 17.8.1; Strab. 13.1.26. Arr. Anab. 1.16.7; Plut. Alex. 16.8. Anth. Pal. 6.97, 128; Barbantani 2017, 105–106. For Apelles’ painting, see Plin. HN 35.92; cf. Ael. VH 2.3; Cic. Verr. 6.60; Plut. Alex. 4.3–4. Famously, Alexander offered to finance and dedicate the temple himself (Strab. 14.1.22). Anth. Pal. 6.128. Another poem by Mnasalkas (Anth. Pal. 6.264) records a shield dedicated to Apollon by Alexander son of Phylleus. Barbantani 2017, 101–102: ‘by the association of ideas caused by the homonymy of the dedicants, they seem to take inspiration from Alexander the Great’s own dedications of weapons and spoils in temples of Greek deities.’ I.Lindos 2, col. C.1, ll. 103–109 =  BNJ 532 F 3 § XXXVIII. For a Rhodian gift to Alexander, see Plut. Alex. 32.11.

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plates to Artemis in Elymais;32 and a perhaps apocryphal breastplate and spear from Gortys.33 Other dedications to gods are epigraphically attested: the temple of Athena at Priene;34 an altar at Xanthos;35 a decorative tree at Kyme;36 an altar to Ammon at the Bahariya oasis between Siwah and Memphis;37 a dedication to Apis at Memphis;38 and a rhino horn to Apollon at Delphi.39 Other altar dedications are attested in literary sources.40 Famously, Alexander offered to finance and dedicate the temple of Artemis at Ephesus but was rebuffed since ‘it is not fitting for a god to dedicate to a god’.41 Weapons dedications reflect the military nature of Alexander’s campaign and his self-presentation as a warrior. Other dedications reveal the use of royal titulature. At Priene c.334 Alexander dedicated the newly rebuilt temple of Athena as king (IK.Priene 149): βασιλεὺς Ἀλέξανδρος | ἀνέθηκε τὸν ναὸν | Ἀθηναίηι Πολιάδι.42 He did the same at the Bahariya oasis in winter 332/1 when he dedicated an altar to ‘Ammon the father’ (SEG 59.1764: βασιλεὺς | Ἀλέξνδρος | Ἄμμωνι | τ̣[ῶ]ι π̣ατρί). He may also have used the royal title when dedicating to Apis at Memphis in winter 332/1.43 The royal title shows Alexander operating in his capacity as king of the Macedonians and reflects the personal basis of his power as dedicator.44 Alexander’s dedication of armour and inscribed caltrops to Athena Lindia also employed the royal title but did something different with it. The Lindian Chronicle records that ‘King Alexander’ dedicated the caltrops and armour, both of which were inscribed, but it quotes only the inscription on the caltrops (I.Lindos 2, col. C.1, ll. 104–107 =  BNJ 532 F 3 § XXXVIII): King Alexander having overcome in battle Darius and becoming lord of Asia, offered sacrifice to Athena the Lindian according to an oracle during the priesthood of Theugenes the son of Pistocrateus. (trans. Higbie 2003, 41 – adapted)

32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

Joseph. AJ 12.9; Wallace 2018b, 170–171. Paus. 8.28.1; Wallace 2018b, 168–170. IK.Priene 149 =  RO 86a; Arena 2013. SEG 30.1533; Plut. Alex. 17.4–5; Wallace 2018a, 68–69, 2018b, 166 (possibly a fake). Plin. HN 34.14; Wallace 2018b, 170. SEG 59.1764; Bosch-Puche 2008; Wallace 2018b, 166. Ladynin 2014a-b suggests that it is a fake of the early Ptolemaic period. Bowman / Crowther / Savvopoulos 2016; Arr. Anab. 3.1.4. Ael. NA 10.40; Porph. apud Stob. 1.49.52; Barbantani 2017, 64–65; Page 1981, 436–437. On crossing into Asia (Arr. Anab. 1.11.7); by the Pinaros river (Curt. 3.12.27); in India (Curt. 9.4.14); by the Hyphasis river (Diod. 17.95.1; Arr. Anab. 5.29.1); in Sogdia (Plin. HN 6.49). Strab. 14.1.22: οὐ πρέποι θεῷ θεοῖς ἀναθήματα κατασκευάζειν. Idrieus’ dedication of the temple to Zeus as Labraunda offers an earlier parallel, ILabraunda 16 =  I.Amyzon 1: Ἰδριεὺς Ἑκα̣[τόμνω Μυλασεὺς ἀνέθηκε τὸν ναὸν Διῒ Λαμβραύ]νδωι. Bowman / Crowther / Savvopoulos 2016: [ ­ ­ ­ Ἀ]λεξάνδρος Ἄπ[ιδι] or [ ­ ­ ­ Ἀ]λεξάνδρος Ἄπ[ει]. On Alexander’s use of the royal title, see Kholod and Mari in this volume.

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Alexander is described as ‘King Alexander’ and is referred to as ‘Lord of Asia’, a self-declared and widely-attested personal title assumed after his victory at Gaugamela that signified his control over and beyond the old Persian Empire.45 Unlike the dedications to Athena and Ammon at Priene and the Bahariya oasis, this is a military dedication by the conqueror of the Persian Empire and it reflects his new status as Lord of Asia. It is a commemoration of his military success, his personal greatness, and an advertisement of Alexander’s new world order. Athena’s acceptance of the religious dedication helped legitimate Alexander’s new position as Lord of Asia. Alexander’s dedication also connects with Rhodes’ Persian war past, when Rhodes had been besieged and almost captured by Dareios’ general Datis – the Lindian Chronicle records an epiphany of the goddess at this time.46 The caltrops and armour dedicated by Alexander exemplified the revenge that he had taken with Athena’s support on Dareios’ homonymous descendent. Dedications to Athena elsewhere also drew on the theme of revenge for the Persian wars. Granikos Alexander’s victory at the Granikos in spring 334 saw perhaps his two grandest dedications, each of which played an important role in the legitimation of his campaigns. At Dion, Alexander dedicated bronze statues by Lysippos of the twenty­five Macedonian cavalrymen who had died in the battle.47 These statues were presumably dedicated to Zeus and stood in Macedon’s national cult centre, the location of the Macedonian festival to Olympian Zeus. They were a dramatic, powerful, and highly visible statement of Macedonian military power under Alexander’s personal leadership. It is little surprise that Caecilius Metellus Macedonicus moved them to Rome in 146 as a symbol of Roman triumph over Alexander’s Macedonian heritage.48 There was also a Greek audience to the Battle of Granikos. Alexander saw in Athena a personal patron and he dedicated to her at Ilion, Priene, and Lindos. No dedication, however, exceeded the three hundred panoplies of Persian armour from the Battle of Granikos that Alexander sent to Athens as a dedication to Athena in spring 334. From these spoils, a number of shields were inscribed (Arr. Anab. 1.16.7):49 Alexander the son of Philip and the Greeks, except the Spartans, from the barbarians dwelling in Asia.

45 46 47 48 49

Plut. Alex. 34.1 (Gaugamela); Arr. Anab. 2.14.8 (letter to Dareios); FD III.4 137 (Krateros monument). On the title, see Hammond 1986; Fredricksmeyer 2000, 2003. I.Lindos 2, col. D.1, ll.  1–59 =  BNJ 532 F 4 § I; Squillace 2013. Arr. Anab. 1.16.4; Plut. Alex. 16.15–16; Bosworth 1980b, 25–26; Stewart 1993, 123–130. Arr. Anab. 1.16.4; Plut. Alex. 16.16; Cic. Verr. 4.4.126; Vell. Pat. 1.11.3–5; Just. Epit. 11.6.13; Plin. HN 34.64; Calcani 1989. Plut. Alex. 16.18; W. Will 1983, 56–57.

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The panoplies would have been dedicated in the Parthenon itself, but a series of fourteen dowel-holes on the Parthenon’s eastern architrave, the temple’s entrance, show that shields once hung there. Alexander’s Granikos dedication is a likely contender. The dedication is notable for a number of reasons. First, this is not a personal dedication by Alexander as king of the Macedonians or Lord of Asia, this is an ostensibly communal dedication by the hegemon of the League of Korinth and the united community of the Greeks, excepting the Spartans. In making a dedication of this kind, Alexander was responding to anti-Macedonian sentiment in Athens and elsewhere (cf. Dem. 17; Hyp. Diond.).50 Just before the destruction of Thebes, for instance, Alexander had called on the Thebans to standdown and rejoin the League but the Thebans, in response, claimed that Alexander was ‘the tyrant of Greece’ and that Macedon, not Persia, was the real threat to Greek freedom (Diod. 17.9.5). The dedication to Athena legitimises Macedonian control of the Greeks by re­emphasising that Alexander is fighting Persia on behalf of the Greeks as hegemon of the League of Korinth and that the victory at Granikos was a united Greek one. The three hundred shields are first­fruits in the war of revenge. Second, the location of the shields on the Parthenon was important symbolically. The Older Parthenon had been razed by the Persians, now the rebuilt Parthenon displayed the spoils of Alexander and the Greeks’ revenge. The shields hung on the eastern architrave of the Parthenon, just below the metopes depicting the Gigantomachy. The symbolic juxtaposition is important. The Greek victory over the Persians is paralleled with the Gods’ victory over the Giants, but the thematic connection of Greek v. Other, order v. chaos, also links with the iconography of the Trojanomachy, Kentauromachy, and Amazonomachy on the other metopes – a neat visual parallel to the comparison made by Kallisthenes between the Trojan war and Alexander’s campaigns. The discerning viewer would also not miss the parallel with the gilded shields re-dedicated on the temple of Apollon at Delphi just over ten years earlier, which had initially been taken from the spoils after the Battle of Plataiai and were inscribed: ‘The Athenians, from the Medes and Thebans when they fought against Hellas’ (Aeschin. 3.116). Alexander’s dedication was a powerful statement of the panhellenic legitimacy of his victories prominently displayed at the site of the Persians’ most famous desecration of Greece. Third, both Alexander and Athens had much to gain from this façade of cohesion. Alexander benefitted the most obviously from this. For the last one hundred and fifty years the Athenians had claimed that they, more than anyone else, had fought, died, and sacrificed their city during the Persian Wars on behalf of the freedom of the Greeks.51 Macedon, in contrast, had been a Persian satrapy and had been Note also the fragments of Hypereides’ Against the Ambassadors of Antipatros from c.322 (PHerc. 1021 with Fleischer 2018). 51 An apology for empire according to Thucydides (6.76–80, 82.3–83.1 with Hornblower 2008, 501–5; cf. Hdt. 6.11–13, 7.139, 8.22, 8.85). For the idea that Athens’ empire was a reward for her sufferings on behalf of the freedom of all Greeks, see Isoc. 4.66–72, 83, 94–100, cf. 6.43, 83. The 50

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stationed and fought against the Athenians at the Battle of Plataiai (Hdt. 9.31). Over time, Macedonian kings rewrote their involvement in the Persian Wars.52 Alexander I cultivated his image as a pro-Greek double-agent, claimed Heraclid descent, competed at the Olympic Games, and took the epithet ‘Philhellene’.53 By the mid-fourth century, even though the memory of the Persian Wars was actively used in antiMacedonian discourse in Athens,54 Demosthenes records that Macedonian troops had wiped out the Persian survivors after Plataiai (Dem. 13.24, 23.200). Philip II himself claimed that Alexander I had captured Amphipolis from the Persians and had dedicated a golden statue to Apollon from the spoils.55 Athens held a monopoly over the historical memory of the Persian Wars; both Philip and Alexander needed the reflected legitimacy that came from Athenian support. Philip had sought this immediately after Chaironeia when he punished the Theban medisers but treated Athens leniently.56 Macedon was strong militarily, but it lacked legitimacy. Athens was weak militarily, but its history could help legitimise Macedonian hegemony. Alexander’s dedication was an attempt to shift the balance. Fourth, and on the other hand, Alexander’s dedication was also a Macedonian victory monument. Like the Philippeion at Olympia, Alexander was only able to make this dedication because of Macedon’s crushing victory at the Battle of Chaironeia. As much as the text of the inscription claimed unity of purpose and action, the visual imagery of the shields emphasised Athenian subservience. The rebuilt Athenian Akropolis celebrated Athens’ victory in the Persian War and its glorious rebirth as the most powerful state in the Greek world. In the 420s, the bastion of the temple of Athena Nike may even have been adorned with almost a hundred of the Spartan shields captured at Sphakteria, a powerful image of Athenian military might.57 The Persian shields dedicated by Alexander were a natural yet jarring visual contrast with the symbols of Athenian empire around them. The Parthenon had been re-appropriated by a foreign king to commemorate a Macedonian victory over the Persians and advertise Athens’ powerlessness at the dawn of a new age: ‘the Parthenon, the glory of the Acropolis, was turned against the city that built it’.58 It is worth remembering that Athenian mercenaries employed by the Persians and captured by

52 53 54 55 56 57 58

Athenisation of the Persian Wars began early, in the immediate aftermath of Salamis (Barron 1988, 616–622), and extended as far as removing the Plataians from the battle of Marathon altogether (Walters 1981). Sprawski 2010 on Macedon’s relationship with Persia. Hdt. 5.19–22, 7.173.3, 8.137–138, 9.44–45; Thuc. 2.99.3, 5.80.2; see also Speusippos 30.3–4 with Natoli 2004, 117–123. Habicht 1961. Hdt. 8.121.2; [Dem.] 12.21; Mari 2002, 37–44. Wallace 2018a, 46–48. Natoli 2000, 110–117 on Philip as benefactor of Athens. Scott 2018, 94–96. Some, but not all, of the 292 shields were displayed in the Stoa Poikile (Paus. 1.15.4). Hurwit 1999, 253–254.

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Alexander were sent to Macedon for forced labour; they were not released until spring 331 (Arr. Anab. 1.16.6, 29.5; 3.6.2). The three hundred Persian shields may have symbolised Athens’ weakness, but Athens was not entirely powerless as it decided where on the Akropolis to dedicate the shields and where to place the three hundred Persian panoplies. In placing the shields on the architrave of the Parthenon Athens accepted and prominently advertised Alexander’s legitimacy as hegemon and his Asian campaigns as a war of revenge against Persia for the destruction of the Akropolis and other Greek shrines. For Alexander, this was important recognition from the hero of the Persian Wars. What Athens received in turn was distinction within the new Macedonian world, pre­eminence as the first city of Greece. Thebes had been wiped out, razed to its foundations. Sparta was broken and isolated, its border lands confiscated by Philip in a humiliating display of its powerlessness. Alexander’s three hundred shields – no accidental number – further emphasised Sparta’s isolation by contrasting its defeat at Thermopylai with Alexander’s victory at Granikos; the abandonment of the Greeks of Asia in the king’s Peace (Xen. Hell. 5.1.31) – a black-spot on Sparta’s record (Diod. 14.110.4, 15.19.4) – is probably also implied here. Despite its belief and historical tradition, Athens was no more the most powerful state in the Greek world, but it could remain the most prominent. VETERANS AND CITIES

Pherai, Orchomenos, and Thespiai It is difficult to determine how Alexander’s veterans or popular opinion in Greek cities other than Athens viewed his campaigns. Did they, for instance, subscribe to the ideology of Macedonian-led revenge espoused so vociferously through the League of Korinth by Alexander in the late 330s and early 320s? What role did subject communities play in legitimising Alexander’s power in the Greek world? Three examples from mainland Greece provide an insight into how Alexander’s veterans were received on their return and how they represented their role in his Asian campaigns. They provide a valuable balance to the monuments of the Macedonian elite. First, a late third or early second century inscription dates the Gymnasiarchs of Pherai from the date at which locally-recruited troops either left for or returned from Asia (SEG 26.686):59 [These were chosen from the time when the Pher]aians with Alexander [the king crossed into] Asia. (trans. author)

Like the dedications of the Macedonian elite (see below), the text stresses proximity to Alexander and service in Asia as a marker of status. That the inscription dates

59

BÉ 1978, no. 253; Strootman 2010–11.

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from a century or more after Alexander’s death shows the status and mythologising of Alexander’s veterans in the city’s long-term memory. Second, a fragmentary inscription from Orchomenos records a dedication to Zeus Soter made by Orchomenian cavalrymen discharged from Alexander’s army c.329.60 Twenty-three names survive, but we do not know how many there would have been originally. What is noticeable, however, is that they are described via their association with Alexander (IG VII 3206, ll.  1–2):61 [Cavalrymen] who campaigned in Asia under the command of king Alexander. (trans. author)

A monument such as this must have been one of the primary means by which the population of a small polis such as Orchomenos knew of Alexander’s campaigns. The oral accounts and local celebrity of Alexander’s veterans would have been the primary means of disseminating knowledge of his victories within and beyond Orchomenos, and a monument such as this will have boosted that process and supported its endurance. It is a mechanism that must have taken place in every city to which veterans returned. Third, and most interesting, is the dedication of a tripod to Zeus by a group of Thespian cavalrymen who had also served in Alexander’s army (AP 6.344): Spacious Thespiai once sent these men in arms, To barbarous Asia to avenge their ancestors, And having sacked with Alexander the cities of Persia, They set up to Zeus the Thunderer this curiously-wrought tripod.

This was powerful stuff. Alone with three hundred Spartans and four hundred Theban hostages, seven hundred Thespians had remained at Thermopylai to fight to the death (Hdt. 7.222). Here, now, Thespian soldiers boasted of how they had ‘avenged their ancestors…having sacked with Alexander the cities of Persia’. In keeping with the rhetoric of revenge voiced by Alexander through the League of Korinth, Alexander’s Thespian veterans represented the campaign as one of revenge for the Persian Wars ensured through Macedonian leadership. A monument such as this tripod is valuable evidence for the legitimising potential of the League of Korinth and rhetoric of revenge. It defined the Asia campaign for those who had not taken part in it and legitimised Alexander’s position as leader of the Greeks.62

60

Arr. Anab. 3.19.5; Bosworth 1976, 132–136 (date). On the dedication, see Schachter 1994, 123; Papalexandrou 2008, 70; Papazarkadas 2016, 145.

Greek text: [τοὶ ἱππότη το]ὶ ἐν τὰν Ἀσίαν̣ στ[ρατευσάμενοι βα|σιλεῖο]ς Ἀλεξάνδρω στρατα­ γίοντος. 62 Schachter 1994 , 150 –151 : ‘the location of the tripod is also uncertain; not necessarily Thespiae.’ In the late fourth century a statue of Alexander hunting by Lysippos’ son Euthykrates stood at Thespiai (Plin. HN 34.66). 61

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Athens and Plataiai Acceptance of the appeal to the theme of revenge for the Persian Wars, as seen at Orchomenos and Thespiai, was not as straightforward at Athens and Plataiai. In both cases, we can see how contested Alexander’s strategies of legitimation actually were. There was also, in both Athens’ and Plataiai’s case, a tension between their different political relations with Alexander and their historical traditions as allies at the battles of Marathon and Plataiai. This tension reveals the political fault-lines that divided both states during Alexander’s reign, fault-lines widened by his strategies of legitimation. Despite Athens’ membership of the League of Korinth and Alexander’s dedication to Athena, there remained, an unsurprisingly strong thread of virulent antiMacedonianism that often drowns out pro-Macedonian voices in the ancient source tradition. Demosthenes’ opposition to Philip and Alexander and his infamous lists of the ‘traitors of Greece’ were the stuff of legends and he became in the third and second centuries the figurehead for Greek anti­Macedonianism.63 Nowhere was this more strongly voiced than in his grant of the megistai timai in 281/0 (Plut. Mor. 850f–851c). The dedicatory epigram that accompanied his bronze statue is recorded in multiple sources:64 If only you had strength equal to your reason, Demosthenes, Macedonian Ares would never have ruled the Greeks. (trans. author)

This is one story, Polybios tells another. Almost two centuries later he famously criticised what he saw as Demosthenes’ Athenocentric view of Macedon: ‘measuring everything by the interests of his own city, thinking that the whole of Greece should have its eyes turned on Athens, and if people did not do so, calling them traitors’ (Polyb. 18.14). Instead, Polybios argued that by siding with Macedon the smaller Peloponnesian and Boiotian states learned how ‘to breathe freely and to entertain the thought of liberty’. Elsewhere, Polybios (9.32–39) gave to the Acarnanian Lykiskos a long pro-Macedonian speech at Sparta in 210, twice the length of his anti-Macedonian opponent’s.65 The speech offers a fascinating snapshot into the long-term reception of Alexander’s action in Greece. In it, Lykiskos praises Alexander’s punishment of the Persians, his taking of revenge for the outrages of the Persian Wars, and the subjugation of Asia (9.34.1–3; cf. 3.6.13, 5.10.8). As at Thespiai, Polybios shows us on what terms Alexander’s strategies of acceptance were successful in both the short and long-term. Plataiai was a more complicated case. No state better personified Greek freedom and the Persian Wars than Plataiai – Thucydides (2.71) reports an oath made Full treatment in Canevaro 2018; Luraghi 2018, 31–4; Wallace 2018a, 46–50, 61–63. Lists of traitors: Dem. 18.295; Plut. Dem. 18.1–2; Marsyas (BNJ 135/136) F 20; Theopompos (BNJ 115) F 328. 64 Plut. Dem. 30.5, Mor. 847a; Souda s.v. Δημοσθένης, Δ455; POxy. XV 1800 fr.3 ll.  36–39. 65 Walbank 2002, 96–97 arguing that it reflects Polybios’ own views. 63

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after the Battle of Plataiai that the city was never again to be invaded or its people enslaved – and no state had closer ties to Plataiai than Athens. The Plataians, alone of the Greeks, had fought with the Athenians at Marathon (Hdt. 6.108–111) and had been granted Athenian citizenship in the mid­fifth century (Thuc. 3.55.3, 63.2; Isoc. 12.94). Twice destroyed by Sparta and Thebes, the Plataians sought close ties with Macedon in the 330s when the city was refounded and rebuilt by Philip and Alexander, benefitting particularly from the appropriation of Theban land. Plutarch (Aristid. 11.9) claims that sometime after his victories at Issos and Gaugamela Alexander rebuilt the walls of Plataia and had it proclaimed at the Olympic games that he did so because of their sacrifices during the Persian wars. And yet, when Athens sought allies for the Lamian War against Macedon in 323/2, a new war for Greek freedom, the Plataians (and Boiotians) fought with the Macedonians, the enemies of Greek freedom.66 Diodoros (18.11.3–5) tells us that the first battle of the Lamian war was fought at Plataiai (περὶ τὰς Πλαταιάς). Hypereides makes no mention of this in his Epitaphios instead transposing the battle to Thebes which had been ‘tragically annihilated from the face of the earth’ and decrying the Boiotians as ‘the first opponents of Greek freedom’.67 The victor of 479, Plataiai now fought against Greek freedom; the medisers of 479, Thebes now inspired the fight for freedom. Thespiai and Plataiai, both of which had fought for Greek freedom in 479, sided with Alexander in the 330s, helped destroy Thebes in 335, and fought with Macedon in 323/2. The situation did not fit the schema of Athens’ Persian War rhetoric so Hypereides avoided mention of Plataiai altogether though both she and Thespiai, heroes of the Persian Wars, now fought with Macedon against Athens. Revenge on the Persians, Greek freedom, war in Asia, and Macedonian leadership. Alexander’s strategies of legitimation were extremely effective, if we but look beyond Athens. MACEDONIAN ELITE

Alexander and the Greeks had a vested interest in commemorating his war of revenge against the Persians, but members of the Macedonian elite also commissioned monuments commemorating their role in Alexander’s campaigns. Instead, however, of seeking legitimation by emphasising the Persian War connections of Alexander’s campaigns, they advertised their military service in Asia and their personal connection with the king. Prominent monuments in Delphi and Greece displayed their achievements to the Greeks. Despite the grand claims of his infamous last plans (Diod. 18.4.4–5; Plut. De Alex. fort. 343d), Alexander displayed little interest in making dedications at Delphi and Olympia, but they remained important sites for members of the Macedonian 66 67

Wallace 2011 in more detail. Hyp. Epit. col. 6 § 11, 8 § 17. The authenticity of Hypereides’ Epitaphios has recently been challenged in Canfora 2011.

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elite.68 An early example, and one that perhaps set the model for later dedications, is the Daochos monument at Delphi. Erected c.338/7, just after the Battle of Chaironeia, Daochos of Thessaly commissioned a monument in the north-eastern corner of the sanctuary depicting in eight marbles statues six (male) generations of his family.69 A statue of Apollon was also included, perhaps echoing the Nauarch’s monument which depicted Poseidon crowning the Spartan general Lysandros.70 Daochos was a hieromnemon of Delphi and one of the Tetrarchs of Thessaly, but he is best remembered for Demosthenes’ excoriating criticisms of his links to Macedon, earning him a place in his infamous list of traitors.71 This monument emphasised the prominence of Daochos’ family and was a powerful statement in a highly visible location of the close, historic connections between Macedon, Thessaly, and their ruling elite.72 The Krateros monument Two dedications from Delphi deserve particular comment as examples of the legitimising potential of monumental dedications by Alexander’s generals. The Krateros monument dates from shortly after Alexander’s death but it reveals the ways in which one of Alexander’s closest friends and commanders sought to use the king’s image and his eastern conquests to legitimise his own claims to power in the Greek world. A dedicatory inscription explained to the viewer some of the monument’s significance (FD III.4 137 =  ISE II 73): Alexander’s son, Craterus, offered these to Apollo, A man exalted, honoured, and far-famed, But he who placed them here was Craterus his orphaned child Fulfilling every promise for his sire, To bring him glory, sweet and everlasting, O stranger, As hunter of that bull-devouring lion, Along with Alexander, Asia’s much-praised monarch, Companion to his king in victory, He destroyed it as it grappled with them, killed it thus, At sheep-rearing Syria’s farthest bounds. (trans. Stewart 1993, 391)

68

69

70

71 72

Scott 2010, 133–135. On Alexander and Delphi, see Lefèvre 2002; Mari 2002, 205–230. 10,500 staters were granted by Macedon to Delphi for rebuilding programmes in 325/4 (CID II 100; Mari 2002, 253) but the money may have been sent by Antipatros or Olympias. FD III.4 460 =  Syll.3 274; Geominy 1998, 2007a (arguing for a third century date); Aston 2012 (Thessalian context of production). A second copy was erected in Thessaly (Jacquemin 1999, 206). The statue of Apollon may have been similar in style to that of Daochos (E. Will 1938, 302; Scott 2010, 133–134). For the Nauarch’s monument, see Paus. 10.9.4–5; Bommelaer 1981, 14–6; Cartledge 1987, 82–6. Above n. 62. Hintzen-Bohlen 1990, 134–137.

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Consisting of a bronze sculptural group depicting Krateros saving Alexander’s life while on a hunt in Asia, the monument was prominently located on the west side of the sanctuary, by the stairs leading to the theatre, and may have mirrored the Daochos dedication to the east.73 It was commissioned c.322/1, shortly after Krateros’ victory in the Lamian War, and was perhaps completed as early as 320, when he returned to Asia.74 The monument exemplifies Krateros’ own glory through his martial prowess and proximity – figurative and physical – to Alexander, ‘Asia’s much­ praised monarch’. Strikingly, the dedication begins with υἱὸς Ἀλεξάνδρου Κράτερος cleverly using Krateros’ patronymic to play on his close relationship with Alexander. The description of Alexander as ‘much­praised’ (πολυαίνητος) echoes Homer’s description of Odysseus (Il. 9.673, 10.544; Od. 12.184) and suggests that Alexander has already achieved heroic, legendary status.75 Alexander is notably described as ‘King of Asia’ (above n. 45) and the iconography of the lion hunt suggests royal aspirations on Krateros’ part, a point neatly made through the juxtaposition of text and image.76 At the time of the monument’s dedication, Krateros and Antipatros were preparing to invade Asia Minor to contend with Perdikkas who had both kings under his control. The Krateros monument was an attempt to claim legitimacy as the leading Macedonian in advance of the impending war. In scale and iconography this was a royal monument, and by placing himself alongside Alexander Krateros presented himself as Alexander’s legitimate successor. On another level, however, it was also an attempt to secure Apollon’s favour in advance of the impending war and it is possible that Krateros had sought an oracle from Apollon before he crossed into Asia, as Alexander may have done in 334.77 By dedicating this monument at Delphi, Krateros communicated his message of power, status, and legitimacy through eastern conquest to as wide an audience as possible, even to Apollon himself. The Archon monument A series of inscriptions from Delphi record a statue group celebrating Archon of Pella and his family dedicated perhaps by his native city Pella c.321, shortly after Archon’s death (RO 92, block A § 1):78

73 74 75 76 77 78

Plin. NH 34.64; Plut. Alex. 40.3–4; Stewart 1993, 270–277 (ancient testimonia). A paian was sung in Krateros’ honour by one Alexinos (Ath. 15.696e; Jacquemin 1999, 204). For the date, see Dunn / Wheatley 2012. On Krateros’ ambition, see Anson 2012; Ashton 2015. Barbantani 2017, 67. Plut. Alex. 40.4; Stewart 1993, 270–277; Palagia 2000, 181–186; Bosworth 2002, 276; Paspalas 2000; Dunn / Wheatley 2012, 43– 44; Ashton 2015, 114–116; Wallace 2017, 12. Plut. Alex. 14.6–7; Diod. 17.93.4; Voutiras 1984. Greek text: [σὸν κατά, ἄναξ], ἱερὸν τέμ[εν]ος, κλυτότοξε, συνωρὶς | [ἔστεφεν Ἄρχ]ωνος Δελφίδι κρᾶτα δάφναι, | [ὃς Βαβυλῶ]ν̣α ἱερὰν κραῖνεν χθόνα, πολλὰ δὲ δίωι | [σύμ ποτε] Ἀ̣λεξάνδρωι στᾶσε τρόπαια δορός | [τοὔνε]κά οἱ μορφὰς γονέων κτίσεν ἠδὲ συναίμων | [τά]σδε, κλέος δ’ ἀρετᾶς Πέλλα σύνοιδε πατρίς.

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In your sacred precinct, lord, famous for the bow, the pair of horses crowned with Delphic laurel the head of Archon, who was ruler of the sacred land of Babylon, and with divine Alexander set up many trophies of the spear. For that reason he erected these forms of his parents and brothers, and his fatherland Pella bears witness to the fame of his courage. (trans. RO)

The Archon monument was made up of different honours awarded over different times but assembled and dedicated in their final form c.321.79 It includes an epigram commemorating Archon’s victories at the Isthmian and Pythian games, a decree granting the family honours at Delphi, and a covering epigram (quoted above) honouring the now deceased Archon and introducing the entire monument. Like Daochos’ dedication, this was a family monument, but one dedicated by a city. As Hintzen-Bohlen points out, the monument praises the military, political, and agonistic successes with which Archon has glorified his name, his family, and his home town; as a civic dedication, it shows that cities could, like rulers, use monumental benefactions as a means of honouring prominent personalities.80 The monument was dedicated in its final form after Archon’s death and so, like the Krateros monument, emphasises Archon’s closeness to ‘divine Alexander’ with whom he ‘set up many trophies of the spear’. Eastern victory and connection to Alexander was the prism through which Krateros and other members of the Macedonian elite represented their new-found status in the Greek world; the Archon monument communicates the same message. Its original location is unknown, but it may have stood in the same enclosure as the Krateros monument.81 When taken together these monuments provide important evidence for the depiction of Alexander’s conquests and the display of new-found status and power in the Greek world. Delphi had a long tradition of victory monuments dedicated by states, such as the Athenian Stoa (IG I3 1464 =  ML 25), private individuals, such as Lysandros’ Nauarch monument (Paus. 10.9.4–5), and by communities of the Greeks, such as the Serpent Column (ML 27; Diod. 11.33.2).82 The Krateros and Archon monuments were dynamic, provocative, and new, but they must be read in the context of existing Delphic monuments. They were bold statements on Macedonian power in the post-Alexander world, but they operated within traditional Greek expressions of power and status. They suggested continuity from the Classical past just as they exemplified change in the Hellenistic present. Both dedications were, in their own ways, victory monuments that legitimised their subjects’ power in the Greek world. The absence of Alexander at sites such as Delphi left his successors with a blank canvas. The Krateros monument was in Bousquet 1959, 155–166; Hintzen-Bohlen 1990, 143–144; RO, p. 466–471. Hintzen-Bohlen 1990, 143–144. 81 Bousquet 1959 , 155 –166 ; Stewart 1993 , 270 –271 ; Jacquemin 1999 , 199 , 204 , 206 ; Scott 2010, 134–135. Archon, like Krateros, died in the war against Perdikkas (Arr. Succ. 24.3–5). 82 Scott 2010 passim. 79

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tone and iconography a Macedonian royal victory monument commemorating the conquest of the Persian Empire, it just happened not to have been dedicated by the king. It may have included Alexander, but the focus was very much on Krateros, who was depicted in the act of saving ‘Asia’s much-praised monarch’ from a lion. In so doing, Krateros visually and symbolically placed himself above Alexander. Both the Krateros and Archon monuments looked east to victory over Persia, but neither connected that victory with the League of Korinth, as Alexander’s dedication on the Parthenon had done. Rather, they emphasised their subjects’ personal connections with Alexander, neither as Greek hegemon nor Macedonian basileus but as ‘King of Asia’ and ‘divine Alexander’. These are strikingly new monuments that reflect the developments in personal kingship and ruler­cult that Alexander’s reign had on Macedonian elite society. They expect that the glory that came from personal connection with Alexander and victory in Asia will help legitimise and perpetuate Krateros’ and Archon’s (as well as his family’s and Pella’s) status in the Greco-Macedonian world. This is not unique. Numerous other dedications and honorary decrees from the late fourth and early third centuries emphasise their subject’s connection with Alexander.83 Is this altogether different from the language of legitimised hegemony seen with earlier Greek monuments at Delphi, such as Pausanias’ tripod or the Athenian Stoa?84 The dedicatory epigram on the stoa boasts (IG I3 1464 =  ML 25): The Athenians dedicated the stoa and the weapons and the prows having captured them from the enemy. (trans. author)

The date and purpose of the stoa is debated and the dedicatory inscription does not record from whom the weapons were taken, though it is widely assumed that Persian weapons made up a major part of the spoils.85 As Barron pointed out thirty years ago: ‘No word of ‘the Greeks’, or even the Ionian allies, let alone the Spartan commander-in-chief as whose surrogate Xanthippos had stayed to pursue his siege. It was as victors in their own right that the Athenians required to be remembered at the navel of the earth’.86 Victory over Persia was used by the Athenians to legitimise their hegemony at the dawn of the new Classical age. Were the Krateros and Archon monuments so terribly different? Antigonos son of Kallas, Amphipolis c.323 (below n. 89); Ainetos of Rhodes, Athens 319/8 (Agora XVI 101); Thersippos of Nesos, Nesos 318/7 (IG XII[2] 645 =  IK.Adramytteion 34); Antigonid official, Samos c.306–301 (IG XII[6] 28); Alexander veteran, Herakleopolis c.300– 271 (PHib. 30). 84 Pausanias’ initial dedicated spoke only of his victory (Thuc. 1.132), the re-inscription emphasised Greek unity (Diod. 11.33.2). 85 Amandry (1953, 112–114) argues that it was erected in the 470s in order to house spoils taken by Kimon from the Persians at the battles of Mykale and Sestos. Walsh (1986) proposes a later date, after the first Peloponnesian war. Hansen (1989) suggests that it commemorated all Athenian victories pre-c.468. 86 Barron 1988, 621. 83

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Philonides at Olympia Dedications by or to Alexander’s philoi are found elsewhere and, like the Krateros and Archon monuments, reveal how Alexander’s campaigns were presented in the Greek world and how legitimacy was sought by the Macedonian elite and acceptance given by Greek communities through connection with Alexander and his Asian campaigns. At Delphi there stood a statue of the harpist and soldier Aristonikos of Olynthos who had been left behind with the wounded at Zariaspa (modern Balkh in Afghanistan) in 328 and died fighting the Massagetai.87 Alexander ordered that a statue of him be erected at Delphi holding a lyre in one hand and a spear in the other (Plut. De Alex. fort. 334e-f). Commissioned by the king, the statue was an exceptional commemoration of Aristonikos’ valour but, as with Alexander’s dedication of an Indian rhino horn to Apollon at Delphi (above n. 40), it was also an advertisement of the success of Alexander’s campaign and their penetration beyond the limits of the known oikoumene. At Olympia stood perhaps two statues of Alexander’s bematist Philonides, the bases of which have been found (Paus. 6.16.5; IVO 276+277):88 King Ale[xander’s] hemerodromos and bematist of Asia, Philonides son of Zoitos of the Cretan Chersonnesus dedicated (this statue) to Olympian Zeus. (trans. author)

The occasion of this dedication is unknown, as is whether Philonides had returned to Greece to make it, but the statues may have been dedicated to commemorate his famous run from Sikyon to Elis.89 As with the Krateros monument, the inscription privileges ‘King Alexander’ by mentioning him first and it explicitly commemorates Philonides’ work on his Asian campaigns. Regardless of the great fame that Philonides achieved independently in Greece as a runner, it is as Alexander’s associate in Asia that he chose to be remembered at Olympia. Around the same time, shortly after 323, Antigonos son of Kallas, one of Alexander’s hetairoi, dedicated at Amphipolis a statue of himself celebrating his victory in Alexander’s Tyrian games of summer 332, Asian victory and proximity to the king manifest once more for a GrecoMacedonian audience.90 Similarly, the ashes of Demaratos of Korinth, who died shortly before the start of Alexander’s Indian campaign, were sent back to Korinth Arr. Anab. 4.16.6; Polyaen. 5.44.1; Theopompos (BNJ 115) F 236; Berve 1926 II, 68 no. 132; Heckel 2006, 49 s.v. Aristonicus [4]. 88 Berve 1926 II, 392 no. 800; Heckel 2006, 216 s.v. Philonides. IVO 276 was found in the southwest corner of the altis, IVO 277 to the west and reused in a Byzantine Church. Both inscriptions have the same text but the stone and scripts are quite different 89 Plin. HN 2.181; 7.84; Matthews 1974, 165–166. Pearson 1955, 440–441 suggests an Olympic victory. 90 ISE II 113; Arr. Anab. 2.24.6; Barbantani 2017, 67–69. Heckel 2006, 34 s.v. Antigonos [2]; see also Mann in this volume. 87

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in a four-horse chariot. As with the statue of Aristonikos at Delphi, an impressive monument commemorating and glorifying the recipient’s role in Alexander’s Asian campaigns must be presumed.91 Gorgos at Epidaurus At Epidauros something slightly different but equally informative took place with Alexander’s associate Gorgos son of Theodotos of Iasos. Gorgos is well-known for his interventions with Alexander on behalf of two poleis. In the late 330s he served as stephanephoros at Iasos and earned the restoration of the ‘little sea’ from Alexander.92 Later, he lobbied Alexander on behalf of Samos during the negotiations concerning the Exiles Decree in 324/3 (IG XII[6.1] 17; Ephippos [BNJ 126] F 5). Less well-known are his honours at Epidauros. Two fragmentary inscriptions contain epigrams, the first in elegiac couplets (IG IV 2 616) and the second in heroic hexameter (IG IV 2 617), that probably belonged to at least one and possibly two statue bases for Gorgos, who must have made some considerable sacrifice or dedication at Epidauros.93 The context for these statues is unknown but the fragmentary dedications make clear that they commemorated Gorgos’ role as an intermediary with Alexander in Asia. The dedication in elegiac couplets is the most complete (IG IV 2 616):94 O Gorgus, for the sake of noble and god-wrought ordinances, vine-clad Epidaurus gave this deathless thanks for your son (and you), whom, sprung from Iasos, much-praised Cos, seat of Meropes, nourished and taught the deeds of renowned Ares; it revealed a servant always faithful to the godlike king. (trans. Heisserer 1980, 196)

Whether Gorgos acted in Epidauros’ interests while based at Alexander’s court – his actions may be connected with the Epidauran embassy to Alexander at Babylon in 32495 – or travelled with Nicanor to Olympia in 324 in order to announce the Exiles Decree, as Heisserer suggests, the inscription reveals diplomatic connections between Alexander’s court and the Greek world in the final year of his life.96 Most importantly, and similar to the Archon monument at Delphi, the dedication makes 91 92 93 94

95 96

Plut. Alex. 56.1; Berve 1926 II, 133 no. 253; Heckel 2006, 107 s.v. Demaratus [1]. IK.Iasos 24+30 =  RO 90a; Fabiani 2015a, 309–10 no. 1 (join and analysis); Nigdelis 2016, 56 (new readings); on Gorgos and Iasos, see also Faraguna in this volume. Heisserer 1980, 198–199. Greek text: Ἀντὶ τὸι ἐσθλῶν, Γόργε, θεὸκρ[άντων τε θεμίστων] | υἱῶι τε ἀθανάταν τάν[δ]ε ἔπο[ρεν χάριτα] | ἀμπελόεσ̣σ̣α Ἐπίδαυρο[ς ὃν Ἰασοῦ ἐκγεγαῶτα] | θρέψατο κυδαλίμου τε ἔ[ρ]γα [ἐδίδαξε Ἄρεος] | Κῶς πολυαίνητος, Μερόπων ἕ[δος· οἷον ἔφηνεν] | ἀντιθέωι βασιλεῖ πιστὸ[ν ἀεὶ θέραπα]. Heisserer 1980, 194–203; Dmitriev 2004, 370–372. The second inscription is badly damaged (IG IV 2 617), but [π]α̣ρ’ Ἀλεξάν[δρου βασιλῆος] (l.5) and ὁπλοφορ[¯˘˘¯˘˘¯˘] (l.4) likely refer to Gorgos’ office as hoplophylax at Alexander’s court: Ephippos (BNJ 126) F 5. Arr. Anab. 7.14.6; Mari 2002, 246. Heisserer 1980, 200–202. Exiles decree: Diod. 17.109.1, 18.8.3–4; Diog. Laert. 5.12; Hyp. 1.14, 18.9–10; Din. 1.169, 175; Curt. 10.2; Just. Epit. 13.5.3–4. It is unlikely that Nicanor travelled alone, though he was honoured by himself at Ephesus in 324/3 (IK.Eph. 2011).

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clear that Gorgos was honoured for his connection with Alexander ‘the godlike king’ whose ‘noble and god-wrought ordinances’ he facilitated in some way. As with Aristonikos, Philonides, and Antigonos son of Kallas, the honours for Gorgos constitute a Greek-style monument dedicated at a Greek religious site. Gorgos’ proximity to Alexander and his service with the king in Asia is emphasised and used to validate and legitimise his and the king’s power. These are the terms on which legitimacy is sought and which the Greek community is expected to recognise. The subject Greeks had some agency in this process of royal legitimation. The spaces in which legitimation was sought by Alexander and the Macedonian elite – Delphi, Olympia, Epidauros, Athens – were Greek religious sites over which some degree of control could be exercised concerning the spatial and visual interaction of monuments. While much of this is lost to us know, we know of a number of proArgead monuments at Olympia – the Philippeion, statues of Philonides, and Philip and Alexander97 – constrained of course by the notable absence of any major dedications to Zeus by Alexander, his son on earth. It is perhaps worth remembering this as a physical backdrop to Nicanor’s proclamation of the Exiles Decree in summer 324. Delphi was the focus of some attention in the 320s: it housed a rhino horn dedication by Alexander, statues of the king (Plut. Alex. 74.6) and Aristonikos, as well as the Krateros and Archon monuments. It is perhaps the absence of Alexander that made Delphi of interest to his successors in the years immediately after his death.98 The legitimation of Alexander’s campaigns was not a centralised, top-down process. Alexander, the Macedonian elite, and subject states had a hand in and much to gain from it. The elite message of victory in Asia and contact with the godlike Alexander is tailored to audience expectations. The honours for Gorgos of Iasos were dedicated and inscribed by the city of Epidauros or some group within it, but they represented the elite ideology of Alexander’s court – military victory (‘the deeds of renowned Ares’) and proximity to Alexander (‘a servant always loyal to the godlike king’) – accepted, refashioned, and promulgated anew by the subject state. In making this dedication Epidauros played an important role in legitimising Alexander’s royal power on his own terms. But what purpose did this serve? A king cannot govern by strength alone, negotiation and conciliation are necessary. The context of Gorgos’ contact with Epidauros, perhaps including an embassy to the city, is unknown, but it is tempting to connect it with the Exiles Decree, which was announced at the Olympic games of summer 324. Alexander’s return from the east and the announcement of the Exiles Decree initiated a huge burst in direct communication between Alexander and the Greeks.99 We do not know how Alexander Paus. 6.11.1; Stewart 1993, 279–281; Wallace 2014, 241. On the Philippeion, see von den Hoff in this volume. 98 For a different perspective, see Meeus in this volume. 99 The bibliography on the Exiles decree is voluminous, see recently Zahrnt 2003 ; Dmitriev 2004; Poddighe 2007, 2009; Worthington 2015; Loddo 2016. For earlier scholarship, see Seibert 1972, 170–171, 294–295; W. Will 1983, 113–127; Bosworth 1994, 855–859. 97

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sought to legitimise the Exiles Decree to the Greeks. The cover letter read by Nicanor refers merely to the threat of military compliance (Diod. 18.8.4), but as we know from Diodoros’ quotation of the Edict of Philip Arrhidaios from autumn 319, which also ordered the restoration of exiles and was dispatched with a series of cover letters, much more subtle strategies of legitimation would have been employed.100 The mention of ‘noble and god­wrought ordinances’ (l. 1) and ‘the godlike king’ (l. 7) in Gorgos’ dedication suggest concern with the issue of Alexander’s divinity, which was a debated topic in a number of Greek cities in the years 324–323. In Athens at least, recognition of Alexander’s divinity appears to have been tied to the negotiations concerning the Exiles Decree. It seems that Demades, Demosthenes, and others had argued that Athens should concede divine honours to the king as part of a deal to ensure that Samos remained under Athenian control.101 Something similar may have been going on at Epidauros. Gorgos was intimately connected with Alexander’s Exiles Decree, lobbying and crowning Alexander on Samos’ behalf and offering weapons for any future war with Athens.102 It is probably not the case that Alexander ordered his divination or sought it, as Tarn long ago suggested, in order to facilitate application of the Exiles Decree as a divine order.103 Nevertheless, what we are perhaps seeing at Epidauros, as at Athens, was the role played by the subject state in the negotiation of power between city and king. Alexander had no authority to order the Greek cities to take back their exiles beyond the military might gained through his conquests. At Athens and Epidauros we see how royal power was naturalised by the city, how the king’s authority was legitimised by the diplomacy of his courtiers and the agency of his subjects. CONCLUSION

How successful were Macedonian strategies of legitimation? We must consider the message communicated by Macedonian power and its reception in Greek communities. Through the League of Korinth, Kallisthenes’ Deeds of Alexander, and dedications made at Thespiai and elsewhere, Alexander was presented as the hegemon of the Greeks and his campaigns were acclaimed as fought on behalf of revenge for the desecrations of the Persian Wars of 481–479. This naturalised Macedonian power by casting Alexander as leader of the Greeks and reframing Macedonian foreign imperialism as Greek revenge. Alexander’s dedications to Athena on the Parthenon are the most dramatic expression of how legitimation was sought via the memory of

100

Diod. 18.56 with analysis by Poddighe 2013. Cover letters: Diod. 18.57.1, 69.3. cf. Plut. Phoc.

34.4.

Hyp. Dem. 31; Din. 1.94 with Polyb. 12.12b.3; Ath. 6.251b; Ael. VH 5.12. Discussion in Bosworth 1994, 874–875; Poddighe 2007; Anson 2013, 115–117. 102 IG XII(6.1) 17; Ephippos (BNJ 126) F 5; cf. IG IV 2 617. 103 Tarn 1948, 370–371. 101

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the Persian Wars. It is tempting to decry these displays as cynical politics and focus instead on the anti-Macedonianism of Athens and Thebes, but the revenge theme spoke to a powerful moment in Greek history and it was not all cynical rhetoric. At Thespiai and Plataiai, we see how cities which fought against Persia at the battles of Marathon, Thermopylai, and Plataiai responded to and engaged with Macedonian propaganda. They saw Alexander’s Asian campaigns as revenge for their ancestors’ sacrifices during the Persian Wars and we should not doubt the sincerity with which this message was received throughout the Greek world. Greek cities had much to gain from engagement with Macedonian strategies of legitimation. For cities such as Orchomenos, Thespiai, and Plataiai, each of which had been destroyed by Thebes (with Spartan assistance), and fought with Alexander against Thebes during the revolt of autumn 335 (Diod. 17.13.5; Just. Epit. 11.3.8; Arr. Anab. 1.8.8), Macedon offered a fourth path, a new option in Greek politics and a chance to break the cycle of centuries of domination by Athens, Sparta, and Thebes.104 It was, in many ways, in their interests to legitimise Alexander’s hegemony in the Greek world; the Asian campaign provided a fruitful point of convergence. The Macedonian elite also played an important role in the legitimation of Macedonian power – both Alexander’s and their own – in the late 320s. The theme of Persian revenge appears neither in the Krateros and Archon monuments nor in the dedications of Philonides and Gorgos. Legitimation was sought through connection with Alexander and service in the victorious Asian campaigns. Such was the scale of Alexander’s victories and the force of his character, that elites, cities, and subjects scrambled to emphasise their connections with him after his death. Krateros presented himself as Alexander’s successor and a contender for the Macedonian throne by emphasising at Delphi his service with Alexander in Asia. Pella’s honours for Archon at Delphi and Epidauros’ honours for Gorgos show how both Macedonian and Greek poleis legitimised Alexander’s power in the Greek world by honouring his associates. Alexander drew one strand of legitimacy from the League of Korinth and personal victory (as king of Asia); Greek cities and veterans legitimised Alexander’s power and alliance with Macedon by emphasising the theme of revenge; the new elite advertised their proximity to Alexander and military service in the east. From Pella to Thespiai, Lindos to Delphi, the monumentalised language of legitimacy assumed by king, elites, cities, and private groups was remarkably consistent in the late 320s.

104

For Thebes’ destruction of Boiotian cities, see Xen. Hell. 6.3.1; Isoc. 14; Diod. 15.46.6, 51.3, 57.1,

79.6; Paus. 9.14.2.

7 LEGITIMATION – UNWITTING AND UNREQUESTED: ALEXANDER OF MACEDON’S PORTRAYAL AS DIVINE TOOL IN ZECHARIAH 9* Wilhelm Köhler It would be most surprising if the Judean population had not viewed Alexander through the lens of their religious beliefs. Throughout Jewish history, at least since the Babylonian exile and the emergence of the specific Deuteronomic philosophy of history, the framework for understanding the outside world and historical events was that Yahweh was the true ruling power behind the political scene. In his study Das Antike Judentum, Max Weber described the Jewish tendency ‘die Gesamtheit der so bedrohlich und, angesichts dieser Verheißungen, so befremdlich verlaufenden Entwicklung des in die Völkergeschicke verflochtenen eigenen Volksschicksals als “Taten Jahves”, als einer “Weltgeschichte” also, zu erfassen’.1 The most prominent illustration of this perspective might be the mentions of Kyros II in the scriptures of the Old Testament.2 On the verge of the supremacy over the Ancient Near East passing to the Persians, Jewish scribes were attentive observers of these events, although amalgamating their observation with interpretation. The Persian ascendency was understood as a liberation campaign planned by their God and executed by his servant Kyros.3 This way of religious interpretation is not the exception, but the rule for exilic and post-exilic Judaism. In later periods, for example under Ptolemaic rule, the resistance against the foreign authority was also mainly religiously legitimised and propagated. More instances can be found during Hasmonean and Roman rule.4

* 1 2 3

4

I want to thank my wife Nofar and my true friend Hanan Lischinsky for their tireless efforts in helping me find the right English words to express my thoughts. M. Weber 2001b, 152. I use the term Old Testament synonymous for the term Hebrew Bible and will therefore use it in the following. Waschke 2001, 89, points out that Kyros II is one of only two instances in the Old Testament where the term Anointed One is related to an explicitly named non-Israelite person; unlike the other famous case of Zerubbabel, who is portrayed this way in Haggai 2:20–23 and Zechariah. For the portrayal of Kyros see Isaiah 44:24–28 and 45:1–7, as well as Ezra 1:1–4 and 2 Chronicles 36:22–23. For the evaluation of these passages, cf. Sweeney 2018. See S. Schwartz 2004, 34–35.

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In this contribution I want to argue that Alexander’s arrival in the Levant in the summer of 332 BC is no exception to this Jewish understanding of global events in terms of salvation history. For this purpose, I shall introduce a hitherto widely overlooked text to the scholarly discussion: Zechariah 9:1–8.5 Subsequently I shall discuss the consequences of this understanding for the legitimacy of Alexander’s rule in Judea, using Weber’s theory of legitimate rule. In translation the passage reads: 1 The burden of the word of the Lord against the land of Hadrach, and Damascus its resting place (for the eyes of men and all the tribes of Israel Are on the Lord); 2 Also against Hamath, which borders on it, and against Tyre and Sidon, though they are very wise. 3 For Tyre built herself a tower, heaped up silver like the dust, and gold like the mire of the streets. 4 Behold, the Lord will cast her out; He will destroy her power in the sea, and she will be devoured by fire. 5 Ashkelon shall see it and fear; Gaza also shall be very sorrowful; and Ekron, for He dried up her expectation. The king shall perish from Gaza, and Ashkelon shall not be inhabited. 6 A mixed race shall settle in Ashdod, and I will cut off the pride of the Philistines. 7 I will take away the blood from his mouth, and the abominations from between his teeth. But he who remains, even he shall be for our God, and shall be like a leader in Judah, and Ekron like a Jebusite. 8 I will camp around My house because of the army, because of him who passes by and him who returns. No more shall an oppressor pass through them, for now I have seen with My eyes.6

HISTORY OF INTERPRETATION

I will argue that these verses are speaking of Alexander’s campaign and that they originated in the summer months in 332, during the campaign. The potential relation between these verses and the reports of Alexander’s expedition by the GraecoRoman sources is anything but a new discovery; church fathers like Jerome and Ephrem the Syrian treated Zech. 9:1–8 as a prophecy being fulfilled in the days of Alexander, just as did the Jewish scholar Isaac Abarbanel. Reformers like Martin Luther and John Calvin adopted this patristic position and introduced it into their denominations.7 Due to the understanding of scriptural inspiration of that time, this discovery did not make them rethink their decision to defend the textual integrity and the dating of the text to centuries before the events at stake. In the pre-critical exegesis, the book of Zechariah, as a whole, has been dated in the late 6th century,

5 6 7

This is true especially for the discussion among historians; but among biblical scholars, too, this text and its value as a source for the late fourth century does not receive its proper attention. Translation New King James Version (NKJV). Other biblical quotations are taken from the New International Version (NIV)­translation – unless stated differently. Wolters 2014, 258.

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in accordance with the book’s own statements in Zech. 1:1 and 7:1.8 The first scholar doubting the textual integrity of the book, Joseph Mede, established the fundamental distinction between Proto-Zechariah (chapters 1–8) and Deutero-Zechariah (chapter 9–14). This distinction was unanimously accepted due to further scholarly contributions by Johann Gottfried Eichhorn in 1780–83 and William Newcome in 1785. As a consequence of this detachment, the latter chapters were now void of text-based information concerning the time of their origin. On grounds of stylistic observations, Newcome favoured a pre-exilic dating. Eichhorn by contrast postulated 332 BC as terminus post quem, viewing Zech. 9:1–8 as allusions and references to Alexander’s campaign in that year.9 The dispute regarding the division of Zechariah into two parts was decided in 1881 by Bernhard Stade with a seminal three­part essay in the first volumes of the Zeitschrift für alttestamentliche Wissenschaft;10 over more than 150 pages he vigorously backed Eichhorn by arguing that Zech. 9–14 must have been written after Alexander’s war because the similarities with his military campaign are simply too plain. Stade’s position was to become mainstream for nearly a century, occasionally being improved and modified but not fundamentally questioned.11 One matter under discussion was the literary unity of Zechariah 9–14, which was being doubted and replaced by a collage of loosely connected independent elements; one of those elements would then be the war report in Zechariah 9:1–8. Eichhorn depicted this report as a narration of Alexander’s Campaign, Stade on the other hand believed it to be allusions to and reminiscences of the several Ptolemaic-Seleucid wars.12 One spin­off from Eichhorn’s equation of this war report with Alexander’s campaign is the proposal that the report was written during the campaign, more precisely immediately before the foreseeable fall of Tyros in summer 332 BC. This position attracted attention through articles by Karl Elliger in 1950 and Matthias Delcor in 1951.13 Elliger’s essay remains the authoritative substantiation for the dating of the chapter to the year 332 BC. The authors who currently favour this date refer to him.14 This position reintroduces the observations of the church fathers about similarities between the description of Zechariah 9:1–8 and Alexander’s campaign but judges them differently based on other metaphysical presuppositions. Since they do not consider genuine prophecy to be possible, they regard Alexander’s campaign

8

9 10 11 12 13 14

The reference to Dareios in these verses is generally acknowledged to be relevant to Dareios I (reigned 521–486); the argumentation in favour of Dareios III (reigned 336–331) is interesting, but with good reasons widely rejected. See Wolters 2014, 4. See for these precritical discussions: Otzen 1964, 11–25. His essay was published in three parts: Stade 1881–1882. Otzen 1964, 26–34. Otzen 1964, 20–22. Delcor 1951; Elliger 1950. Delcor did not knew about Elliger’s work when he wrote his piece. Willi­Plein 2010; Ego 2014; Saur 2011; Matthys 2011.

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as a terminus post quem for the dating of this biblical text.15 Meanwhile, however, the majority opinion has shifted again and prefers, in accordance with a study of Paul Lamarche,16 a dating of Deutero-Zechariah around the year 500 BC, i.e. in the time of Proto-Zechariah.17 It should be clear by now that there is a multitude of contradictory answers to the question of dating Zechariah 9–14, to such a degree that the conservative theologian Al Wolters can write: ‘The six chapters as a whole, or various sections of them, have been dated to every century – indeed to almost every decade – from the eighth to the second century BCE’.18 The contradictory nature of the history of scholarship may be demonstration enough that by linguistic and stylistic observations alone there will be no well-recognised dating of Deutero-Zechariah; church father Jerome called Zechariah an obscurissimus liber for a reason.19 HISTORICAL INTERPRETATION

The most promising way is therefore an analysis of the historical information included in Zechariah 9–14.20 The name of Alexander is never mentioned in our passage, as indeed it is not mentioned anywhere in the Old Testament. Instead, as many as ten mentioned geographical locations attract the reader’s attention. They first describe a movement in northern Syria: from Hadrach21 eastbound to Damascus, and from there northwest to the city of Hamat.22 The next two Phoinikian cities, Sidon and Tyros, are further south, in southern Lebanon, on the northern border of at 15

16 17

18 19 20

21

22

Wolters 2014, 258: ‘In critical circles this interpretation [scil. the patristic interpretation that assumes a fulfillment of Zechariah’s genuine prophecy in the days of Alexander] was forgotten until the above­mentioned publications by Elliger and Delcor. The difference between their view and that of the earlier exegetical tradition was that the passage was now no longer considered an actual prediction, but a vaticinium ex eventu, thus providing a precise terminus post quem for the writing of this part of Zechariah’. Lamarche 1961. Contemporary advocates of a Persian origin of Deutero-Zechariah are Petersen 1995; Redditt 2012. The line of argument against an origin after 332 BC. rests on two – in and of themselves accurate – observations. First, Zechariah 9:1–8 do not match exactly with Alexander’s campaign, especially after the fall of Tyros; second, the text is a theological text, rather than a strict war report. In this paper, both objections will be addressed. Wolters 2014, 16. Wolters 2014, 1. The three clues for a historical dating are found in Zech. 9:1– 8, Zech. 9:13 (mention of Greeks) and Zech. 10:10 (mention of Egypt and Assyria). Zech. 9:1– 8 is the most promising among these because of the length of the passage and its wealth of content, as will be shown. Locating Hadrach is made difficult by the fact that it does not appear in the Old Testament except in this place. Undisputed, however, is the location of this city in northern Syria. While some biblical scholars argue for identification with Hatarikka (e.g., Wolters 2014, 262), others leave the exact location open (e.g., Redditt 2012, 38–39). See Petersen 1995, 43–44.

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least partially Jewish-populated Galilee. It must be conceded that the initially mentioned Syrian cities Hadrach, Damascus and Hamat were not conquered by Alexander the Great according to ancient historians. In addition, the southbound movement from Hadrach to Tyros is evidently interrupted by the mention of Damascus. Scholars advocating for a reference to Alexander’s Campaign answer these objections by pointing out that instead of translating ‫ מנוחה‬in v. 1 as ‘resting place’, a term often understood militarily in the Old Testament, it should be translated as ‘an army camp’.23 This possible reference to Damascus as an army camp is a strong argument for identifying Zechariah 9 with Alexander’s campaign, as even opponents of this position admit.24 It is recorded in ancient sources that the Macedonian army split up in northern Syria,25 and while Alexander himself advanced further south – towards Sidon and Tyros – Parmenion departed from the main army to the east, targeting Damascus.26 It is conceivable that Parmenion had previously conquered Hadrach and Hamat. This division of the army would then correspond to Zechariah 9 and the involvement of the geographically remote Damascus in the otherwise southbound movement. However, for linguistic reasons, objections to the understanding of ‘resting place’ in the sense of a military camp have been raised.27 It is an ambiguous term, matching perfectly with the ambiguous message of the first verse. The prefix used before Hadrach, ‫ב‬, can mean ‘in’ as well as ‘against’, resulting in directly opposite meanings;28 if the word of God is ‘in Hadrach’ it would have to be understood in a favourable sense. This is obviously not true if the sentence is to be read ‘against Hadrach’. Accordingly, a translation of as ‫ מנוחה‬an ‘army camp’ would be quite distinct from the favourable ‘resting place’.29 Mark Boda discusses the possibility of an intended equivocation in this statement, comparing this 23

24

25 26

27 28 29

Wolters 2014, 262. The LXX takes a different direction and renders ‫ מנוחה‬as θυσία. Generally speaking, the LXX version of Deutero-Zechariah is very close to the Masoretic text: Dogniez 2008. Eidsvåg 2016, 7 also states that the translator of Deutero-Zechariah chose a ‘literal translation approach’. He dates the translation in the mid-2ⁿᵈ century BC and attributes a proHasmonean tendency to the translator: Eidsvåg 2016, 249. Otzen 1964, 67–68, who is criticial of Elliger’s proposal, also admits: ‘Elliger hat freilich damit recht, dass die Reihenfolge Hadrach-Damaskus fein zu Arrians Bericht passt, demzufolge Parmenios Vorstoss gleich nach der Schlacht von Issos einsetzt, bei der sich Alexander die nördlichen Gebiete (=  Hadrach) gesichert hatte, und nun Parmenio die Möglichkeit behielt, die südlicheren (=  Damascus) einzunehmen’. Arr. Anab. 2.15.1; Curt 4.1.4; cf. Bosworth 1980b, 224–225. Elliger 1950, 108; Willi­Plein 2010, 310; Bosworth 1974, 47: ‘We know that Parmenion conducted a campaign in the Syrian hinterland parallel to Alexander’s advance down the coast, and he only joined the main body of the Macedonian army during the middle stages of the siege’. Tai 1996, 14, for instance sees in this place rather the existence of Yahweh-faithful circles in Damascus expressed. The LXX translates ἐν. The counterargument of Hinckley Mitchell is in my humble opinion convincing: ‘No Jew of the time of the author would have entertained the idea that Yahweh would find a resting place at Damascus’, quoted by Boda 2003, 10. Therefore, the negative understanding ‘army camp’ is much more likely.

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verse with Zechariah 6:8 where God’s Spirit is ‘at rest in the north country’ – at that place likely in the sense of judgement, while at the same time a chance to turn back to God in repentance.30 Turning back to Zechariah 9, this understanding would then mean that Syria is being put to the test. A ‘two-fold process of judgment and deliverance’ will either lead Syria to join eschatological Israel or to face destruction.31 As we will see later, this is exactly the choice that the Philistine cities will be confronted with. The next two cities, Sidon and Tyros, were both conquered by Alexander.32 Sidon surrendered without resistance; Tyros could only be taken after a lengthy siege.33 Accordingly, Sidon is briefly mentioned (Zechariah 9:2), while Tyros is reported to rely on its fortress and naval power (Zechariah 9:3–4). The reason for the Sidonians’ lack of resistance can be found in recent history. Just over ten years before Alexander’s arrival, Sidon tried to rise up against Persian sovereignty and was punished by Artaxerxes Ochos with the destruction of major parts of the city. Tyros, which had originally offered assistance to Sidon, instead of helping extended its influence over the Levant after the destruction of its greatest rival; it can be archaeologically proven that several cities south of Tyros afterwards came under some kind of a political subordination to the important trading city.34 The capture of Tyros is arguably the most striking coincidence between Zechariah 9 and the historically reconstructed campaign of Alexander. A commonly used counterargument is that due to the uncountable amount of wars, and the fact that almost every military expedition in this region passes through the same stations on the Mediterranean coast, therefore numerous wars – that are just less known and less well documented – could possibly be portrayed in these verses, not only the war between Alexander and Dareios III.35 However, this line of reasoning does not hold in this case – mostly because wars that would otherwise match the description in Zechariah 9 lack Tyros’ conquest which is explicitly narrated in Zechariah 9:4. Alexander may well have known that Nebuchadnezzar II could not take the city, despite his 13-year long siege. Congruently, Curtius, Diodoros and Arrian report the construction of a dam, which Alexander used to work his way to the city walls.36 In addition, the fleet of Alexander was increased by auxiliary contingents from Arwad, Byblos, Sidon, Rhodes and Cyprus, so that the Tyrian fleet was outnumbered and

30 31

32 33 34 35 36

For the discussion of liberate ambiguity in Zechariah 6:8, see Ackroyd 1968, 182–183. Boda 2003, 11: ‘Of course it is the ‘word of Yahweh’ rather than his spirit which finds rest in the north country, but it may be that a similar theme of the two-fold process of judgment and deliverance occasioned by the presence and activity of Yahweh is intended’. Bosworth 1974, 50–51. Heckel 2008, 67–68. For this topic, see Elliger 1950, 98–108. Willi­Plein 2010, 303, discusses this argument. The reports of the city’s siege are to be found in: Curt. 4.4.10–21; Arr. Anab. 2.21–24; Diod. 17.40–46; Plut. Alex. 24.3–25.2; Just. Epit. 11.10.

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incapable of sailing.37 After seven months of siege, a breach was made in the city’s least fortified southern wall, which shortly led to the complete capture of the city. 2000 inhabitants were crucified on the Mediterranean coast,38 the majority of the remaining population was sold into slavery.39 Those researchers who contradict the identification of Zechariah 9:1–8 with Alexander’s campaign, have been unable to present another historical reference for verse 4. Instead, they argue that no real event is described here but rather an apocalyptic prophecy uninterested in actual historical events.40 In the text, the four Philistine cities of Ashkelon, Gaza, Ekron and Ashdod follow. They are treated here as one political and cultural entity.41 Zechariah 9:5 speaks of the alarming impact of Tyros’ conquest on the Philistine coast: ‘Ashkelon shall see it and fear; Gaza also shall be very sorrowful; and Ekron, for He dried up her expectation’. We can see from this verse on the one hand that these cities are closely related to Tyros and set their hopes on a successful defence of the city, and on the other hand that in this case the emotional attitude of the author is particularly clear. As with Tyros, the future conquest is clearly seen positively. According to Elliger’s dating proposal, this chapter is written in the summer of 332, in the final stages of Tyros’ occupation. Thus, from that point onward the prophet is not retelling the past but foretelling the future. It is still worth examining these remarks, because their presuppositions are instructive to the time they were written. The first two events in the Philistine coastal plain described here are the depopulation of Ashkelon and Gaza’s loss of its king. In the case of Gaza, this information seems to be partially confirmed by ancient sources. In fact, the ruler of Gaza, Batis, was removed by Alexander after the conquest of the city, as foreseen by the prophetic scribe.42 The statement that Ashkelon will be uninhabited, however, cannot be confirmed archaeologically. This discrepancy has been addressed in two ways. On the one hand, the suggestion was made not to translate the Hebrew word ‫ ישב‬as ‘uninhabited’, but as ungoverned.43 The statement would be then the same for Ashkelon as for Gaza: the loss of the ruler and the self-government. In the author’s apocalyptic view, this may be a ‘necessary precursor of God’s rulership over the area’.44 On the other hand, this problem would be irrelevant in accordance

37 38 39 40 41 42

43 44

Saur 2008, 173. Diod. 17.46.3–4; Curt. 4.4.17–18. Curt. 4.4.15–16. Tai 1996, 14. Compare Zechariah 9:6: ‘I will cut off the pride of the Philistines’. Willi-Plein 2010, 307. Indeed, Batis is not called a king by ancient sources, but Dionysios of Halikarnassos (de comp. verb. 18) calls him ἡγεμών; thus the possibility of seeing in Batis a ‘local dynast’ is at least up to scholarly discussion: Tarn 1948, 265–269; Bosworth 1980b, 257–258. Cf. also Haake, this volume. Redditt 2012, 44, offers this translation; ‘uninhabited’ would undoubtedly be the more literal translation. Redditt 2012, 41.

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with Elliger’s dating proposal. Everything described in Zechariah 9:5 would then be a future expectation which has not been fulfilled at this point.45 It is perfectly reasonable from this perspective to understand the author’s expressed expectation of Gaza’s and Ashkelon’s destruction in the turmoil of war. It speaks in favour of Elliger’s theory that Gaza is not stressed among the mentioned cities. Historically, Gaza is the only city in the area which resisted Alexander after Tyros’ downfall.46 It must be assumed that this would have been reflected in the passage if it was indeed written afterwards. The last historical statement concerns the protection of Jerusalem from military events; God himself lies down in front of Jerusalem ‘like a guard’ (Zechariah 9:8), so that the city is completely spared from this war. This prophecy was in fact to be fulfilled in the coming months.47 Alexander continued his conquest to Egypt and the city of Jerusalem was probably either occupied peacefully or simply left aside.48 An interesting consequence of the city being spared from damage would be the soonto-be-established legend, which speaks of a visit by Alexander in Jerusalem, where he is said to have honoured the God of Israel by proskynesis before the high priest. This legend is handed down through its inclusion in the Antiquitates of Flavius Josephus (11.7.5). The origin of this legend, which makes Alexander appear in a good light, is currently dated to around the year 200 BC.49 Actually, there is a case to be made for a number of Jewish pro-Alexander legends dating from the time between his death and the reign of Antiochos IV; most of them intend to legitimise the Jewish minority in Alexandria – or at least to act as a self-assurance.50

45

46 47

48 49 50

Elliger, 1950, 108–109; Willi­Plein 2010, 311: ‘Demnach passen alle bisher genannten Ereignisse gut zur in 9,1–8 vorausgesetzten Situation, allerdings vor der Einnahme von Tyrus, die im Juli/August (Hekatombaion) 332 erfolgte.’ The only city in the Philistine area that did not surrender immediately after the fall of Tyros was Gaza (cf. Briant 2002, 716); all other cities ‘fell in Alexander’s hands’. According to Wolters 2014, 276–277, this prophecy is being fulfilled even more precisely, for he understands v. 8 (‘Because of him who passes by and him who returns’) in the sense that the prophet foresees Alexander passing by two times; both on the way to Egypt and on the way back: ‘In 332 Alexander passed through Palestine on his way to Egypt, after which he returned to pursue further conquests to the north and east. However, he died not long thereafter and never passed through Palestine again’. This would doubtlessly be a genuine prophecy, which Wolters considers to be possible (Wolters 2014, 2). Wolters 2014, 260; Gruen 1998, 189–202. Ego 2014, 32. See Stoneman 1994; Gruen 1998, 243: ‘Alexander the Great offered an irresistible subject. The invention of his visit to Jerusalem allowed Jews to capitalize on his charisma’. Amitay 2010, 104–105, describes how these legends and traditions found their way into Jewish eschatology.

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THE THEOLOGICAL MESSAGE IN CONTEXT

Despite many similarities between the examined passage in Zechariah 9 and Alexander’s campaign, the critics of this attribution are rightly stating that this text is no sober war report and the author uses political events only as occasions for theological statements. The interest of the author is undeniably neither historical nor political; it is genuinely theological.51 Which theological position is represented here and what it says about the author, again, is a topic that researchers do not agree on unanimously. It is therefore advisable to focus on the less contentious points. First, it should be clear that the interest in the locations depends on their proximity to the author who presumably writes in Jerusalem. Although the capture of Tyros is the decisive event, the author shows even greater interest in its consequences for the closer Philistine towns and their possible incorporation into the cultic community; in contrast, his statements to the cities north of Tyros are virtually limited to geographical information.52 From this perspective, the frequently stated objection that the passage only mentions Alexander’s campaign after it reached Hadrach and Hamat loses its weight.53 As Delcor says, it should be noted that the events north of Damascus were far from the horizon of a scribe in Jerusalem, and that, moreover, the speed of the advance may have contributed even further to the confusion.54 Is it really surprising that Zechariah 9 only mentions Alexander’s campaign after it reached Sidon and Tyros, as Otzen remarks?55 Tyros was relatively close and represented a major politicaleconomic power in the region.56 It is no surprise that the expected capture of this city attracted the attention of Judean observers – especially after several months of siege. Nor should it surprise us when a Judean scribe in this situation ponders the consequences of this event for the region in which he lives.57 The consequences of the conquest of Tyros for the Philistine cities are the end of their ‘pride’ and the beginning of their incorporation into the Judean tribal community; along with this, they will also become part of the people of God in religious and cultic ways. This becomes clear through Zechariah 9:7, ‘I will take away the blood from his mouth, and the abominations from between his teeth. But he who remains, 51

52 53 54

55 56 57

That should, however, not lead us to the rash assumption that the author is merely producing an ahistorical prophecy of God’s personal coming; in that case He would surely come from the south, just like in Judges 5, Habakkuk 3, Deuteronomy 33, and Ps 68. For the tradition of Yahweh’s coming from the south, see H. Pfeiffer 2005. Kunz 1998, 192. See e.g. Otzen 1964, 68. Delcor 1951, 117, has a point in saying that other cities captured by Alexander, just as Arados, Marathos, and Byblos ‘sont trop loin de l’horizon israélite’. Cf. Elliger 1950, 108: ‘Die Ereignisse in Syrien und Phönikien entwickelten sich also in einem für die Zuschauer im Süden Palästinas unheimlich raschen Tempo’. Otzen 1964, 68. Elliger 1950, 98–108. Cf. the analysis of the social situation of post-exilic scribes in Sheree 2018, 11–15.

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even he shall be for our God, and shall be like a leader in Judah, and Ekron like a Jebusite’.58 Blood and abomination clearly refer to the eating habits of the Philistines. In particular, the consumption of non-bled meat is seen as cultically divisive and it is promised that this practice will come to an end as a result of the conquest.59 This fits with the statement of v. 6 that in Ashdod the ‫ממזר‬, that is the half breed, lives.60 The vision in our verse is that of future intermarriages of Philistines with Judeans. The idea behind both statements is that of the Philistines joining the eschatologically restored Israel, which is then imagined to inhabit its divinely ordained borders. It might be interesting to remind the reader of Doron Mendels’ emphasis on the concept of Eretz Israel for Hellenistic Judaism, especially after most of it had indeed been conquered by Alexander Jannaios. He states that Judean concepts of their country’s borders were unrealistic, as long as they were far from any real chance of independence. When the Hasmonean state brought further and further conquests, the concept became more realistic and well­defined.61 Benedikt Otzen, for his part, entitled Zechariah 9:1–8 ‘Der Traum vom Israelitischen Großreich’ for good reasons. Though I do not agree with his pre-exilic dating, his profound argumentation deserves credit; he convincingly shows that the prophet is describing a Greater Israel from Syria to the south of Philistia that God is conquering in the midst of the turmoil of war.62 This is a plausible starting point for Mendels’ description of the concept’s evolution until 63 BC. As the last point of this theological evaluation of Zechariah 9:1–8, the portrayal of an earthly ruler as a tool of Yahweh should be emphasised. In this text, the warfare by a foreign ruler is so strongly identified with the God of Israel that in verse 4 it is said that ‘the Lord will cast’ Tyros out (Zechariah 9:4). In verse 8, however, the authority of this ‘human agent’ of God is limited so that Jerusalem and its temple are kept out of the war.63

58

59 60 61 62 63

The word ‫אלף‬, here translated as leader, poses a problem. If vocalised as ‫אַלֻּף‬, it is best translated as clan chief, whereas, when vocalised ‫אֶלֶף‬, it should be translated as group of a thousand people. I am inclined to think that the LXX­translation χιλίαρχος is not far off the mark; indeed, the point that the author was trying to make is that the remaining Philistine, here singular as a nomen gentilicium, after the war will be leading a subdivision of Israel, a tribe so to speak. The phrase ‘like a Jebusite’ refers to a case of successful assimilation in Jerusalem – previously Jebus – whose population merged with the Judean population within a short time: see Otzen 1964, 114–115; Elliger 1950, 103; Freund 1993. Otzen 1964, 114. For the meaning of blood in this context see Niditich 2011. See Ego 2014, 20. Mendels 1987, 7 and passim. Otzen 1964, 62–63. Wolters 2014, 275: ‘As so often happens elsewhere in the OT, the Lord now turns against the human agent which he had used as the instrument for his wrath. He now protects Jerusalem against the very military force which he had used for his own punitive purposes against the Syrian, Phoinikian and Philistine cities in the first part of this chapter’.

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This motive is highly reminiscent of the denotation of Kyros II in Isaiah 45:1–14 as ‘my anointed one’ and the commission for a military campaign whose ultimate goal is to free the people of Israel: This is what the Lord says to his anointed, to Cyrus, whose right hand I take hold of to subdue nations before him and to strip kings of their armor, to open doors before him so that gates will not be shut: I will go before you and will level the mountains; I will break down gates of bronze and cut through bars of iron. I will give you hidden treasures, riches stored in secret places, so that you may know that I am the Lord, the God of Israel, who summons you by name. For the sake of Jacob my servant, of Israel my chosen, I summon you by name and bestow on you a title of honor, though you do not acknowledge me (Isaiah 45:1–4).

In the time of transition from Babylonian to Persian domination, the religion of the Judeans offered an interpretation of the political events which was in accordance with their understanding of salvation history. At the beginning of Persian rule over Israel, Kyros’ campaign was seen as God’s will and he himself as Yahweh’s tool.64 Likewise, in 332 Alexander was conceived as God’s agent in the very same endeavour. Zechariah 9 bestows upon him the same kind of divine legitimacy which prophetic writings from the sixth century ascribed to Kyros II. To solidify this claim, it will be necessary to understand Zechariah 9 as a distinct piece of literature. As a prophet writing after the exile, the author places his text in the context of existing themes, topoi and traditions. Deutero-Zechariah is remarkably rich in intertextual references, allusions, inner-biblical exegesis and traditions, which is typical for late biblical prophecy.65 The first prophecy related to Zechariah 9 is Ezekiel 26. In fact, the connection is so close, that one scholar, Markus Sauer, entertains the idea that Ezekiel might also have been written during or after Alexander’s campaign.66 Though this is assumption is probably wrong, it does show the strong similarities between these two texts. It is more likely, anyway, to see Ezekiel 26 as the connecting piece between Deutero-Zechariah and one of the earliest texts Zechariah 9 refers to: Amos 1:3–10. In this prophecy of doom, threats are made, inter alia, against Damascus, Gaza, Ashkelon, Ashdod, Ekron and Tyros. Especially the threats against Tyros in Amos 1:9–10 and Zechariah 9:4 are obviously akin to each other.67 In both cases, first the fortification and riches of the city are mentioned, after which the destruction of the city by fire is announced.68 In the book of Ezekiel, the judgements by the pre-exilic prophet Amos are restated and exacerbated. Above all, the announcement of Tyros’ devastation is elaborated in epic dimensions. A new element introduced here is the motif of the external effect which the sinking of Tyros will have on the coastal cities to the south: For the presentation of Kyros II as a tool of Yahweh in Deutero-Isaiah see Trotter 2001, 100. I will for reasons of space not explicitly differentiate between these subcategories of ‘reference’. Petersen 2003 has sufficiently laid out the problems of these distinctions; especially in the case of Deutero-Zechariah. 66 Sauer 2008, 182–183. 67 Cf. Conrad 1999, 158. 68 Well-elaborated in Kunz 1998, 193. 64 65

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This is what the Sovereign Lord says to Tyre: Will not the coastlands tremble at the sound of your fall, when the wounded groan and the slaughter takes place in you? Then all the princes of the coast will step down from their thrones and lay aside their robes and take off their embroidered garments. Clothed with terror, they will sit on the ground, trembling every moment, appalled at you. (Ezekiel 26:15–16)

This motif, Tyros’ downfall having a shocking impact on the cities in the south, is of course directly adopted in Zechariah 9:5. Michael Floyd convincingly argues that Deutero-Zechariah belongs to a prophetical subgenre which is defined by a specific kind of inner­biblical allusion: the Massa­oracle (‫)משא‬.69 In the canon of the Old Testament, Nahum, Habakuk, Malachi and Deutero­Zechariah are labelled in their first verses as ‫משא‬, normally translated either as oracle or as burden. Floyd, by comparing these books as well as other additional verses, observed certain commonalities that define this subgenre: in a specific historical situation, the writer re­interprets a previous scriptural revelation and from there draws directives concerning appropriate reactions to the present situation.70 In case of Deutero-Zechariah, the text that the writer is alluding to is the preceding book of Proto-Zechariah, which was written in the early days of Persian supremacy and reflects the (ultimately futile) national aspirations of that time. The function of Deutero-Zechariah, then, is ‘to reinterpret what the prophet Zechariah discerned regarding Yahweh’s involvement in the restoration of the province Yehud in the early Persian period, elaborating on its implications for the discernment of Yahweh’s involvement in the events of a later time’.71 Finally, we must identify the ultimate goal of this actualisation-oracle. The key is in the following verses, Zechariah 9:9–10: Rejoice greatly, Daughter Zion! Shout, Daughter Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you, righteous and victorious, lowly and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey. I will take away the chariots from Ephraim and the warhorses from Jerusalem, and the battle bow will be broken. He will proclaim peace to the nations. His rule will extend from sea to sea and from the River to the ends of the earth.

Here, an update of a messianic expectation already expressed in older prophetic texts is carried out: ‘The prophet picks up the language of the new king from the eighth century prophets’,72 more precisely Isaiah 9:6–7, 11:1–5 and Micah 5:2–4. In addition to this general messianic expectation, in Zechariah 9:9–10 the humility and peacefulness of the coming Messiah are highlighted. The donkey as the mount Massa, the first word of Zechariah 9:1, is translated in the NIV-translation as burden. Floyd 2002, 409, distinguishes this characteristic layout in three points: ‘First, an assertion is made, directly or indirectly, about Yahweh’s involvement in a particular historical situation or course of events. Second, this assertion serves to clarify the implications of a previous revelation from Yahweh that is alluded to, referred to, or quoted from. Third, this assertion also provides the basis for directives concerning appropriate reactions or responses to Yahweh’s initiative, or for insights into how Yahweh’s initiative affects the future.’ 71 Floyd 2002, 418. 72 Smith 1984, 255

69 70

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of the Messiah, being totally inadequate for war, is to be understood as an implicit contrast to the description of the military campaign in Zechariah 9:1–8.73 Particularly noteworthy here is the announced destruction of all war equipment and weapons in Zechariah 9:10, notably by the asyndetic juxtaposition to the military force of the campaign described above.74 With regard to its theological message, the text draws strongly on the statements of Isaiah’s Servant songs, in which the Messiah had already been portrayed as weak and humble: ‘He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem. Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered him punished by God, stricken by him, and afflicted’ (Isaiah 53:3–4). This corresponds to the statement in Zechariah 9:9 that the Messiah is poor. It explains the reception of this text as well by the early Christian church, as Jesus of Nazareth was also perceived as humble and peaceful. Resulting in the author’s focus on theology, his text gives us no chance to verify the information given by ancient historians. For this reason, no biblical scholar has attempted to correct them; conversely, it requires external historical sources reporting a temporarily independent foray by Parmenion to explain the otherwise puzzling text at hand.75 Even with a secure dating to the time of Alexander, the problem of the difficult interpretation of this passage remains. The poetic language and idiom of the author make it impossible in most cases to give precise information about the events underlying the text,76 resulting in minimal historical value; at least regarding the reconstruction of the campaign. This is probably the reason for its unfamiliarity among historians.77 Only one among the innumerable modern biographies of Alexander, to the best of my knowledge, points to Zechariah 9:1–8; and without considering the question whether the prophecy was originally connected to Alexander. In his Alexander of Macedon, Peter Green juxtaposes Alexander’s sacrifices to Herakles to the prophecy of Zechariah: ‘The ram which finally battered down Tyre’s bastions Alexander dedicated to Herakles, with an inscription which not even Ptolemy could bring himself to repeat. But it was Zechariah, a Jewish prophet crying in the wilderness, who had already composed the city’s epitaph’.78 This segment is fol-

73 74

75 76 77 78

Wolters 2014, 281, states that the reference to the donkey should be read as an allusion to Genesis 49:10–11. For the meaning of the donkey also see Way 2010. Wolters 2014, 277: ‘One of its most striking features is the emphasis of a coming king who will destroy all military hardware and bring peace, thus standing in stark contrast to the first and the third panels of the triptych’. Saur 2011, 82. Wolters 2014, 257: ‘this chapter is the only extended passage in Zechariah that counts as poetry.’ An additional reason for the unfamiliarity of this suggestion among English-speaking historians may lie in the fact that most of its defenders publish in German. Green 1991, 262.

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lowed by the account of Zechariah 9:2–4. It is not clear whether Green understands this prophetic word as true or not. The scarcity of verifiable facts in the text by Deutero­Zechariah should not be surprising, since the reproduction of historical events is in no way the goal of this text, but rather the interpretation of the political situation against the background of its own religious traditions and convictions.79 It has been stated above that this massa-oracle wishes to interpret the present time, not to describe it. Therefore, we do not learn much about the actual events, but more about the author’s mentality.80 Even supporters of a dating to 332 BC, like Markus Saur, describe the scope of the text accordingly.81 For the time of the transition from Persian to Greek rule there clearly is a ‘lack of evidence’.82 Following my suggestion to understand Zechariah 9 as an eyewitness account of the exact moment of this transition, the lack of evidence would be partially remedied. One could see then, that just as Kyros II was considered Yahweh’s tool on behalf of Israel in the sixth century, Alexander’s campaign was understood in a similar way by Judean observers.83 Due to the quickly advancing messianism, this time the divine agent coming from outside of Judea is understood in a larger, apocalyptic context. Alexander’s triumph over the Philistine kings is seen not only as a necessary condition for the independence and security of Israel, but also as a necessary condition of God’s personal rule over Israel.84 The evaluation of Alexander’s campaign in this text would also, in this case, implicitly reveal, 79 80

81

82 83 84

I agree with Kunz in that Deutero-Zechariah is a ‘Schriftausleger, der seine empirische Geschichtswahrnehmung vor dem Hintergrund prophetischer Texte reflektiert’: Kunz 1998, 193. Especially Hanson 1973, 37–38, has pointed this out: ‘For over a century, biblical scholars have persisted in dating and interpreting Zechariah 9 on the basis of alleged historical allusions, especially the military campaign in vss. 1–7 and reference to the sons of Yawan in vs. 13. For hundreds of pages arguments have been advanced, with equal persuasiveness, for an historical setting during the reign of Hezekiah, Josiah, Tiglat-Pileser, Sargon, Alexander, or the Maccabees. The flaw in this line of interpretation is methodological: the genre of the composition has been perceived incorrectly, and thus an inappropriate method of interpretation has been applied; in short, a Divine Warrior Hymn has been mistaken for a poetic report of an historical event’. In my opinion, Hanson goes too far in completely rejecting the possibility of dating this text based on historical allusions. His emphasis on the genuinely literary character of Zechariah 9 is nevertheless valuable. Saur 2011, 83: ‘Die prophetischen Kreise nehmen eine zeitgeschichtliche Konstellation wahr und deuten sie vor dem Hintergrund ihrer Grundüberzeugungen, so dass am Ende dieses Deutungsprozesses keine einfache Darstellung der Ereignisse steht, sondern vor dem Hintergrund der Überzeugung, dass nicht Alexander, sondern Jahwe der eigentliche und letztlich wirksame Souverän ist, die konkreten Erfahrungen in einem theologischen Anreicherungsprozess transformiert und in die Form eines prophetischen Textes gebracht werden, dessen Anspruch sicher nicht zuletzt darin lag, den verunsicherten Judäern in einer Situation massiver Umbrüche das Wort Jahwes als sichernden Orientierungspunkt vor Augen zu halten.’ Aitken 2011, 34–36. Trotter 2001, 100. Redditt 2012, 41: ‘The defeat of these kings would be a necessary precursor to God’s rulership over the area.’

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if not a degree of dissatisfaction with membership in the Persian Empire, then at the very least a readiness to renounce all loyalty to Persia in the present situation. In the eyes of the prophetic author, the observed harbingers of the Messiah overrule political allegiance. It would be crucial to discover if we are hearing from a radical outsider or a representative voice. The speculative nature of every answer to this question is obvious enough; anyway, there are three reasons which allow us to make the educated guess that the author did not go out on a limb. First, the fact of his text being canonised shows that the author’s ideas were read, discussed, and appreciated, which is even more remarkable considering that his expectations did not literally come true. Secondly, it becomes apparent from his text that he considers himself as having the authority of a prophet.85 Thirdly, his knowledge of scripture and his use of language show the author to be a member of the highly educated class. Whereas we cannot know how many people adopted the position described in Zechariah 9, it is fair to assume that the prophet’s opinion concerning the current events was heard and discussed.86 Briefly put, the idea is that the present war (Zechariah 9:1–8) is orchestrated by God and will be followed by the arrival of the humble Messiah (Zechariah 9:9).87 When considering both these parts, Zechariah 9 helps to make sense of the subsequent references to Alexander in the book of Daniel and in 1 Maccabees. I will briefly present the decisive parts which showcase their notion of the Macedonian king. COMPARISON WITH DANIEL AND 1 MACCABEES 88

Daniel 8 describes how the army of Alexander, ‘a goat with a prominent horn between its eyes from the west’ (Daniel 8:5), attacked and defeated the Persian Empire, ‘the two-horned ram’ (Daniel 8:6).89 It is further described that Alexander’s empire expands and, at the peak of his power, ultimately falls apart into the four realms of the Diadochoi: ‘The goat became very great, but at the height of its power the large horn was broken off, and in its place four prominent horns grew up toward Weyde 2018, 265. S. Schwartz 2004, 7–8, describes the phenomenon that the increasing diversification of post­ exilic literature makes it accordingly difficult to evaluate how representative the voices are, which were preserved often by chance. 87 Interestingly, therefore, this biblical text, so understood, would provide a biblical support for Johann Gustav Droysen’s famous position that Hellenism was the required preparation to pave the way for the Christian message in the Mediterranean world. This view would be supported by the prophecy of Zechariah, in that the arrival of the Messiah had to be preceded by the arrival of Alexander. 88 For obvious reasons, I do not offer an in­depth study of these two books. See now J. Bernhardt 2017, 37–46. 89 The two horns refer to the two constitutive peoples of the state, the Medes and the Persians. 85 86

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the four winds of heaven’. (Daniel 8:8). Afterwards, the Archangel Gabriel exposes this vision of Daniel and explains that the goat is ‘the king of Greece’ (Daniel 8:21). In Daniel 8, however, Alexander is not in the spotlight. It is rather obvious that the focus lies on Antiochos IV Epiphanes, a ‘completely wicked, a fierce­looking king, a master of intrigue’ (Daniel 8:23), who forbids the ritual sacrifice in the temple of Yahweh (Daniel 8:12). This is a barely veiled allusion to the events of 167 BC, when Antiochos forbade the sacrificial cult in the temple in Jerusalem and in its place established a cult of Zeus. It is remarkable that Alexander is portrayed strangely impartial in this chapter. Unlike the case of Antiochos IV, the mention of Alexander is not pejorative, but merely remembers his military successes, the speed of his campaign and his sudden death. In short, Alexander is mentioned only because he is the necessary historical link between the Persian Empire and the kingdoms of the Diadochoi. This corresponds exactly to the treatment of Alexander in the great historical sketch (Daniel 10–12) from the end of the Persian Empire to the present, the time of Antiochos IV. Again, every moral judgment of Alexander is missing, and again it is Alexander’s military success and his sudden end which are mentioned (Daniel 11:2–4). The book of Daniel is dominated by the circumstances of its composition, so that the history presents itself to the readers through the eyes of a man who is heavily affected by his present.90 With this in mind, it may be understandable that the focus is not on Alexander, who is presented in Daniel 8 and Daniel 11 as a stage on the road to Antiochos IV,91 but instead on the king who ‘exalts himself’ (Daniel 11:36), who is easily identifiable as Antiochos IV. Closely related in terms of time and content to the passages in the book of Daniel is the beginning of the deuterocanonical book 1 Maccabees, in which a brief historical outline leads to the author’s own time, again beginning with the oppression of Antiochos IV. After describing the latter’s defiling of the temple, the author describes the uprising of Judas Makkabaios. The historical outline, as the book itself, begins programmatically with a biographical sketch of Alexander.92 Here, Porteous 1986, 12. Ego 2014, 27: ‘Wieder ist entscheidend, dass die Alexanderfigur hier nur eine Etappe darstellt, die auf Antiochos IV. hinführt; wieder ist es die Verbindung von militärischer Stärke und plötzlichem Dahingerafftwerden auf der Höhe der Macht, die den Autor der Passage nachhaltig beeindruckt hat.’ 92 1 Macc. 1:1–7 (Translation by the Common English Bible with Apocrypha [CEBA]): ‘Alexander was Philip’s son, a Macedonian, one of the western peoples known as the Kittim. After Alexander became king of Greece, he defeated king Darius, who ruled the Persians and the Medes. By doing so, Alexander greatly enlarged his realm. He successfully fought many battles, conquered fortresses, and put to death many kings. He advanced to the very ends of the known earth, plundering nation after nation. Finally, his battles reached an end, and he was widely recognized as supreme king, which made him proud. He built a very strong army and ruled countries, nations, and princes; and they all owed allegiance to him. But eventually Alexander fell sick and was confined to bed. He knew that he was dying. He therefore called for his most esteemed officers, those who had been raised with him; and he divided his kingdom among them while he was still alive. Then Alexander died, having ruled for twelve years.’ 90 91

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again, the emphasis on Alexander’s military achievements is noticeable. His successes are presented almost with veneration, or at least without explicit criticism.93 Alexander’s campaign once more appears as a fateful event, which the author must mention as the beginning of the era he found himself in. It is also noticeable that, in contrast to Daniel, a pejorative statement about Alexander is made here concerning his death. He had become proud and haughty at the peak of his success (1 Macc. 1:3: καὶ ὑψώθη καὶ ἐπήρθη ἡ καρδία αὐτοῦ). The brevity of the presentation gives rise to the impression of a causality between hubris and the disease leading to death. This motif becomes more important if it is understood as a parallel to Antiochos IV. Since the motif of the death as the price for the ruler’s hubris in Daniel 8 and 11 is related to Antiochos IV, Alexander in 1 Maccabees appears as a typology for the later Seleucid king. This impression is strengthened by the fact that the 150 years between the two are dismissed in one verse: ‘They ruled as kings, and after them their descendants ruled for many years. Together they caused much suffering across the earth’. (1 Maccabees 1:9). Through this stylistic device, the history of Hellenistic Judea is presented in compressed form through its first and last significant representative; by the similar evaluation of these two rulers as pars pro toto the judgment on the Hellenistic kings (as a whole) is expressed in the words: ‘they caused much suffering across the earth’. The third peculiarity of this passage is the depiction of Alexander organising his succession on his deathbed (1 Maccabees 1:6), especially as it runs counter to the mainstream of ancient sources. The reason is most probably once more the endeavour to parallel Alexander and Antiochos IV, since it is also told of the latter that he arranged his succession on his deathbed (1 Maccabees 6:14–16). It is amiss to explain this analogy by the fact that the narration of Antiochos’ death was modelled after Alexander’s role model, as Beata Ego presumes.94 On the contrary, it must be assumed that Alexander’s death was modelled on Antiochos IV to present even more similarities between the two kings to the readers.95 These observations are unsurprising; a book which aims to legitimise the Hasmoneans takes a stronger interest in Antiochos IV, whose defeat is the foundation legend of this dynasty, than in his distant predecessor. Accordingly, the former is the subject of the book’s first six verses, the latter of its first six chapters. We therefore assume that Alexander’s portrayal – including the succession-arrangement on his deathbed – is a

I cannot agree with Tilly’s assessment that Alexander’s campaign is described in this place as a ‘grausamer Raubzug’: M. Tilly 2015, 66. 94 Ego 2014, 31: ‘Schließlich könnte im 1. Makkabäerbuch auch die Darstellung des Todes Antiochus’ IV. nach dem Modell “Alexander” gestaltet worden sein, wenn dieser ebenfalls auf dem Totenbett seine Nachfolge regelt (1 Makk 6,14–16)’. 95 M. Tilly 2015 , 67 , argues accordingly and sees little reason for believing that the author of 1 Maccabees possessed detailed knowledge about the alleged testament of Alexander that is mentioned in Diod. 20.81.3–4. 93

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conclusion derived by analogy between Antiochos IV and Alexander.96 At this point the delegitimisation of Hellenistic rule in its entirety is already tangible. CONCLUSION

In closing, we can use Weber’s methodological framework to describe the evolution of the Judean view of Alexander and his successors as a continuous decrease in legitimacy. When Alexander stood in front of Tyros, most Judeans probably did not know much more than his name, his Macedonian descent and his hitherto unstoppable advances into the Persian realm. As shown in the textual analysis above, he served unknowingly as a bearer of renewed eschatological hopes of – at least the theologically well-versed – Judeans. Zechariah 9 shows us the exact moment in which the ongoing war became interesting to a Judean observer – in the moment it reached places he knew by hearsay, like Hadrach and Hamath. It also shows us the moment the war became existentially relevant for him – when it reached a place that was a significant factor for his personal life, Tyros. We can further discern in this text his desired outcome of the war. The author welcomes the chance of witnessing the – in his perspective rightful – punishment of Tyros and the Philistine cities. As fulfilments of earlier biblical prophecies, these events commended themselves to be seen by him as acts of Israel’s God. The disadvantages of Persian rule were in plain view and real.97 Before he found himself under Hellenistic rule, however, there was no reason not to prefer the change and hope for the best, especially when entertaining the thought that the whole process was orchestrated by God. This makes perfect sense from the perspective of Weber’s concept of charismatic authority. Fittingly, Weber saw the time of upheaval during wars as the most typical opportunity for the emergence of charismatic authority.98 This kind of extraordinary authority is necessarily linked to extraordinary circumstances.99 Under these circumstances, the people’s enthusiasm, hopes, and fears can magnify the leader and make him seem God-sent.100 Weber also lays out the limitations this kind of authority has. The ideal-typical charismatic authority exists only in statu nascendi; that is before it undergoes a crucial process

M. Tilly 2015, 65, even calls Antiochos IV an ‘Alexander redivivus’. Even if the Persian Empire laid only a ‘relatively gentle hand’ (Gruen 1998, 189) on Yehud, it must have still felt heavier than the anticipated independence and rebirth of national grandeur. 98 M. Weber 2013, 508: ‘Charisma ist die typische Anfangserscheinung religiöser (prophetischer) oder politischer (Eroberungs-) Herrschaften.’ 99 Cf. M. Weber 2005, 737–738. 100 M. Weber 2013, 490 und 492: ‘Diese “Anerkennung” ist psychologisch eine aus Begeisterung oder Not und Hoffnung geborene gläubige ganz persönliche Hingabe’. The noteworthy attempt by Breuer 2011, 32–34, to prove this psychological mechanism using Jean Piaget’s developmental psychology might serve as a further substantiation of Weber’s argument. 96 97

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that Weber calls Veralltäglichung.101 Weber’s methodology should not be understood as a descriptive tool for a static social snapshot, like the one we found in Zechariah 9. He is far more interested in the dynamics, changes, and transformations of power and legitimacy; this is made abundantly clear by the different amount of space he grants the respective subjects.102 In great depths Weber tries to grasp the inner necessity of emerging rule over others to undergo a constant rationalisation; that is foremost an economisation. Throughout the third century Hellenistic rule over Judea became more and more intensified and it started to be felt by the peasant population only decades after its initial establishment, particularly because of the Syrian wars.103 It becomes apparent how the trajectories of the inherent necessity of economisation and rationalisation of Hellenistic rule on the one side and the Judean eschatological expectations on the other side were set to collide head-on right from the start. In this sense, the book of Daniel and 1 Maccabees might seem the logical completion of Zechariah 9; the analysis of these key texts gave us an impression of the limits that the charismatic legitimation of power would have had for Alexander. The Macedonian conqueror remained suitable as an incarnation of prophetic expectations only as long as the Hellenistic rulers were mostly uninvolved with the Judeans; afterwards, he became an aspect of the development leading up to the negative experiences they had with Antiochos IV, especially since not one of the desired events occurred. Philistia in fact did not turn to Yahweh, nor did the Messiah come. Eretz Israel was not restored and each and every Syrian War painfully reminded the Judeans that their God did not ‘take away the chariots’ and ‘break the battle bow’ yet. Another decisive reason for this virtually inevitable decline of Alexander’s legitimacy lies in the focus of representation on certain groups and the neglect of others. Alexander relied heavily on two groups, namely on the Greek and Macedonian elites and – even more – on the soldiers in his immediate proximity. This observation, too, can be backed with reference to Weber. He described the tendency of the soldiery forming a self-referential caste whose alienation from the general public also leads to a decreasing legitimacy.104 The concentration on these two groups can M. Weber 2013, 503: ‘Nur in statu nascendi und solange der charismatische Herr genuin außeralltäglich waltet, kann der Verwaltungsstab mit diesem aus Glauben und Begeisterung anerkannter Herrscher mäzenatisch oder von Beute oder Gelegenheitserträgen leben.’ 102 Breuer 2011, 44, points out that Weber’s treatment of the ‘transition of charisma’ is four times longer than the treatment on the genuine ‘charismatic authority’. 103 Aitken 2011 , 32 : ‘For the Jews, it was probably not until the latter half of the third century, nearly a century after Alexander’s death, that a real change began with the Syro-Palestinian wars and the eventual transference of Palestine from Ptolemaic to Seleucid control’; see also Eddy 1961, 184–186. 104 M. Weber 2001a, 210–212; Breuer 2011, 38, summarises Weber’s line of thought it as follows: ‘Von Legitimität gegenüber der übrigen Bevölkerung könne deshalb nicht gesprochen werden, allenfalls von einer solchen des frei erkorenen Führers gegenüber den gewöhnlichen Kriegern, die sich in diesem Fall auf ‚persönliche Qualitäten (Charismen)‘ stütze’. 101

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also be studied by his legitimising strategy of mantic demonstrations.105 Here again, the soldiery and the ‘home front’ are his target groups. Whereas it might have been worthwhile for Alexander to court Babylonian and Central Asian elites as well,106 it was far less necessary for him to mind the Judeans very much. It seems as if the development of Hellenistic rule was foretold in the commencing verses of Zechariah 9. The coming conqueror was accepted not for his own sake, but because of the anticipated eschatological symphony to which he was seen as the prelude. The more he himself and his successors proved to be in disharmony with the nation’s hope, the quicker the Hellenistic rulers lost acceptance until finally they were overthrown.

105 106

See Trampedach’s article in this volume. See the articles by Jursa and Giangiulio in this volume.

8 WOOING THE VICTOR WITH WORDS: BABYLONIAN PRIESTLY LITERATURE AS A RESPONSE TO THE MACEDONIAN CONQUEST* Michael Jursa This contribution starts out by addressing the structural preconditions determining the interaction between Babylonian (priestly) elites and their Graeco-Macedonian conquerors. Some problematic Babylonian sources with a bearing on the conquest itself are discussed. The principal question is how Hellenistic rule after Alexander prompted the Babylonian priesthood to develop new ways of expressing its understanding of its own role in society through a new form of literature: literature that aimed both at the group itself as well as at the new rulers. While this literature is mainly associated with Seleukos and his successors, its origins can be traced back to the interaction between Alexander and the priests of Babylon. SOURCES: THE PRIESTLY PERSPECTIVE

A discussion of Alexander’s conquest of Babylonia which is supposed to be based on the Babylonian record must limit itself essentially to a single source, albeit a very rich one: the entire pertinent written documentation from Babylonia comes from the archive of Esangila, the temple of the principal god of Babylonia, Marduk.1 The chronological range of this material extends from the late fifth century BCE to the first century AD, but the bulk of the material dates from the late fourth to the first century BCE. Foremost, there are thousands of astronomical tablets. These include the famous ‘Astronomical Diaries’, records of dated astronomical observations in a standardised format interspersed with information on prices of the principal agrarian commodities and notes on significant political events, mostly with a bearing on

*

1

This paper was written under the auspices of the project ‘Late Babylonian Priestly Literature: Ideology in Context,’ funded by the Fritz Thyssen Foundation. I am deeply grateful to Kai Trampedach for inviting me to participate in the meeting at the Villa Vigoni. I also have to thank him and Alexander Meeus for the careful reading of the manuscript and useful suggestions and corrections. Clancier 2009.

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the temple community in Babylon.2 The archive also includes several hundred legal and administrative documents as well as dozens, perhaps hundreds, of literary and religious compositions – many copies of older compositions, some new creations.3 All information referring to Alexander and his time must therefore be sifted for the particular viewpoint of its producers – essentially, the priests of Esangila. While obviously yielding a skewed image, this bias is also a blessing of sorts. After two centuries of Persian domination, especially after the destruction of most institutions of Babylonian self-rule by Xerxes in 484, in response to the crushing of two rebellions against the rule of this Persian king, the priests were the only coherently functioning group of native Babylonian origin that retained a certain institutional power at least in the cities, in part probably also in the countryside.4 The priests’ reaction to the arrival of a new and extremely powerful political player on the scene in the 330s is therefore of major interest for understanding the circumstances of Alexander’s conquest. In addition, the Babylonian Alexander dossier sheds light on some longterm trends in Babylonian history from the fourth to the first century. In this period, the priesthood’s original literary production as well as some of their historiographic, religious and ritual writings reflect their evolving views of their position in a changing political and socio-economic setting.5 Alexander’s arrival was demonstrably a watershed also from this wider point of view. BACKGROU ND: A ‘NEW CONSENSUS’ ON LATE ACHAIMENID BABYLONIA AND ITS TEMPLES?

For a long time, the period of Achaimenid rule was essentially seen as marked by continuity – change was by no means assumed to have been absent, but overall, the fifth and forth century were assumed to display continuity with the sixth century and the pre-conquest history of Babylonia. This assumption is part of the set of tenets associated with the school of New Achaimenid Historians.6 They emphasise the bias of Greek historiography on the Achaimenid empire and suggest that a critical reading of these texts, accompanied by an up-to-date understanding of Achaimenid2 3

4 5 6

References, e.g., in Pirngruber 2017, 13–22 and Ossendrijver 2018. For the diaries, see now http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/adsd/. For the archival documents see e.g. Hackl 2013, 2018 and Monerie 2018, 7–17. The literary material has not yet been sifted satisfactorily, owing, in part, to the deplorable state of preservation of many tablets. See Clancier 2009, 447–470 for a preliminary catalogue. For the compositions that are arguably not copies of older originals but rather creations of the ‘late period,’ in particular of the third and second century BCE, see Jursa and Debourse in press. Their general nature and intention is discussed in the final section of this paper. The rebellions against Xerxes and their repercussions are discussed most recently in Waerzeggers / Seire 2018. Jursa / Debourse 2017; Jursa / Debourse in press. For this term, see Harrison 2011. Some pertinent studies are cited in Waerzeggers 2015b, 182 n. 4.

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period sources (non­Greek sources, that is), shows the empire as a vibrant and efficient political entity that maintained in its several parts high levels of stability and (relative) prosperity with relatively little use of violence. Specialised Assyriological research on Achaimenid Babylonia has nuanced this picture, at least for the central satrapy of Babylonia. We now know that the early fifth century saw a major break in this supposed continuity.7 The Persian reprisals against the Babylonian rebels (mostly urban landowners from cities in northern Babylonia) in 484 BCE entailed an upheaval of property rights and a shift of socio-economic power in the cities and in the countryside. Babylonian elites suffered heavily. Institutions and practices were put in place that allowed the new ruling elites – Persians, Babylonian collaborators, mostly homines novi, Egyptians, Westsemites – a maximum of access to the resources of the province. The economic expansion which the country had experienced in the sixth century had been created by a fortuitous combination of long-term economic and climatic background conditions and much more short-lived political factors.8 The new political and socio-economic structures established under Persian rule ended up undermining the very foundation of the prospering economy whose fruits they were intended to harvest. They targeted, rather than aimed at benefitting, the economic well-being of the main agents of the economic expansion of the sixth century, the Babylonian urban upper classes. The priestly class, especially the part associated with the capital and Esangila, suffered in particular. The Marduk temple lost major parts of its estates – which were expropriated and given to local supporters of Persian rule, as well as to Persian nobles and in part to the Crown itself. Also, and even more importantly, the Persians dismantled the whole system of priestly offices in Esangila on which the self­perception and the internal hierarchy of the priestly class rested.9 They also abolished the office of High Priest of Esangila.10 The impact of these acts for the priests cannot easily be overstated when we know that as a whole the priesthood at the time moved towards a self-enclosed ‘caste’ obsessed with purity of bloodlines and group-internal status distinctions.11 These data can only be partly counterbalanced by evidence for continuity of Babylonian (templebased) astronomical scholarship under the later Achaimenids and for royal interest in this aspect of priestly activities, especially with respect to the management of the calendar.12 The new view then is that there must have been significant disaffection among Babylonian elites on the eve of Alexander’s arrival. That this disaffection was nurtured further by the significant economic problems the country experienced in this 7 8 9 10 11 12

Waerzeggers / Seire 2018; Monerie 2018, 66–79; Pirngruber 2017, 35–66. Jursa 2010. Hackl 2018, 177–182. Only at the very end of the Achaemenid period, the šatammu (‘High Priest’ vel sim.) of Esangila re-appears in the record: Hackl 2018, 176. See Still 2016 for the most recent synthesis on the social system underpinning Babylonian priesthood in the first millennium BCE. Ossendrijver 2018.

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period cannot be proven, but it is highly likely.13 This is the background against which the available evidence for Alexander’s interaction with the Babylonians – i.e., essentially with the Babylon priesthood – must be read. At the eve of the Macedonian conquest, Babylonian urban elites – essentially coextensive with the priesthood at least in the capital city – had never experienced any other political power than that of the Achaimenid Great king: a power whose highest representatives were essentially beyond the ken of the Babylonians. It is true that the traditional view sees Babylon as well-integrated into the empire’s framework as one of the four capital cities, on equal footing with Ekbatana, Sousa and Persepolis. However, this seems improbable in the light of the available documentary evidence: royal visits are documented only in very few cases, and overall the king is an entirely remote figure not only for everyman’s experience, but also in elite perception.14 In this context, engaging in a political dialogue with the king and royal power would have seemed at best an improbable prospect. Persian imperial power would have been perceived as something to be experienced and, at best, mitigated by local agency, but it would not have been considered amenable to negotiation.15 This changed dramatically with the arrival of Alexander. As Bert van der Spek has shown,16 a lunar eclipse observed in Babylonia on 20 September 331 BCE would have been interpreted by Esangila’s astrologers as an extremely negative portent for the ruling king – at the time still Dareios III – in fact, the omen predicted his downfall. This indeed came to pass, as the battle of Gaugamela occurred eleven days later. The Babylonian priests cannot have been but satisfied with the practical corroboration of their prediction at which they had arrived through the application of the most advanced techniques of celestial divination available at the time. Concomitantly, even disregarding their opinion of Dareios III, they necessarily saw Alexander as enjoying the support of the gods.17

13 14 15

16 17

The systemic differences between the Babylonian economy in the late Achaemenid period and the Seleucid period are strongly emphasised by Monerie 2018. Waerzeggers 2015b, 185–187, who bases herself on the evidence gathered by Tolini 2011. The ‘absence’ of the Great King in the Late Achaemenid period is borne out by the few and terse ‘historical’ or ‘chronographical’ sections included in the Astronomical Diaries bearing on the Late Achaemenid period. Sachs-Hunger No. -366 refers to a royal order arriving in Esangila and speaks of summoning of royal officials to Sousa; similarly, ibid. 148 No. -346, in which a royal letter is referred to. This exhausts the evidence for interaction between the Achaemenid royal administration and the Esangila temple referred to in the Diaries. There is only one chronicle available for the entire Late Achaemenid period, Grayson 1975, no. 9 (referring to the entry into Babylon of prisoners captured during one of the campaigns of Artaxerxes III), in contrast to over twenty such chronicles for the subsequent Hellenistic (and Parthian) period. Significantly, the Artaxerxes III chronicle does not attribute any agency to an individual Babylonian or a Babylonian institution, and neither do the historical notes in the diaries. This is in marked contrast to numerous chronicles referring to the Hellenistic period. Ours is not just an argument from silence. Van der Spek 2003, 292–295. Cf. Köhler, this volume, for a similar perception of Alexander in Judea.

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GAUGAMELA AND ALEXANDER’S ENTRY INTO BABYLON

The decisive battle against Dareios III is explicitly mentioned in Babylonian sources. According to a fragmentary record preserved in an Astronomical Diary,18 ‘the king of the world (šar kiššati)’ – Alexander, receiving a hallowed title reflecting the priestly authors’ acceptance of his claim to empire19 – inflicted a ‘heavy defeat’ on the troops of ‘the king’ (i.e., Dareios III). Thereupon ‘the troops abandoned the king and [returned] to their homes. [The king and his nobles] fled to the land of the Gutians’.20 After a gap, the unfortunately heavily damaged text reports on negotiations between the conquering Greeks and the Babylonians. Clearly the latter are to be understood here, as elsewhere, essentially as the temple community.21 In the diary, there is no indication (and also no space for restoring an indication) that a representative of Persian imperial power was involved in these negotiations. This, however, is suggested by classical accounts of the city’s fall to Alexander, which attribute a decisive role to the imperial official Mazaios, who had retreated to the city after the battle.22 However, the diary also does not state explicitly that the Esangila’s priestly hierarchy was involved in these negotiations. In fact, both these parties will have been present, or at the very least, the Babylonians’ interests were well represented. The damage of the passage in question notwithstanding, its gist is clear. The focus is entirely on the temple and its community, whose interests are seen as coterminous with those of the city, whose safety after conquest is the principal issue at hand. The diary reports the arrival of two messages from the conquerors within the period of a few days. This must reflect the coming and going of messengers, i.e., true negotiations in form of a dialogue, while the conquering army approached the city. The first message refers to the temple and its treasury, most likely in the context of an offer by 18

19

20

21 22

Van der Spek 2003, 297–299. The translation is mine, but differences are mostly stylistic. Only significant departures from van der Spek’s text are marked in italics. See also for convenience the online edition of the text, http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/adsd/adart1/corpus#X103301.31 (retrieved 2. 3. 2019) as well as the brief discussion by Clancier / Monerie 2014, 185–187. The text has been discussed frequently; see also e.g. Briant 2003, 79–84. The distinction between ‘king of the world’ and ‘king’ is undoubtedly a ‘value judgment’ (see the discussion by van der Spek 2003, 299) in the sense that Babylonians, in their vision of their own past and, implicitly, of their future, expect to find themselves on the side of a ‘king of the world.’ This historical note was clearly drafted at a point in time when both Alexander’s victory and the Marduk priests’ good relations with the king were beyond doubt. The ‘land of the Gutians’ is an anachronistic term for the highlands east of the Tigris. The term draws on a register of partly historical, partly mythical, geography that the Esangila priests employ to insert into their tradition-bound worldview the ‘non-traditional’ agents of their own present. The term ‘Hanaeans’ (originally semi-nomadic groups from Western Syria, in the Middle Bronze age) for the invading Graeco-Macedonians is of the same origin (see e.g. van der Spek 2003, 298). For the severely restricted perspective of Late Babylonian society and literature on (Western) geography beyond Mesopotamia proper see Joannès 1997. Note the distinction the diary makes between the ‘Babylonians’ and the ‘people [of the land]’ (van der Spek 2003, 299 line 13’). Arrian, Curtius Rufus, as summarised e.g. by Clancier / Monerie 2014, 184–185.

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Alexander to keep them safe. In the second message, received while Alexander was in the city of Sippar, not far north of Babylon, the king is cited explicitly as guaranteeing the safety of the temple community’s dwellings and hence of their families and belongings.23 The negotiations clearly ended satisfactorily for both sides. Two days later, an advance party of Greeks entered the city and sacrificed a bull, clearly as a thanks­offering, the details of which the priestly chronicler duly noted in his record. Shortly afterwards, the king himself arrived, together with his cavalry and a train of equipment. Possibly a proclamation was read to the populace or the temple community shortly afterwards, but the text is too fragmentary to be certain. We can in any case assume that the entry was peaceful and presumably colourful, and that subsequently the new king enjoyed the local community’s acceptance.24 ALEXANDER IN BABYLON AND THE BABYLONIAN PRIESTHOOD

After Alexander’s entry into the city, relations between the priestly community in Babylon and the new rulers would seem to have remained on a friendly footing. The priests could engage in restoration work on their temple, and in particular on the temple tower, which apparently was in a dilapidated state. This is shown by a growing dossier of published and unpublished Babylonian documents from the reign of Alexander referring to money tithes paid to Esangila by Babylonians of different status and backgrounds. These tithes were conceived of as ex voto gifts; they were Van der Spek restores the first of the Greek messages as follows: ‘Esagila [will be restored] and the Babylonians to the treasury of Esagila [their tithe will give.’] (van der Spek 2003, 298). This restoration is based on what is known about the financing of the temple restoration that occurred after the conquest (see below). However, this reconstruction of the statement seems oddly out of place and too technical or specific in light of the much more essential information the Babylonians receive from Alexander in the subsequent message two days later: ‘I will not enter into your houses.’ Furthermore, philology mitigates against van der Spek’s reading: the direct object (‘tithes’) should be mentioned before the indirect object (‘to the treasury of Esagila’) and hence should be preserved in the text. I would suggest to restore the message thus: ‘Esangila [shall be safe]. [Let] the Babylonians [not fear] for the treasury of Esangila (ana makkūr  Esangila  [lā  ipallahū].’ So, the king would first have given some guarantees for the city’s institutions. The Babylonians would have asked back: ‘and what about us and our families?,’ to which Alexander replied as quoted above. This is certainly a plausible narrative, but it obviously remains a conjecture. Van der Spek 2003, 300–301 placed the fragment BM 36613 into the same context, but the new reading of the chronicle (BCHP 4) does not bear this out. 24 Even though it is of little value as a historical source in the present context, Curtius Rufus’ somewhat ‘orientalist’ re­imagination of the scene may not be so far off the mark – with the exception of the collaboration of magi with Babylonians in the musical reception committee and the distinction between the ‘Chaldeans’ and the Babylonian ‘diviners.’ ‘A large part of the Babylonians stood on the walls, intent on seeing the new king; and many went out to receive him … Then came the Magi, who were singing according to their fashion, and after them the Chaldeans, and from among the Babylonians not just the diviners, but also musicians with their particular instruments. The latter used to sing the praise of kings, while the Chaldeans interpret the movement of the celestial bodies and regular change of the seasons’ (Curt. 5.1.19–22). 23

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intended for the ‘removal of rubble of Esangila’, i.e., for clearing of the site for the purpose of reconstruction.25 This project in fact lasted for decades and continued well into the Seleucid period, when a Babylonian chronicle mentions Seleukos’ crown prince Antiochos employing elephants for the clearing of the rubble.26 Arrian (and similarly also Strabo) has it that Alexander expressly enjoined the priests to reconstruct their temple that had been destroyed by Xerxes and that he was willing to commit royal resources for this purpose.27 While this may or may not be the case,28 it is certain that the priests’ temple building project had Alexander’s blessing at the very least. At the same time, the king’s willingness to go out of his way to accommodate priestly interests related to the city of Babylon should not be overrated. The large funerary monument he had constructed for Hephaistion was built, Diodoros tells us, using bricks taken from the city walls of Babylon: this would hardly have been welcome to the city’s elites.29 As a result of the conquest and the encouraging interaction between the king and the temple community on that occasion, the Babylonian priesthood, including the astronomers/astrologers, was effectively co­opted into supporting Alexander’s kingship: they were expected, or at least they themselves expected, to render their traditional service of evaluating the relationship between the king and the divine, and suggesting ways of rectifying it in case of a disturbance. This is suggested by the testimony of classical sources referring to the death of Alexander. Several authors (i.a., Appian, Arrian, Diodoros) speak of Babylonian diviners warning the king against entering Babylon upon his return from the east as he would die there. Arrian 7.24 even seems to refer to the venerable ritual for the substitute king intended to obviate the evil portent threatening the king – once he had entered the city – by providing ‘fate’ with a dispensable substitute target. Van der Spek refers to possibly astronomical/astrological grounds that might have prompted the Babylonian sages to come to their conclusion.30 He also suggests that Alexander’s continuing support for the building work in Babylon may have been solicited by the priests as a means towards obviating the impending evil.31 A sober re-evaluation of the classical evidence by Wiemer, however, accepts that Babylonian priests plausibly may have offered advice to the king, and that there may even have been an attempt to stage something akin to a ritual for a substitute king. However, the king’s reaction to these 25 26 27 28

29 30 31

Monerie 2018, 98–103. While the tablets mention ‘Esangila,’ it is clear that in fact the temple tower (ziqqurratu), Etemenanki, is meant. According to the ‘ruin of Esangila chronicle,’ BCHP 6. Monerie 2018, 95–103. The fragmentary chronicle BM 36613 (van der Spek 2003, 300–301) may contain a Babylonian reference to a pertinent order given by Alexander, but this remains uncertain, owing to the deplorable state of preservation of the tablet (see BCHP 4). See Wiemer 2007, 297–8. Van der Spek 2003, 332–340. BM 36613 (BCHP 6) could be reconstructed as a pertinent Babylonian source for this final point.

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overtures were certainly not in line with the norms of behaviour the priests would have projected onto him based on their cultural memory. Alexander, in short, did not really ‘play along’ as the Babylonians would have expected.32 Going further, van der Spek suggests connecting the Greek evidence for a Babylonian warning delivered to Alexander with a Babylonian text, the ‘Dynastic Prophecy’.33 This fragmentary vaticinium ex eventu is known from a single (undated and heavily damaged) manuscript from the Esangila library. It records a sequence of dynasties reigning in Babylonia whose fate, in part at least, is predicated on their attitude towards Babylon and the Marduk temple and the Marduk cult. The text does not give a complete run-down of kings and dynasties of the Iron Age; rather, it focusses on periods of transition and regime change: essentially, the Neo-Babylonian empire and the establishment of the Persian empire by Kyros, and the end of the Achaimenid period, the Macedonian conquest and, we will argue, the establishment of Seleucid rule.34 Here, we are interested in a part of the text which has attracted much attention already. It speaks of the reign of Dareios III, ‘a prince’ who ‘[will exercise] kingship for five years’ after having gained the throne in a rebellion. What follows I quote in full:35 The Hanaean army36 [(small gap)] will attack [(half a line lost)]. His army [(half a line lost)]. [Th]ey will plunder his [p]roperty, [his booty] they will carry off. Later37 [(someone)38] will

32 33

34

35

36

37

38

See Wiemer 2007, 289–295 and 301–306. The principal bibliographical point of reference for this much-discussed text is van der Spek 2003, 311–340. The most recent full discussion is Neujahr 2012, 58–71. For additional references, see Kosmin 2018, 172–177, with the bibliographical notes given there. Waerzeggers (2015b, 205–208) discussed the question of the text’s focus, i.e., the question of whether or not the (badly broken) manuscript contained a lengthy passage on the Persian period, the existence of which would make the concentration on periods of regime change in the extant text more apparent than real. Given the identical focus of the rest of the late period’s historicalliterary production, this bias would not be surprising (pace the argument of W. G. Lambert cited by Waerzeggers; see Jursa / Debourse, in press); it seems unlikely that the text treated the Achaemenid period extensively. The translation follows Neujahr 2012, 61 (with slight stylistic adaptations) unless the opposite is stated explicitly. The tablet is broken at the end of the column in question, so there are short gaps in most cases at the ends of the lines (which, however, were quite short in general). Hanaeans are the Graeco-Macedonians, see n.19. Neujahr’s ‘the army of the Hanaean,’ implying a singular (i.e., Alexander) for lúerímmeš kur ha-ni-i is misleading; this would have been spelled lúha-ni-i. The expression means literally ‘the/an army from the land of Hanî, see, e.g., Sachs-Hunger I, 191: ‘year 8 of Alexander, the king who is from the land of Hanî’ (šá ta kur ha-ni-i). Arkānu. Neujahr: ‘Afterwards’. This word is important, it is not used otherwise in the text to join ‘predictions;’ here it must imply a temporal gap in the sequence whose importance has been overlooked (with the exception of Kosmin 2018, 286 n. 161). Pace Neujahr, and following van der Spek, something – the subject of the subsequent verb – is missing at the end of the line. This point is also overlooked in the recent discussion of Kosmin 2018, 174. His interpretation, which is also the one adopted here (i.e. that Seleukos is meant) requires the restoration of a new agent in line 16.

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array [his] army and raise39 his weapons. (The gods) Enlil, Šamaš and [Marduk] will walk beside his army. He [will effect] the defeat of the Hanaean army. He will car[ry] away his extensive booty [and] he will bring it to his palace. The people who [had experienced] misfortune [will experience] well-being. The mood of the land [will be good]. [He will grant] tax exemption [to Babylon].40

Thus, after five years’ rule, a ruler who can only be Dareios III is defeated by ‘Hanaean’ troops. The text then goes on to speak of a subsequent41 defeat visited in turn on the ‘Hanaeans’ by a ruler who is introduced in a break42 and who would go on to provide security and tax exemption for Babylon. Van der Spek (and Neujahr after him) read this as a real ‘prediction’ after a series of vaticinia ex eventu: they argue that since ‘the Hanaean army’ is mentioned twice, and in the first case clearly must be identified with the army of Alexander, the army of Alexander must be intended also in the second case. So for van der Spek this must be a Babylonian warning for Alexander against future defeat. The text was thus composed in his reign (at least up to this point) and may have served to alert him to future danger – e.g. upon his return from the east. Thus far van der Spek’s interpretation. However, it is forced to see this passage as a real prediction, rather than as another vaticinium ex eventu, albeit an important one in the overall context of the composition, given its disproportionate length. It is hard to explain why in that case the text would have been continued beyond this point. Also, the interpretation proposed by van der Spek does not account for the fact that Alexander, the proposed beneficiary of the whole exercise, is not even mentioned as a cipher: according to the phrasing of the Prophecy, only the Hanaean army will act, and be acted upon, not its leader. Surely, if this Prophecy had been intended for Alexander, an individual figure for him to identify with would have been introduced. This final point, and the fact that the ‘Hanaean victory’ and the ‘Hanaean defeat’ are separated by an undefined period of time (‘later’, arkānu), point to the correct solution. The temporal frame of reference for this passage is vague. It is held together only by the matrix of the presence of Graeco­Macedonian troops. The latter, in the final count, are supposed to be defeated by a leader43 who thereby ushers in a period of Reading í[l-ši]: there is space for an additional sign at the end of the line. The final restoration was suggested by van der Spek 2003. 41 The temporal reference given by the text is imprecise. 42 Or indeed by the previous ‘defeated’ king, i.e., Dareios III, himself (Neujahr). Neujahr’s understanding is that this part of the text was intended as a real prediction, that it was the original conclusion of the composition, that it was intended to gather support for Dareios III while the outcome of the conflict was still uncertain, and that the composition was extended at a later point. Very briefly, I argue that this interpretation cannot stand, a) because the gap preceding the verb ‘to array’ requires a restoration which can only be a new subject, i.e., a new king (col. III line 13: restore lúnun ‘a (new) prince’), b) because no Babylonian priestly author is known to have written a ‘propaganda’ text for a Late Achaemenid king, nor is any priest likely to have had an interest in drafting such a composition, and c) the preservation and continuation of such a composition in the Seleucid period would be completely unexpected. 43 We would suggest to restore the title ‘prince’ in column III, line 13, see the preceding note. 39 40

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exemplary good government. This clearly is a, or even the, climax in the text. That the composition continues beyond this point can only mean that the ‘good’ ruler so elaborately described is of paradigmatic value for what follows. If the text measured subsequent rulers principally against this yardstick (the badly damaged final part mentions at least one ‘bad’ and one ‘good’ king), and if, as is almost certain, the text ends with the expectation of ‘eternal’ rule for the last ‘good’ king (and his house),44 in the final count the text must be about the Seleucid dynasty. No other possibility will fit.45 The defeat of the Hanaean army is better understood to refer, not to a defeat of Alexander himself, but more generically to that of a Hellenistic army at the hands of a new pretender who enjoyed local favour, sometime after Alexander’s conquest. The only plausible candidate for this pretender is Seleukos I,46 who lavished funds on Esangila and is generally seen in a favourable light by the Babylonian sources. Also classical sources attest to a – perhaps comparatively – positive relationship between Seleukos and Babylonia, even before the matter of the succession had been settled.47 Seen in this light, it seems a minor problem, or indeed understandable, that the Dynastic Chronicle should to some degree gloss over the many twists and turns of the turbulent years after Alexander’s death by adding the simple adverb ‘later’, arkānu. There is one obvious objection to this interpretation: one might ask whether Seleukos was not just as much a ‘Hanaean’ as his rivals?48 In fact, this question goes to the very heart of the matter: it is precisely here that the priestly authors want to make their principal point. We would argue that they in fact do claim Seleukos as a ‘native’ ruler, or, as a minimum, as the founder of a ‘native’, in the sense of ‘acceptable’, dynasty.49 This can be explained by reference to the wider intellectual and 44

45

46

47 48

49

The prediction ends with ‘[… will arise] and seize the land. [(gap of one line)] [His sons …] will rule.’ We expect an ending similar to that of the (roughly contemporary) ‘Uruk prophecy’ (‘He will exercise [ruler]ship and kingship in the midst of Uruk; his dynasty will be established forever. [The king]s of Uruk will exercise rulership like the gods.’ (Neujahr 2013, 53). Epigraphically, the one available manuscript of the Dynastic Chronicle predates the Arsacid period, so it cannot refer to this dynasty. Kosmin 2018, 175–176 suggests that the final column, with its ‘real’ prediction, referred to a last change of dynasty, but it might just as well foresee the unbroken rule of the descendants of the Seleucid ruler who was cast in the role of the final ‘good’ king. Geller 1990, 6, was the first to suggest this identification. However, he believes that the preceding lines (before arkānu) do not talk about a defeat of Dareios III, but about Antigonos. This has been refuted i.a. by Neujahr 2013, 66 and van der Spek 2003, 300–301. Later interpreters who also argue in favour of Seleukos are Del Monte 2001 and Kosmin 2018, 175–176. See Diod. 19.90.1 and 19.91.1–2, where it is suggested that Seleukos had made himself beloved of the Babylonians during the four years of his governorship. Van der Spek 2003, 331; Neujahr 2013, 66. This particular point is not answered in Kosmin 2018, 286 n. 161, where he argues in favour of the identification of the king in question with Seleukos I. This is not contradicted by the fact that other Babylonian sources explicitly designate him as ‘Macedonian’ (thus the Antiochos Cylinder) and speak of Macedonia as ‘his (scil. Seleukos’) country’ (BCHP 9). The point is the acceptability of the dynasty, more than that of the individual

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political context of the literary corpus to which the Dynastic Prophecy belongs: a corpus which owes its existence to a significant degree to Alexander’s conquest. BABYLONIAN PRIESTLY LITERATURE: A RESPONSE TO HELLENISTIC RULE

When Antiochos III the Great entered Babylon in 188 BCE, he made lavish offerings at the gate of Esangila. The temple community who greeted him gifted him a crown and other golden objects. Later the king visited the ‘Day-One temple’. There, he was shown, or perhaps even given, a garment that was presented to him as the purple robe of Nebuchadnezzar.50 The symbolic meaning is clear: in this carefully orchestrated event, the priests aimed at establishing a link of continuity between the venerated great king of their ‘national’ past and the Hellenistic sovereign whose euergetism they craved.51 At the same time, the king was surely no unwilling, accidental participant in this symbolic communication. The point made was not lost on him, and may well have been welcome.52 This exchange presents, on the level of performative politics, much the same idea as the reading of the Dynastic Prophecy presented above: there is an element of symbolic appropriation of the conquerors by the vanquished. At the same time, the symbolism employed serves to enhance the sense of identity, defined by rootedness in history, and thus the coherence as a group, of the Babylonian (Marduk) priests who authored it. Many, perhaps all the original literary products of the Late Babylonian priesthood from Babylon – ‘Late Babylonian Priestly Literature’ – can be inserted into this paradigm.53 Several historical literary texts – narratives about ‘Great Kings’, historical or otherwise, of the past – reflect the Esangila community’s historiographic interests. On linguistic grounds, these (undated and anonymous) narratives can be shown to have been composed not before the fourth century, and probably later. The texts revolve around the triangle ‘Marduk – priest – king’, with the latter’s fate essentially being predicated on his behaviour vis-à-vis the other two. There is particular interest in phases of transition (the Late Kassite period, the transition

50 51

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king. This is made clear by the Antiochos Cylinder itself, where Antiochos I, Seleukos’ son, receives a plethora of traditional Babylonian royal titles (see Kosmin 2014, 113–114). E.g. Sherwin­White / Kuhrt 1993, 216; Madreiter 2016. See Beaulieu 2006, 125–126, who points out that Berossos presented Nebuchadnezzar as ruler over Palestine and Egypt, to turn him into a better role model for the Seleucids whose interest in claiming the Neo-Babylonian empire as a legitimate forerunner of their own empire the Babyloniaka wants to promote. Nielsen (2018, 136) speaks of ‘the Seleucid use of the Babylonian past’ and of ‘the willingness of Berossos and men like him’ to help ‘them access that past’. Overall, however, Late Babylonian literature is born out of Babylonian concerns and caters for Seleucid interests only through the lens of the Babylonian reading of these interests. Jursa / Debourse (in press) is a first attempt at a comprehensive survey of the material. See also Waerzeggers 2015a, 2015b, 2017; De Breucker 2015; Jursa / Debourse 2017.

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from Assyrian to Neo-Babylonian rule, the fall of the Neo-Babylonian dynasty), in the impact of foreign rule and in the space for agency left for priests. In fact, the role of the priests, and occasionally of other non-royal actors, in this literature is expanded beyond recognition in comparison to earlier comparanda; and the theme of ‘resistance to illegitimate power’ is strongly developed. This literature reflects the priesthood’s need, after the Macedonian conquest, to renegotiate ‘its position within a new set of power relations’, ‘the past’ serving ‘both as a source of exempla for the present and as a means to forge community bonds and group identity’. The interconnection of the priesthood with the king was examined, obviously with the intention of ‘maintain[ing] that legitimizing bond also in the future’.54 In fact, essentially all priestly writings of the Late Period, not only historical-literary texts, also temple rituals and other supposedly ‘practical’ compositions,55 display the same pervasive interest in the interaction between the king and the priests, in cultic correctness and in the consequences of royal impropriety. Beyond the Cuneiform tradition, the Babyloniaka of Berossos – who was a Babylonian priest – is also a product of this type of literature.56 Whether his ‘Babylonian History’ was dedicated to Antiochos I or to Antiochos II, it is clear that the text emphasises the Babylonian priestly scholars’ privileged access to antediluvian knowledge and thus shares a principal interest with the compositions written in Babylonian in this period: the priests’ indispensability for ‘correct’ execution of kingship, and their ability to establish royal legitimation.57 In the context of this new strand of literary production, the Babylon priesthood engaged in an imaginative, literary (re-)construction of its past and of its role in the present and the future, in response to the new political situation in which the priests found themselves after the fall of the Persian empire. They were still excluded from the centre of political power, and found themselves in a difficult socio­economic setting, but they also perceived new possibilities and perhaps new threats and challenges on the horizon owing to the new Graeco-Macedonian regime. The case of Berossos and other interconnections with Greek historiography strongly suggest that this literature was not entirely intended for a ‘group-internal’ use, but in fact directly or indirectly addressed the non-Babylonian rulers it implicitly talks about. A use of this literature as a kind of Fürstenspiegel, mirror of princes, is certainly not its only purpose. Still, the intention of persuasion – not only of auto-persuasion – regarding the importance of Babylonian temple institutions and their personnel would seem to be too obviously present in these texts to be discounted. Plausible and pertinent channels of communication between the Priests and the Graeco-Macedonian elite

Waerzeggers 2015a, 118–119. Debourse in press. 56 E.g. Beaulieu 2006; van der Spek 2008; Bach 2013; De Breucker 2012; Haubold et al. 2013; Dillery 2015. 57 E.g. Bach 2013. Note that for Dillery 2015, 66–72, Berossos’ interest in sages and ancestral wisdom reflects a Hellenistic inflection of local Babylonian views. This seems unlikely; in any case, the motif is quite prominent in Late Babylonian Priestly Literature in general. 54 55

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that allowed transmitting material from one cultural sphere to the other demonstrably existed. As far as there is positive evidence (as in the case of the Dynastic Prophecy or of Berossos), the ‘outside’ addressees of this literature were the first Seleucid kings, that much is certain. These texts are signs of an intellectual engagement of Babylonian elites with their own identity and their role in the new political circumstances after the conquest. They reflect an attempt to influence their new rulers by specifically tailored works of literature and manuals of ritualistic practice expressing a sense of duty, importance or even ‘mission’ on part of the priesthood. This flowering of creativity in the late period must reflect a new climate, possibly a climate of hope, in which it seemed plausible that something could be achieved with this type of literary production. Seleucid euergetism vis-à-vis the Babylonian temple institutions supports this reading of the evidence.58 There is a stark contrast to the late Persian period, marked as it is by the inaccessibility, or absence, of the Great King, and by the overall lack of interest of the rulers in the Babylonian temple institutions. The watershed here is Alexander’s conquest. The dialogue that began with the king’s arrival under the walls of Babylon, his probable interest in Babylonian divination and astrology and his, if perhaps not support, then openness towards Babylonian cult and its needs gave opportunities to the Babylonians which they would have been quick to seize. This is not tantamount to arguing in favour of Alexander’s having accepted entirely or even to a significant degree the role Babylonian priests would have expected him to play if he wanted to conform to the image of a native king. Alexander was neither the last Achaimenid,59 nor a new Nebuchadnezzar. But he did interact with Babylonian elites and he did accommodate some of their demands, and his overall approach certainly appeared strikingly different from that of the last Achaimenid Great Kings. This would have a lasting impact on the Babylonian elite’s attitudes. Overall, Alexander’s reign was probably too short and politically and economically too fraught with difficulties to have allowed the Babylonian priests thoroughly to recalibrate their allegiances and socio-economic and political aspirations – but when the time came, with Seleukos, the seed laid by Alexander bore fruit and the priests started wooing their new masters ever more intensively with the products of their erudition.

58 59

E.g. Monerie 2018, 177–348; Pirngruber 2017, 66–70. Wiemer 2007 for a discussion of this concept that was coined by P. Briant.

9 SHAPING THE NEW WORLD: ONCE MORE ON THE CITIES OF ALEXANDER Maurizio Giangiulio Who could guess from Arrian of the magnificent richness of the oasis of Herāt, through which so many waterways ran […] or of the oasis of Kandahar where two great rivers converged? Nobody. It is as if, except for a few mountains or rivers that are but names in the text, Alexander marched over a college lawn.1

A PREMISE: HISTORIOGRAPHY, METHODOLOGY, INTERPRETATION

Research on Alexander’s foundations is in a state of flux. Droysen’s and Tarn’s approaches to Alexander’s foundations in terms of the spread of Greek culture and fusion of races, respectively, have become obsolete by now, yet received assumptions and traditional viewpoints tend to maintain a longstanding influence on research. More often than not current interpretive strategies of Alexander’s conquests and city foundations, especially in Central Asia, remain somehow stereotypical. And new paradigms replace the old ones with great difficulty.2 Notably, the analytical categories applied in current research still appear to be affected by the imperialist and mercantilist culture of European colonialism.3 As a result, assigning to such and such foundation either a military or a commercial purpose (or, at most, the triple purpose of military, commercial and colonial settlement) is very often assumed to be all one can hope for in terms of a historical understanding of Alexander’s foundations. One is led to think of Peter Fraser’s Cities of Alexander the Great, a book that is a masterpiece of erudition, critical rigour and analytic skills, yet is fully redolent of nineteenth-century British colonialism:

1 2

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Fraser 1996, 172. The bibliography is huge: see esp. Droysen 1877–78 III, 189–358; Tscherikower 1927; Tarn 1948, 232–259; Bosworth 1988a, 245–250; Holt 1988; Jähne 1992; Fraser 1996; Hammond 1998; Ziegler 1998; G. Cohen 2013. For an illuminating discussion of how colonial mentalité influenced the views of Alexander’s conquests in twentieth-century France, see Briant 1979, and now also Briant 2012b.

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‘[Alexander’s Foundations …] foreshadow the strategic requirements and economic potential on which, centuries later, the imperial strategists of British India, from Masson (and even his predecessors) to Curzon and Holdich insisted. […] the locations of Alexander’s cities testify that the requirements of imperial rule in Central Asia are laid down by nature, and were as valid in the time of Alexander (and earlier) as in that of Queen Victoria’.4 The picture of Alexander’s foundations drawn by Brian Bosworth is also worth recalling here. The new cities ‘were conceived as propugnacula imperii’, and they introduced ‘permanent alien garrison force in the conquered territory’. In sum, they ‘were for military purposes and imposed reluctant settlers upon still more reluctant hosts’.5 Paradoxically, a historical hermeneutics that tends to remain subdued to outdated worldviews often stands alongside the great progress of research on details. As regards Alexander’s foundations, on one hand, studies of historical topography, surface surveys and archaeological excavations have considerably contributed to advancing knowledge in this field. On the other hand, sophisticated source criticism – which has been extended to late-antique and ‘oriental’ sources – has delegitimised any reconstruction based on the literal interpretation of ancient historical narratives such as the picture of Alexander’s foundations drawn by Nicholas Hammond.6 Especially Peter Fraser’s critical analysis of the whole corpus of the available sources in most cases can hardly be called into question. As a consequence, a meaningful number of Alexander’s cities can now be located with good likelihood, and this fact paves the way for considerations on the landscapes and the ecologies to which these cities belonged. In this context, one has to face the task both of trying to take a new look at the evidence and to put to use more appropriate analytical tools. Neither a modernistic nor a reductionist historical interpretation of the phenomenon of Alexander’s foundations can be useful to contextualise the new urban settlements within those processes of construction of the new power in Asia that systematically embedded the newly founded cities in the pre-existing territorial and social fabric. Assumably, in this way Alexander’s conquest shaped a new world without completely subverting the organisational logic of the old one. ALEXANDER’S CITIES: HOW MANY AND WHICH ONES?

As a historical phenomenon, Alexander’s foundations may be subdivided into two distinct geographical settings, each one with its own peculiar features. On one side, there is the delta of the Nile and Alexandria; on the other, the cities of Central Asia,

4 5 6

Fraser 1996, 189–90. Bosworth 1988a, 245, 250. Hammond 1998.

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located between the eastern Iranian plateau and the Indus basin, and between the Iaxartes river (today Syr Darya) and the Indian Ocean. A treatment of the foundation of Alexandria in Egypt is outside the scope of this study. I will just note that Daniel Ogden has ably shown that this city’s foundation myth and rituality clearly bear witness to the ways in which the ideological discourse that supported the city’s foundation was construed so as to legitimate it within Egyptian culture.7 This, however, is an exception. In other cases, we cannot avail ourselves of foundation narratives that would allow us to assess the relationships between the foundation event and the cultural and anthropological local context of the time. Therefore, I will limit my analysis here to Alexander’s foundations in Central Asia. At present, we can actually claim to have a fairly good knowledge of the local contexts in which these cities were founded, and this, as we shall see, offers relevant elements for an historical assessment. The following foundations are considered here: Alexandria in Aria(na), Prophthasia, Alexandria in Arachosia, Alexandria ad Caucasum (en Paropamisadais), Nikaia (the so-called ‘Nikaia of Afghanistan’), Alexandria Eschate, Nikaia and Boukephala on the Jhelum/Hydaspes, Alexandria Rambakia (Alexandria en Oreitais). The location of Alexandria in Aria(na)8 ‘within the general area of Herāt has been accepted largely without debate’.9 The new city most probably stood on the site of the medieval Islamic city of Herāt itself.10 Prophthasia was a separate city,11 which is most probably to be identified with the Arab and Persian city of Farāh, ca. 160 miles south of Herāt. On its site stood the old Achaemenian capital of Drangiana, whose name must have been Phrada,12 and there are reasons to assume that Alexander took over, reorganised and renamed the pre-existing city.13 After the conspiracy of Philotas (Arr. Anab. 3.26.1–27.5; Curt. 6.7.1–2) Alexander took the long route to Arachosia, the region lying east of the Helmand river.14 He proceeded southwards to the neighbourhood of Lake Zarah and then crossed the Helmand in the neighbourhood of Bost,15 heading for the huge oasis of Kandahar.

7 8 9 10 11 12

13 14 15

See Ogden 2013a; Ogden 2014. G. Cohen 2013, 260–261; Fraser 1996, 109–115. Fraser 1996, 112 and n. 18 with bibliography. Fraser 1996, 113. On Prophthasia, G. Cohen 2013, 283–286; Fraser 1996,123–130. Charax (FGrHist 103) F 20. The location of the city and the evidence for its names (Phrada, Phra, Farah) are lucidly discussed by Fraser 1996,123–124 and nn. 15–19; see also Daffinà 1967, 91; Balland 1999, with further bibliography, and Rapin 2017, 89–90. Fraser 1996, 130. On Arachosia/Harauvatiš, see especially Schmitt 1986. On Bost, an important pre­islamic iranian site located not far from the confluence of the Arghandāb and the Helmand rivers, see Fischer 1967; Bernard 1980, 49 n. 3; Fischer / de Planhol 1989; Rapin 2004, 163 (on the names of the settlement in Roman geographical sources).

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As convincingly shown by Bernard and Fraser,16 the early Hellenistic settlement on the site of old Kandahar (Šahr-e Kohna), ca. 3/4 kilometres west of the modern city,17 where Achaimenid and Greek materials, as well as Greek inscriptions among which two well-known edicts of Asoka were found,18 must be identified with a city founded by Alexander and called Alexandria in Arachosia by Isidorus, Ammianus, Ptolemy and Stephanos of Byzantion, and Arachotoi, Arachotos or Arachosiorum oppidum by Eratosthenes, Pliny and the bematists quoted by him, Ptolemy and Stephanos. What is more, the identification of Alexandria in Arachosia with Kandahar is made certain by two ninth-century Arabic adapters of Ptolemy, who also testify to the continuous occupation of Kandahar until the early Islamic period.19 As for Alexandria ad Caucasum (ἐν Παροπαμισάδαις),20 ‘we may say with some degree of certainty’ that it lay ‘within the wide basin between the southern foot of the Hindu Kush, in the Kûhistān, somewhere between the modern Charikar and the junction of the Ghorband and the Panjshir rivers’.21 The plain was the richest and most populated of the region centred on modern Kabul, and commanded all the mountain passes to Baktria and India.22 Indeed, the importance of the site and ruins of Begrām, suggests that Alexander’s city was founded there, or in its neighbourhood.23 As regards Tarn’s proposal to identify Alexandria ἐν Παροπαμισάδαις with Stephanos’ Alexandria ἐν τῇ Ὠπιανῇ and to locate it on the site of a modern village north of Charikar called (H)Opiān/(H)Upiān, one must admit that it rests on shaky evidence.24 The so-called ‘Nikaia of Afghanistan’, mentioned by Arrian,25 has often been ignored or misunderstood.26 It possibly was a town already in existence, which Alexander (re)founded and renamed when in late summer/fall 327 he set out towards India from Alexandria ad Caucasum following the course of the upper valley of the Kābul (Kophen) river. As Alfred Foucher convincingly argued, Nikaia should be put

16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Bernard 1980, 50–54; Fraser 1996, 132–40, who sets out the evidence. On Šahr-e Kohna see Bernard 1980, 50 and n. 5. For the first, Greek/Aramaic, edict, see Schlumberger / Dupont­Sommer / Benveniste 1958 (the Greek text is in SEG 20.326 and IGIAC 82); for the second one (only in Greek), see Schlumberger 1964 and IGIAC 83. The evidence is quoted and admirably discussed in Fraser 1996, 100–101; see also G. Cohen 2013, 255–260. See Strab. 15.2.10; Arr. Anab. 3.28.4, 4.22.4–5; Plin. HN 6.92. Discussion and bibliography in Fraser 1996, 140–151 and G. Cohen 2013, 263–269. Fraser 1996, 150. See Foucher 1942–1947 I, 29. Fraser 1996, 146; Bernard 1982; also Bosworth 1980b, 370. Tarn 1951, 96–98 and Appendix 6 (Alexandria of the Caucasus and Kapisa); see Fraser 1996, 149–150 for criticism of Tarn’s hypothesis. Arr. Anab. 4.22.6; also It. Alex. 104. See, however, Foucher 1939, esp. 441–447, and Fraser 1996, 146 and n. 79.

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a few kilometres north of Mandrawar, in the lower basin of the Laghmān river, a tributary of the Kābul west of Jalalabad.27 As regards Alexandria Eschate, its location on the site of Khujand/Leninabad at the western end of the Ferghāna valley is almost beyond doubt.28 Nikaia and Boukephala were founded after the victory over Poros on the Jhelum/Hydaspes, to commemorate the victory and the death of Boukephalos, respectively.29 As Aurel Stein masterly showed,30 Nikaia stood on the east bank of the river, and Boukephala on the west one, on the site of the battle, most probably in the area of modern Jalalpur. Lastly, Alexandria Rambakia (Alexandria en Oreitais) was established by Alexander when, after having left Pattala in the winter of 325/24, he entered the land of the Oreitai in the area north-west of Karachi beyond the Hab (Arabios) river.31 Alexandria was ‘synoecised’ in the neighbourhood of the main village of the Oreitai, Rambakia, which stood at the head of the basin through which the river Porāli run, presumably in the vicinity of Las Bela,32 and in any case not far, especially in ancient times, from the Arabian sea coast. The new city stood on a traditionally important caravan route to Kalāt, Quetta and Kandahar. If we add to the above-mentioned cities several other – usually anonymous – minor settlements with a military purpose, especially in Punjab and in Baktria/Sogdiana, we shall have a realistic picture of Alexander’s foundations east of Mesopotamia, which is mainly based on Fraser’s rigorous criticism of written evidence and conveniently sets aside the well-known passage of Plutarch on the supposed seventy foundations of Alexander (Mor. 328e), which amounts to no more than a ‘brilliant outburst of Hellenic chauvinism’, as Brian Bosworth put it.33 The higher number of foundations conjectured by Hammond is not based on a balanced critical analysis of the sources. It is apposite now to consider the most relevant features of the territorial context of each of the above-mentioned settlements. This will help us put the current interpretations of the new foundations into perspective and lay the basis for a redefinition of their historical function. 27

28 29 30 31 32 33

Foucher 1939, 1942–1947 I, 51 fig. 9, II, 204–207 fig. 36; see also Dupont­Sommer 1970. Fraser 1996, 146, though sceptical about the exact location argued by Foucher, is willing to locate Nikaia in the Laghmān area. Bosworth 1995, 146 (cf. map 3) prefers locating Nikaia in the ‘lower Parapamisadae’, and Rapin 2017, 158–160 would put it at about 30 km to the southeast of Alexandria ad Caucasum, with arguments that in both cases are far from being conclusive. See G. Cohen 2013, 253–255; Bosworth 1995, 15–16, with a map (14); Fraser 1996, 151–161. See Arr. Anab. 5.19.4 and Fraser 1996, 161–162 and nn. 108–111. Stein 1932; see, however, Bosworth 1995, 311–313. See Fraser 1996, 164–168 for sources and bibliography; Stein 1943 is still essential reading (on the Hab river, see 213–214). Hamilton 1972 prefers locating the new city closer to the sea, but is conveniently refuted by Fraser 1996, 165 n. 115 (end). Bosworth 1988a, 245.

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GEOGRAPHIES, ECOLOGIES, ECONOMIES

We may begin with the area of Herāt, where Alexandria in Aria(na) was certainly located. Most notably, Alexandria developed around a large oasis irrigated by the Harī Rūd river (almost certainly the Arius amnis mentioned in Plin. 6.93), where the most varied crops and breeding flourished, which in the nineteenth century was called the ‘granary and garden’ of Central Asia.34 Located at the point of convergence of the steppes of Turkmenistan to the north, the desert areas of Sistān to the south, the Iranian plateau to the west and the Hindu Kush region to the east, the valley of Herāt was an ethnic melting­pot and a crossroads, a fundamental node of the network of trade routes connecting all parts of Asia. It was situated along the route that connected Bukhara and Merv with Karmania through the Sistān, and from there one could reach the regions of Baktria, Sogdiana and the Chinese Sinkiang, either through the Harī Rūd Valley into the heart of Hindu Kush (Bāmiyān) and then crossing it in the vicinity of Alexandria en Paropamisadais/ad Caucasum,35 or going upstream the river Harī Rūd and then bending East to cross the Turkmen Steppe to the basin of the Oxus. Herāt was also the starting point of the route that led to Kandahar passing through Farāh. In short, if it is true that Afghanistan was, in the words of Arnold Toynbee, the great roundabout of Central Asia,36 the area of Herāt undoubtedly was one of the most important roundabouts of Afghanistan. It deserves to be noted here that the Achaimenid satrapy of Aria had a capital, Artakoana,37 which Alexander did not destroy, despite the rebellion of Satibarzanes in 330/29. Alexandria in Aria(na) was probably founded several kilometres away, perhaps to south-east, so there was no very close proximity between the Achaimenid settlement and the city of Alexander. The new foundation, while providing a new centre for the region, did not eliminate the old capital. Concerning Prophthasia, the new name (meaning ‘Anticipation’) given to the pre-existing settlement of Phrada clearly shows that Alexandre aimed to celebrate the discovery of Philotas’ conspiracy, and to re-articulate the discourse of conquest.38 Prophthasia was obviously intended as a symbol for the army and the loyal Macedonian elites, all the more so because it subsumed and incorporated into a new framework an Achaemenian settlement. It was probably not by chance that such a symbolic site was called upon to mark Alexander’s control of a key segment of the See Malleson 1880. For a masterly discussion of the geography of western Hindu Kush with special reference to the valleys of the rivers Ghorband and Panjshir, see Bernard 1982, 229–232. 36 Toynbee 1961 , p. 4 ; according to him ‘The roundabouts are regions on wich routes converge from all quarters of the compass and from wich routes radiate out to all quarters of the compass again’ (p. 2). 37 Arr., Anab. 3 .25 .2 –6 ; for some variants of the city name, see Curt. 6 .6 .33 [Artacana]; Diod. 17.78.1 [Chortakana]; Plin. 6.61.93; Strab. 11.10.1 [Artakaena]) 38 A detailed examination of the evidence on Prophthasia is provided by Fraser 1996, 123–130 , esp. 129–130 and n. 49 (the new name of the city). 34 35

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route that connected central-northern Asia with Kandahar making use of traditional paths through northern Drangiana and across the Helmand river. And now one arrives – literally, we may say – at Alexandria in Arachosia (on the site of Šahr­e Kohna, the old Kandahār).39 Its location was high above the floodplain formed by the Arghandāb (the Greek Ἀραχωτός) and its tributaries (Argestān and Tarnak),40 which is delimited to the South – beyond the river – by the Registān desert. The area of Kandahar is also an oasis, an immense one of more than 1000 square km, which has always been the most productive and densely populated agricultural district in the whole of Afghanistan.41 The oasis and the valley of the Arghandāb were at the centre of the satrapy of Arachosia, whose ancient Persian name certainly not by chance refers to the abundance of water.42 Both the Achaimenid fortress and the city of Alexander that rose near to it – in the area of Old Kandahar – were the point of convergence and intersection of crucial routes. Among these, the most important was for millennia the way to the middle and lower Indus basin through Kalāt and Quetta, which was the commercial route of resources and raw materials (such as ivory) from India to Sousa and Persepolis.43 The other route toward the northeast, run along the valley of the Arghandāb and through that which Toynbee called the ‘Arachosian corridor’.44 It led to the south side of Hindu Kush and from there, either north to Baktria/Sogdiana and further to China, or east to the Gandhāra and the Ganges valley. Indeed, to put it in a nutshell, the Kandahar area was at the crossroads of the Near East, the Chinese world and India.45 From Kandahar, it was easy to reach an area of the Hindu Kush at the confluence of the Ghorband and Panjshir rivers that Eratosthenes called triodos:46 an intersection of routes to and from Baktria (and, from there, to the Chinese Sinkiang) and to and from Taxila and the Gandhāra. As mentioned above, it was in the triodos area that Alexandria en Parapamisadais/ad Caucasum was founded. The city was a junction in the middle of a network of tracks and paths that crossed the mountain passes to lead both into Baktria and northern India. It might be exaggerated to say that ‘half of the roads of the Old World lead […] to Begrām’, as Toynbee did:47 surely, 39 40 41 42

43 44 45

46 47

On Šahr-e Kohna, see de Planhol 2010. On the Arghandāb/Ἀραχωτός, see Bernard 1980, 50–52. See, most recently, de Planhol 2010, 466–467. The Old Persian name of Arachosia, Harauvatiš, is the etymological equivalent of Vedic Sárasvatī, which means ‘rich in waters/lakes’ (Schmitt 1986); on Arachosia in general Vogelsang 1985 is especially valuable. Fischer 1967 is a comprehensive and admirably detailed treatment of the role played by Kandahār in connecting India and Iran. Toynbee 1961, 53–54. ‘Que l’on vînt de l’Ouest par Hérat, Farah et Girishk ou par le Séistan et la vallée de l’Hilmand, que l’on arrivât de l’Est par la haute vallée de l’Indus et la rivière du Caboul ou par le Moyen Indus et la passe de Bolan, on trouvait toujours Qandahar sur son passage.’ (Bernard 1980, 53). See Strab. 11.8.9 =  Eratosth. F 108 Roller (III B 20, III B 63); 15.2.9 =  F 78 Roller (III B 20, III B 23). Toynbee 1961, 1.

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however, Alexandria ad Caucasum was the true gateway to Gangetic India for anyone approaching Hindu Kush from the North or the South, coming from China or from the Near East. In short, it was a crucial point of reference for regional and long-distance human mobility; as well as an area that was inevitably ‘mixed’ from a cultural, linguistic and ethnic point of view. Furthermore, in the area there were numerous villages well supplied with everything.48 Almost inevitably, the new foundation came to establish a relationship with the local social and productive system, and the organisation within the new urban space of the perioikoi, the human groups settled in the area, has to be seen in this light, 49 rather than as the creation of a new system of social exploitation. In 326 the satrapy of the Parapamisadai, and obviously the city of Alexandria, were entrusted by Alexander to the Baktrian nobleman Oxyartes, father of his wife Rhoxane, who added it to his territories.50 The continental importance of the site and, at the same time, its rooting in the multifaceted local reality, as well as the relationship of the ‘conquerors’ to local elites, could not find a better expression. To enter India from Alexandria ad Caucasum, one should have travelled through the river Kabul basin to the Peshawar plain, that is up to Taxila and then up to the upper basin of the Hydaspes/Jhelum. Three different foundations were made to signal the presence of a new power in the area. Two of them made reference to the ideology of victory, and they are the two cities called Nikaia, the first, the so­called Nikaia of Afghanistan, east of Jalalabad, and the other further south, downstream of Jalalpur, on the banks of Hydaspes. The third city, facing Nikaia, on the opposite bank of the Hydaspes, on the site where Poros had been defeated, was Boukephala. It also deserves to be noted that near Nikaia and Boukephala a fleet was built from the huge amount of timber brought down the Hydaspes:51 evidently, the new cities soon became important stations along the river and played a notable economic role. Special attention is to be paid to Nikaia of Afghanistan also due to its location along the traditional route that linked Gangetic India to the West of the Seleucid kingdom, the ‘vieille route de l’Inde’, as Alfred Foucher had it.52 At short distance (about 7 km) upstream of Nikaia, in the valley of the river Laghmān, an inscription of Aśoka makes explicit reference in the text to Tadmor/Palmyra and to the ‘route’ that passed under the engraved rock.53 Thus, the location of the inscription is a remarkable testament to the local awareness of the geography of long-distance mobility along the line connecting Gandhara with Mesopotamia and Palmyra. The 48 49 50

51 52 53

See Strab. 15.2.10. Arr. Anab. 4.22.5. The Baktrian Oxyartes: Arr. Anab. 4.18.4, 7.4.4; his role in overwhelming the resistance of Sisimithres/Chorienes: Curt. 8.2.25–31; Arr. Anab. 4.21.6–7; Plut. Alex. 58.3–5; in 326 appointed satrap of the Paropamisadai: Arr. Anab. 6.15.3; cf. Curt. 9.8.10; in 317/16 permitted by Antigonos the One-Eyed to keep his satrapy. See, in general, Berve 1942; Schmitt 2002. See Strab. 15.1.29. Foucher 1942–1947. Dupont­Sommer 1970; Tadmor and ‘the route’ are mentioned at ll. 2–3 of the text.

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segment of the line connecting Nikaia and Alexandria ad Caucasum was an integral part of this route. The issues of mobility should be of primary concern also when considering the foundation of Alexandria Eschate (near Leninabad/Khujand). Studies traditionally tend to emphasise its presumed function of frontier bulwark and of extreme boundary of the empire, rather than that of junction, of crossing point. In other words, its marginalisation with respect to the centre prevails on the focus on its connectivity. Indeed, Alexandria Eschate is most notably located along the roads that from Bukhara and Samarkand on one side, and from Baktria on the other converged towards the entrance of the Ferghāna Valley. Alexandria was a crucial point along the route connecting Mesopotamia and the Iranian plateau with the Chinese Sinkiang and a fundamental part of the Silk Road. Equally important was the extraordinary agricultural prosperity of the Ferghāna valley area, which made it a supplier of essential vital resources on a supra­regional scale for centuries, first of all to the benefit of Khujand. Indeed, the area was the ‘reichst[e] Provinz Central­Asiens’, as Franz von Schwarz put it.54 Alexandria Eschate as a foundation of Alexander should also be considered from another point of view. The new city was a particularly important settlement, as the length of its circuit-wall (60 stades, or 6 Roman miles) shows when compared to that of Alexandria in Egypt (80 stades).55 Notably, the city coalesced the dense local population,56 and from this point of view evidently took the place of the most important pre-existing settlement of the area, the town of Kyropolis, which Alexander conquered and according to Strabo destroyed.57 There are reasons to think that the new city aimed both to impact on the local networks of the population and to play a significant role at a symbolic level as the ‘new’ Kyropolis. Finally, Alexandria Rambakia (Alexandria en Oreitais) in southern Baluchistan also provided an organic structure to a network of terrestrial and maritime communication routes. It was established by reorganising the ancient local settlement of the Oreitai and therefore the new foundation had to preserve and enhance the site’s integration with the existing structures of both local demography and mobility. It was located near modern Las Bela, north-east of Karachi, more precisely in the Porali river basin, which was the centre of a system of river valleys that could be navigated inland up to the Kalāt region, from where it was possible to reach Kandahār through

von Schwarz 1906, 94. Gorbunova 1986 provides an interesting overview of the archaeology of the area between 6th century BC and 6th century AD. 55 See Curt. 7.6.25 (60 stades) and Just. Epit. 12.5.12 (6 Roman miles): Alexandria Eschate; Curt. 4.8.2: Alexandria by Egypt. 56 Arrian (4.1.4, 4.4.1) speaks of a ‘synoikism’ consisting of the barbarians of the neighbourhood who were willing to do so, some of Alexander’s mercenaries and some of the soldiers who were unable to fight. 57 See Arr. Anab. 4.3.1–4 and Strab. 11.11.4. 54

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the mountain passes to the south and north of Quetta.58 In short, it was the main connection between the lower Indus valley and Central Asia in antiquity. RETHINKING ALEXANDER’S FOU NDATIONS

In the light of all this, I would like to propose some general observations. Eventually, I will attempt a historical interpretation of the foundations under scrutiny. In order to reconsider Alexander’s cities in Central Asia, it is advisable to adopt an analytical perspective focused upon space.59 Landscape and its demographic and socio-economic structures, local micro-ecologies, ‘topographic semantics’, mobility should be in the forefront. First of all, the locations of Alexander’s foundations should be regarded as ‘significant places’, that is structured local spaces that were particularly significant from a geopolitical, a socio-economic, and a symbolic-ideological point of view. They were key junctions along long-distance communication routes which at the same time allowed access to different ecologies and geographies, such as the steppe, the nomadicum, high mountain areas. In addition, they were located in areas where the economy was based on intensive agriculture, which was made possible by a complex management of natural and artificial water resources; at the same time, those areas were densely populated and socially stratified. Finally, and most importantly, centuries-long Persian rule had imbued them with strong symbolic meanings. On the territory where Alexander founded Alexandria Eschate, Kyropolis, the city founded by Kyros the Great, the conqueror who won the Persians their empire, had already left its mark, and the same holds true for the Achaimenid centres of power beside which also Alexandria in Aria(na), Alexandria in Arachosia and Alexandria Eschate were founded. As it appears, each local dimension involved in the process of foundation of a new city by Alexander was the result of stratified experiences, of an intermingling of local social and cultural practices on one side, and of trajectories and dynamics of mobility on the other. In no way could it have been virgin soil, empty land waiting to be colonised, let alone civilised. Understandably, by means of the foundations the new power came to impress a brand on those places, and one should think, in this context, of a staging of power and a manipulation of the landscape for the purpose of material and symbolic dominance. But it was the manipulation of pre-existing structures, balances and networks, rather than a colonial or a strategic-military overlap on an ‘empty’ geography. On the topography of the area Stein 1943 is still essential reading; for references to the the caravan routes along the river valleys leading to Kalāt and Quetta, see Bosworth 1996, 181–182 n. 64, and Fraser 1996, 165–166 n. 115. 59 On the ‘spatial turn’ in historical sciences, see, most recently, Kingston 2010 and Kümin / Usborne 2013.

58

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Inevitably, the foundations involved restructuring the landscape through the reorganisation and control of the territory, as well as the insertion of new aggregations and new human capital in the existing networks of mobility and exchange. Certainly, such an impact on the landscape made it evident that a new strong power was there. Making this impact stable, however, must have required an effective interaction with the human and social context, in particular with the pre-existing demographic fabric: the references of literary sources to the involvement of perioikoi in the foundation of Alexandria ad Caucasum, Alexandria Eschate, and Alexandria Rambakia are particularly meaningful from this point of view.60 Indeed, a constructive relationship with the pre-existing system of social and productive practices must have been inevitable. One has only to think of the need to keep managing and to potentiate both the hydraulic economy of the oases and its structural relationship with the pastoralist economies of the surrounding arid areas; in other cases, the system of already existing social practices had to be retained in order to ensure the link of the city – Alexandria ad Caucasum is a case in point – with the criss-cross of high-altitude mountain passes and their micro-economies, as well as with the dynamics of interregional connectivity. Local elites hold the keys of the necessary interaction processes, and their inclusion in the new power system was almost inevitable. The exact place in the social ladder of the underprivileged groups of indigenous people is more difficult to assess. As a matter of fact, manipulation of local workforce and labour exploitation must have been the rule, but generally speaking, Alexander’s city foundations can hardly be seen as systematic structures of oppression of the locals by the conquerors.61 The very fact that the new cities were located in territories marked by agricultural prosperity, a certain degree of social interaction and high connectivity implies that interaction with the local system of social and productive practices and with the local elites that were in control of the system was almost unavoidable. In the light of the above, one should assume that the new power that was establishing itself and ‘showing off’ through the foundation of new cities could not but interact with pre-existing realities. Admittedly, integration was more advantageous than systematic oppression. The very same military and strategic requirements of the conquest were better guaranteed by the foundation of cities able to earn acceptance through integration. In the case of these foundations, legitimacy was bound to be first of all a by­product of the dynamics of social acceptance and integration in the local context.

60 61

See respectively Arr. Anab. 4.22.5, 4.4.1, 6.21.5. Bosworth 1988a, 245–249; see also Briant 1978, 74–77 who draws an extremely grim picture (‘déportation en masse’, ‘hilotisation’) of the foundation of Alexandria Eschate, Arrian’s (Anab. 4.4.1) and Quintus Curtius’ account (7.6.27) notwithstanding, and regards Alexander’s foundations in general as ‘un noyau de ségrégation et de domination socio-ethnique’ (91–92). On the contrary, as Mileta 2014 (see esp. 426) reminds us, one should at least emphasise the participation of the local elites and of the ‘middle classes’ to power in the cities.

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In this framework it is significant to take into consideration the historical problem of the continuity of Alexander’s foundations with the tradition of Achaimenid power and its material structures. Recent studies have in general limited themselves to signalling the proximity of this or that new city to an Achaimenid administrative centre, as a hint of Alexander’s intention of placing himself in continuity with the Achaimenid power.62 As a matter of fact, the issue appears more complex than that. On the one hand, it is Alexander’s campaign as a whole that exploits the logistics of the Persian Empire to its advantage;63 on the other hand the foundations, as we have seen, interact in more general terms with and integrate in different ways into the space and the social structures of the local contexts. In other words, the historical problem of continuity goes far beyond mere closeness of the new cities to old power centres. However, in many cases some sort of spatial relationship actually existed: suffice it to consider Alexandria in Aria(na), Prophthasia, Alexandria in Arachosia, Alexandria ad Caucasum, Alexandria Eschate. In all of these cases there arguably existed a relationship between old and new, past and present, even though it did not necessarily presuppose any close contiguity. This is a key point, and it is important to get into some more details. Very close proximity of the new cities to old Achaimenid centres of power is to be admitted in two significant cases. Alexandria in Arachosia and the pre­existing Achaimenid settlement were both on the same site of ‘old’ Kandahār, and similarly, Prophthasia stood on the site of Phrāda, the Achaimenid capital of Drangiana. In other cases, however, the relationship between past and present was not simply a matter of spatial closeness. In the Achaimenid satrapy of Aria there was a city (a polis according to Arrian 3.25.5), called Artakoana (with many variants),64 where the ‘royal palace’ stood. It cannot but be identified with the satrapal capital, where Spitamenes had his headquarters.65 Alexander conquered it, most probably in fall 330, and founded Alexandria in Aria(na) near its site. The city is mentioned by Eratosthenes (drawing on the bematists? cf. Plin., 4.61),66 but not by the historians of Alexander. Strabo, Isidorus and Ptolemy, however, consider Artakoana and Alexandria two separate towns.67 As Droysen already maintained, followed by Tarn, and now by Fraser,68 the only reasonable assumption is that the new foundation stood at some distance from the old native town.69 Thus, between the two there was neither juxtaposition, nor contiguity, 62 63 64 65

66 67 68 69

See Fraser 1996, 173. Briant 2012a. On the variants of the name of the city, see, most recently, Rapin 2017, 85–88 and n. 117 p. 112. Arr. Anab. 3.25.5 clearly implies that the ‘palace’ was the residence of the satrap Spitamenes. Alexander did not remove him after the conquest (3.25.1), but later on Spitamenes revolted and joined Bessos in Baktria (3.25.5). See F 78 Roller ap. Strab. 15.2.8. Strab. 11.10.1; Isid. (FGrHist 781) F 2.15; Ptol. Geog. 6.17.6. See Fraser 1996, 114 n. 21 with bibliography (Bosworth 1980b, 356–357 deserves to be added). Fraser 1996, 114–115 is perhaps too cautious at this regard.

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even though we ignore how many kilometres apart they were located. In any case, Alexandria was evidently built to serve the same purpose as Artakoana, and to make it evident that a new regional centre was in place. The new settlement superseded the old Achaimenid capital. Likewise, Alexandria Eschate was not close beside the most important of the seven Sogdian cities Alexander conquered,70 which had been founded by Kyros the Great and still bore its name.71 It is called Kyropolis, Kyreschata or Kyra in the Greek texts,72 but as convincingly argued by Émile Benveniste, the Greek form Kyreschata must reflect Iranian *Kuru(š)­katha, that is, literally, ‘the (reinforced) settlement of Kuruš/Kyros’.73 No certainty is possible as to its identification, and especially its association with the site of Istaravshan, formerly Ura-Tyube (in Russian)/O’ratepa (in Uzbek), at some 80 kilometres southwest of Kohjand,74 is not supported by any evidence. On the other hand, there is such a striking similarity between *Kuru(š)katha and Kurkat, the name of a small medieval and modern town at about 30 kilometres southwest of Kohjand, that Kyropolis/Kyreschata could well be located in its neighbourhood.75 Even in this case, however, Alexander’s new foundation and the old Achaimenid settlement were tens of kilometres apart. Nevertheless Alexander, by founding Alexandria just after the conquest of Kyropolis/Kyreschata, was probably following in the footsteps of Kyros himself: already in antiquity Strabo was convinced he was φιλόκυρος.76 He staged his power in a significant space that bore a symbolic and strategic importance in the border region of the north-eastern frontier of the empire. As it appears, he was exhibiting his aemulatio Cyri in a very tangible way. By fashioning himself as the founder of the Achaimenid empire in the presence of both the elites and the tribesmen of Sogdiana Alexander was manipulating the current cultural system of meanings. Admittedly, the newly founded city was a powerful symbolic choice. However, it had to supersede Kyropolis/Kyreschata in every respect, also by resuming its functions of gathering place and junction. Its foundation had an impact on the local demographic fabric and strengthened the structures of connectivity.

70

71 72

73 74 75 76

Arr. Anab. 4.2–3.5 reports Alexander’s campaign. For discussions of the possible identifications, see Tomaschek 1877, 56–61, von Schwarz 1906, 51–54, and, more recently, Bernard 1990, 28–29. Kyropolis was conquered according to Arrian (4.4.1) and destroyed according to Strabo (11.11.4). For the foundation by Kyros, see Strab. 11.11.4. Arr. Anab. 4.3.1; Curt. 7.6.16; Amm. Marc. 23.6.39; Steph. Byz. s.v. Kyrou polis (Kyropolis, Kyroupolis, Kyrou polis); Strab. 11.11.4; Nonnus Dion. 26.48 (Cyra); Ptol. Geog. 6.12.5; Steph. Byz. s.v. Kyrou polis; Amm. Marc. 23.6.59 (Kyreschata). See Benveniste 1943–45; Geiger 1882, 39 n. 5 was on the right track. The location of Kyropolis/Kyreschata in the area of Ura-Tyube was commonly accepted in the late nineteenth century: see Tomaschek 1877, 57; von Schwarz 1906, 51–53. See D.W. Engels 1978, 103; P’iankov 1993; Sisti / Zambrini 2004, 377; Lurje 2017. Strab. 11.11.4.

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In this way, the new took place beside the old – albeit at a distance of kilometres –, and a new shape was given to the pre-existing network of social relationships and practices. It has often been overlooked that Alexandria ad Caucasum was also founded in the neighbourhood of an Achaimenid settlement. Its name was Kāpišakāniš, a fortress (Old Persian didā), mentioned in Dareios’ Bīsotūn inscription in the narrative of the 522/21 revolt of Vahyazdāta, the second ‘false Smerdis’.77 Near the Achaimenid fortress, the loyal satrap of Arachosia Vivāna won the first of his victories against the forces of a lieutenant of Vahyazdāta. Now, the geographical context of the campaign as a whole suggests that Kāpišakāniš should be located in the Kabul region,78 rather than in the vicinity of Kandahar,79 and the name similarity with the town of Kapisa and the district of Kapisene – both in the Parapamisadae –80 goes in the same direction. Independently of its received, but not certain, identification with Begrām,81 Kapisa is more probably to be located in the area that was called by Eratosthenes the triodos than in the district of Langhman.82 In later times Kapisa might take the place of Kāpišakāniš, but there is no reason to assume that Kāpišakāniš, Alexandria ad Caucasum and Kapisa were exactly on the same site.83 Presumably, Kāpišakāniš and Alexandria ad Caucasum were separate settlements in Alexander’s times. Thus, again an Alexandria came to supersede an old Achaemenian centre of power. What is more, the victory of Kāpišakāniš against the rebel forces greatly contributed to Dareios’ final success. The site of the old fortress must have been a significant ‘lieu de mémoire’. The local elites still influenced by Achaemenian royal ideology probably were able to understand the profound symbolic message of the foundation of an Alexandria in the area of Kāpišakāniš. Thus, one is lead to think that the general logic behind the location of the new foundations was the following: they were close enough, or at least contextual to the same territorial area, so that the substitution of the previous geo-political power with a new one might be visible; on the other hand, the distance was never too great, because this would make it impossible to have an efficient impact on the structures of the local organisation. In short, the location of Alexander’s cities with respect to the pre-existing power network does not seem to suggest a merely generic continuity. Rather, it shows the intervention of a power both able to impress a strong visible 77 78 79 80 81 82

83

See DB III, ll. 60–61 § 45 p. 126 Kent for the mention; the revolt is accounted for in §§ 40–48 (see 45–47 for the war in the East). For a convincing detailed reconstruction of the campaign, see Fleming 1982. As argued at length – though not persuasively – by Bernard 1980, 55–63. See Plin. HN 6.92 and Solin. 211.11. See Carter 1990. On the vexed problem of the identification with Kapisa of the summer capital of the Kushan empire at the time of Kanishka (first half of the 2nd century AD), see Mehendale 1996 (who acutely casts doubts on the location of Kushan Kâpisî at Begrām). On Kāpišakāniš, Alexandria ad Caucasum and Begrām, see Frazer 1996, 147 and nn. 81–82.

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mark on landscape and to replace the previous organisational structures without necessarily annihilating them. CONCLUSION

I have suggested that Alexander’s foundations in Central Asia and India should not be simply regarded as a violent colonial imposition on an ‘empty’ geography. Nor should they be conceived as functional only to a design of occupation and defence of conquered areas. Such a militaristic purpose is inadequate even in the case of Alexandria Eschate: this city, far from representing a mere bulwark to defend civilisation from nomadic hordes, was a communication network node, and at the same time a new site of aggregation of the local demography, as well as a symbolic statement of territorial sovereignty by the ‘new Kyros’. Likewise, the complexity of the functions of the other new foundations in the context of local and interregional connectivity cannot be reduced to simple modernistic commercial terms. Ultimately, Alexander’s cities appear to be crucial elements of a new configuration of the space in which the new power established itself. Their presence surely entailed a structuring of the territory and the landscape. Even more importantly, the cities helped the newcomers networking with the pre-existing economies and social realities. Local elites must have been involved in the process and relocated into newly reformulated geographies of power. Finally, the location of new cities bears witness to the fact that the newcomers were aware of local trends of connection and circulation. One is led to think that the new cities were not alien fortresses in an empty space: on the contrary they were purposely located in significant places and became part of the networks of social practices already in place. In one way or another, the new world drew on the old one, and for this reason was able to reshape it. This whole process responded to the need of the new power to create new arrangements. It was a power that, however strong, was capable of seeking integration within the context, and through it, also acceptance and legitimation, even though in Baktria and in Sogdiana after Alexander’s endeavour revolt broke out. Yet, in the long run cultural integration was even stronger in those regions than elsewhere.

III ADMINISTRATION AND INSTITUTIONS

10 ALEXANDER, THE KING OF THE MACEDONIANS Manuela Mari My paper focuses on Alexander as βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων: it examines the relationship between king and Makedones as it can be reconstructed from available sources, and then, more specifically, the aspects of this relationship that are central in the tradition on Alexander.1 I am well aware of the many obstacles raised by the nature, chronology and complexity of this tradition. Authors who were very distant in time from the object of their narratives misunderstood (or consciously distorted) many details of Alexander’s biography. His relation to Macedonian institutions obviously is no exception. Moreover, any attempt to schematically divide Alexander’s life into ‘phases’ or ‘roles’ entails inevitably a degree of oversimplification, the more so when one distinguishes too sharply among those phases and roles. On the other hand, as everyone knows, schematic distinctions are often useful, and sometimes inevitable, for historians, and, while it is well beyond the scope of the present article (and probably impossible) to offer a final and comprehensive definition of the nature of Macedonian kingship – under Alexander as well as before and after him –,2 we can at least attempt to identify some of its constitutive elements and to separate institutional realities from ideological representations. As for available sources, the difficulties they offer do not obscure their positive aspects. The literary tradition on Alexander, in spite of its problematic nature and chronological distance from the events, is of unparalleled richness and is therefore very much worth exploring – also in regard to the main topic of this article. Epigraphic evidence in turn offers precious hints and interesting points of comparison, and is sometimes useful to verify the ancient literature on Alexander, helping us ascertain which features of the role of king of the Macedonians and of the relationship between king and Makedones,

1

2

Here, as in the following pages, I am using the expression βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων as a simple ancient (and attested) equivalent of the modern ‘king of the Macedonians’. I agree with Errington 1974 and his very flexible approach to Macedonian titulature (‘[s]ince there was no single “official” style, it follows that none of the styles actually used by the kings should be regarded as in any sense incorrect’, 37); paradoxically, precisely because I agree with his approach, I cannot agree with his denying any formal validity to the title and of limiting its usage to ‘exceptional’ circumstances (27–30, 37). For references on the modern debate on the nature of Macedonian kingship (‘constitutional’ vs. ‘autocratic’ or ‘personal’) see below, n. 22.

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among those attested in the literary portraits of Alexander, are reliable and historically significant. The main questions on which this paper will focus will therefore be the following: 1) Which were the basic elements that characterised the relationship between basileus and Makedones, and which is their impact on the literary tradition on Alexander? 2) In which ways did Macedonian tradition and customary rules influence Alexander’s exercise of royal power? 3) Which were the most innovative contributions of Alexander (and of Philip II before him) in defining the role of a βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων?3 DESCRIPTIONS AND DEFINITIONS OF MACEDONIAN KINGSHIP IN DIFFERENT KINDS OF EVIDENCE

Kingship was the dominating factor in the political and social landscape of ancient Macedonia and, at the same time, the element that appeared most exotic and alien to southern Greeks. The widespread refusal of ancient Greek authors to include Macedonia within the Hellenikon was mainly the consequence of the Greek inclination to consider monarchic power either a temporary historical accident or a typical feature of barbarian civilisations.4 Yet, if examined more carefully, the attitude of the ‘Greeks of the poleis’ towards Macedonian kingship was ambivalent, and it included repulsion but also attraction. Two examples will suffice to make things clearer. Demosthenes, while criticising Philip II’s aspiration to panhellenic leadership in the most hostile terms and insisting on Athenian love for freedom and democracy as a weapon against any foreign oppressor, here and there betrays a secret appreciation for the king’s extraordinary effectiveness and rapidity in action, virtues he sees as a consequence of the concentration of different powers in the hands of one man. The ambivalent description of the effects of Philip’s sole command in Olynth. 1.4–5 provides a good example. A similar ambivalence characterises Isokrates, who was (at least for a period of time) much more open than Demosthenes to Macedonian hegemony over the Greek world and at the same time was well aware of Greek hostility towards monarchic power: when describing to Philip II his own political programme, therefore, Isokrates care3

4

In the present as in other papers, my focus is on aspects of c o n t i n u i t y linking Alexander to the Macedonian tradition, on the one hand, and to the Hellenistic developments, on the other. On the other hand, many of the ‘revolutionary’ aspects of Macedonian society and institutions which are usually attributed to Alexander and even some aspects of his way of being a βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων actually go back to his father’s revolutionary way of interpreting the role (see Lane Fox 2011b). On the weight of the Greek bias against monarchy in ancient definitions of Macedonian ‘ethnicity’ see Mari 2002, 11–12, 337–340; Hatzopoulos 2007, esp. 59–60, 63–64.

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fully explains that the Macedonian ruler was expected ‘to act towards the Greeks as a benefactor (εὐεργετεῖν), to be the king (βασιλεύειν) of the Macedonians, and to rule (ἄρχειν) over most of the barbarians’ (Phil. 154). Significantly, the act of βασιλεύειν is referred to the Macedonians only, and the ideal of the ‘king­benefactor’ which will characterise Hellenistic kingship is already applied to the Greeks (and to them only). Maxim Kholod’s paper in the present volume deals in detail with the evolution of Macedonian royal titulature, thus allowing me to limit myself to a few summary remarks on this subject:5 1) Inscriptions – from within or outside Macedonia – that mention Argead kings before Alexander are rare, and the activity of the royal chancery, which possibly existed already before Philip II, is well documented in stone only for the Hellenistic period.6 Due to the state of our sources, it is extremely difficult to ascertain whether the use of the royal title was a r a d i c a l i n n o v a t i o n by Alexander. There is no doubt, however, that the title βασιλεύς was employed by Alexander’s chancery, and that official local documents from his lifetime equally refer to him as βασιλεύς, evidently as a direct consequence of the chancery’s habits.7 On the other hand, just because of the scarcity of epigraphic documents mentioning Macedonian kings before the reigns of Philip and Alexander, we are not entitled to conclude that for a long period the use of the royal title was deliberately avoided by Macedonian rulers in order to respect Greek sensitivity.8 2) Unlike Kholod and other scholars, I am willing to admit that a few documents earlier than Alexander’s age did use the title βασιλεύς w i t h a f u l l y o f f i c i a l v a l u e . Despite its non-Macedonian provenance, this evidence is historically meaningful. It is also worth noting that, down to and including Alexander’s age, the use of the royal title in official documents is i n c o n s i s t e n t , within and outside Macedonia.9 In Alexander’s age, the royal settlement concerning Philippoi may 5

6

7

8 9

Kholod, this volume. My necessarily more superficial overview of these aspects of royal ideology is inspired by a partly different view of the meaning of the relevant sources and of their evolution over time. I am sure that any reader who is interested in Macedonian institutions and kingship will profit from the comparison of two partly diverging interpretations of the same subject. For the epigraphic documents which mention Argead kings (with or without the royal title) see Kholod, this volume. For the creation or reorganisation of the royal chancery under Philip II and the extreme scarcity of preserved pre-Hellenistic documents issued by it see Mari 2006, 2018a, 125–129, 2018d, 283–285. See, e.g., the list of priests of Asklepios from Kalindoia (Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 62) and the dedication and the settlement from the temple of Athena Polias at Priene (RO 86). A full list of available evidence can be found in Kholod, this volume. Pace Kholod, this volume, developing an implicit suggestion by Badian 1996, 12. In the Athenian treaty with Perdikkas II, also involving some other minor rulers, Kholod interprets the sentence [Περδίκκα]ν̣ καὶ τὸς βασιλέας [μ]ετὰ Περδ̣[ίκκο] (IG I3 89, l. 35), as d i s t i n g u i s h i n g the status of Perdikkas (who is never defined basileus in the preserved parts of the text) from that of the other dynasts who took part in the alliance; but the phrasing could (or even

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have employed the title basileus for Alexander on one occasion (the word is totally restored), while in the remaining lines of the document both Alexander and Philip are called only by their names;10 in documents from outside Macedonia, like the royal letter or diagramma for Chios11 and the Eresos dossier,12 the same inconsistency emerges. 3) Kholod also reminds us that the available evidence never applies the expression βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων, appearing in both earlier and later epigraphic documents, to Alexander. I am not sure that this fact by itself – considering the general scarcity of attestations of the phrase – can be viewed as reflecting a radical change in the way Alexander conceived his own basileia, but the circumstance deserves mention.13 In any case, the regular occurrence of the royal title for the Macedonian kings a f t e r Alexander clearly indicates that at some point during the king’s life, the use of the title – first of all by the royal chancery itself – became more consistent (probably in the simple formula βασιλεύς, without Μακεδόνων).14 Coins confirm

10 11

12 13

14

should) be interpreted rather as e x t e n d i n g the royal title (the only one through which a legitimate monarch could be described) to Perdikkas too. The unusual form [Μα]κεδόνων βασιλεύ[ς] describes Amyntas IV (son of Perdikkas III and cousin of Alexander) in a decree of Lebadeia, in Boiotia, including a list of offerings, perhaps to be dated to the period when Philip II was Amyntas’ tutor (IG VII 3055, ll. 8–9): for Kholod, like Errington 1974, 25–28, the formula, lacking any official value, is an insertion by the Lebadeians in order to include a ‘famous name’ among the donors, an interpretation which cannot be verified. Some scholars identify the ‘king Philip’ of an inscription from Oleveni preserving some words of a royal letter (Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 5, ll. 14–15) with Philip II, but many others prefer Philip V (see Arena 2003); equally uncertain is the identification of Philip II as the authority issuing a boundary settlement from Mygdonia (Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 4; cf. ll. 1–2, [Ἐπὶ τῆς Φιλίππο]υ βασιλήας τοῦ Ἀμ̣|[ύντου]). During Philip’s reign the Macedonian hieromnemones at Delphi are always styled παρὰ Φιλίππου, as are the tamiai (e.g. CID II 36 col. I, l. 23 and 74 I, l. 43), while Alexander’s hieromnemones are either παρ’ Ἀλεξάνδρου or παρὰ βασιλέως Ἀλεξάνδρου (e.g. CID II 32, l. 42, and no. 69, l. 19: all references in Kholod, this volume). Finally, again unlike Kholod, I deem the sentence [οὐδὲ τ]ὴν βασιλείαν [τ]ὴν Φ|[ιλίππου καὶ τῶν ἐκγόν]ων καταλύσω, in the Athenian copy of the oath of the members of the League of Korinth, meaningful (IG II/III 3[1.2] 318, ll. 11–12, on which see also Aymard 1948, 255 n. 1): it should be considered as the description of the (legitimate) monarchic power of Philip and of his descendants in an official document of his own time (the use of the verb καταλύειν is significant). Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 6: see more particularly I, ll. 3 (complete restoration of [βασιλέα] with reference to Alexander), 9, 11–12, II, ll. 5, 10–12. Heisserer 1980, 79–95 =  Bencivenni 2003, 15–38: ll. 1, 7, 18. Admittedly, this letter, or diagramma, issued by the royal chancery and later modified when published at the local level, contains other formal inconsistencies: see Bencivenni 2003, who also wisely avoids drawing any firm chronological conclusion from the presence of the royal title in l. 1 and 18 of it (26–28). Heisserer 1980, 27–78 =  Bencivenni 2003, 55–77: see in part. Β, l. 18, Γa, ll. 6, 12, 34–35, 39, Γb, l. 24, Γc, ll. 2, 10, 18, 25. Kholod, this volume: Amyntas IV is styled [Μα]κεδόνων βασιλεύ[ς] in the document from Lebadeia cited in n. 9, and Kassandros appears as βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων in two official documents of the royal chancery (Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 20 and 23). Kholod, this volume (with bibliography on the likely date of this innovation; see also Arena 2013).

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such a general evolution, because the royal title was apparently first introduced on some of them in Alexander’s reign (or immediately after his death) and became general practice thereafter.15 Notoriously, a key-moment of the war over Alexander’s succession was the adoption of the royal title by the Diadochoi, a few years after the murder of Alexander’s son Alexander IV instigated by Kassandros. From this period at the latest the title was perceived as an i n e s c a p a b l e element of the royal authority.16 4) It is essential to clearly distinguish the information provided by epigraphic evidence (on which my points 1 to 3 are mainly based) from that offered by literary sources. The latter can sometimes mirror the official usages of contemporary chanceries, but this is not always the case.17 It is safer to consider the occurrences of the title βασιλεύς, or βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων, or, more rarely, βασιλεὺς Μακεδονίας in literary sources as reliable evidence for the way in which the Greeks perceived and described, a c c o r d i n g t o t h e i r o w n p o l i t i c a l c a t e g o r i e s , the form of government of Macedonia. Unsurprisingly, at least from the fifth century onwards, the Macedonian ruler was usually labelled ‘king’ by contemporary Greek observers.18 Greek authors, accustomed as they were to living in ‘republican’ states, could not but apply the political language of the Greek poleis to the Macedonian rulers and thus had no alternative for the term βασιλεύς (regardless of their personal opinion about Macedonia, its historical role, and its relation to the Hellenikon). Until the murder of Alexander IV, monarchic power in Macedonia was transferred over the centuries within the same royal clan (the Argeads); in spite of the trouble that often affected succession, kingship itself was perceived by the subjects as p e r f e c t l y l e g i t i m a t e , and was characterised by delineated (although very ample) prerogatives and powers: the Macedonian ruler was therefore, in Greek terms, definitely a βασιλεύς. Even Demosthenes (almost always) resisted the temptation of using

Kholod, this volume, accepts a dating during Alexander’s reign (see his article for references to different interpretations). I thank Katerina Panagopoulou for her suggestions and remarks on this specific aspect. 16 On the adoption, first by Antigonos and Demetrios in 306 and later by the other Diadochoi, of the royal title see Diod. 20.53.2–4 and Plut. Demetr. 18.1–2 (the latter attaches much weight to the use of the title in written documents like epistolai, recording the exception represented by Kassandros; cf. Diod. 18.56.1–2: a few years earlier, in 319/8, with both Philip III Arrhidaios and Alexander IV still alive, Polyperchon’s diagramma on the ‘liberation’ of the Greeks was issued in the name of the basileis). See also Meeus, this volume. 17 Polybios, whose language is reputed in many instances to reflect that of the Hellenistic chanceries, is only a partial exception to this general rule (Mari 2018d, 286–288). 18 See Kholod, this volume, for occurrences in literary sources. Badian’s statement that ‘not once, either in Herodotus or in the Corpus Demosthenicum, is the king of Macedon referred to with “King” before his name’ (1996, 12) is wrong: cf. e.g. Hdt. 9.44.1 and Dem. 2.15. 15

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the terms τύραννος or τυραννίς when talking about Philip II and his monarchical power, and this is definitely significant.19 MACEDONIA AND MACEDONIANS

No less significant is that in Demosthenes’ eyes the basileus was the sole στρατηγὸς καὶ δεσπότης καὶ ταμίας of the Macedonian state.20 Such a description, although partly justified by the several occasions in which abroad the king appeared to be the only o ff i c i a l r e p r e s e n t a t i v e of the entire community of the Macedonians (and, therefore, the sole authority v i s i b l e from the outside),21 is of course an ideologically­oriented oversimplification. More neutral descriptions of the Macedonian state in other sources rather suggest that it actually consisted of t w o component parts (βασιλεὺς ὁ δεῖνα καὶ Μακεδόνες), mutually depending on one another; when taken by itself, the definition βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων implies that the Makedones were perceived as a p o l i t i c a l c o m m u n i t y.22 More precisely, the Macedonian state was identified with the t e r r i t o r y that had become the property ‘ o f t h e M a c e d o n i a n s ’ over time, as we can clearly see in Pella’s decree granting asylia to Cos (243 BC), which uses the expression χώρα Μακεδόνων (‘the land, or territory, of the Macedonians’) as an equivalent of οἱ Μακεδόνες.23 The modern definition of Mace­ donia as a ‘territorial state’ thus finds a perfect equivalent in the ancient evidence, and such a conception was already pre-Hellenistic: it clearly emerges already in Thucydides’ well known description of Macedonian expansion up to the time of the Peloponnesian war. The territories annexed to the kingdom and distributed ‘among the Macedonians’ can be described (and were perceived) as doriktetos chora: the ultimate owner of the land was the king himself, who from time to time decided whether to assign large estates to his ‘Companions’ (the Macedonian court elite) or 19

20 21 22

23

Macedonian kingship is indirectly depicted as a τυραννίς, when compared to the Chalkidian cities, by Dem. 1.5, but in ‘neutral’ contexts the orator usually refers to the Macedonian ruler as βασιλεύς (cf. for example 2.15; for other references see Kholod, this volume). I am here referring again to Dem. 1.4. On this see below. Cf. Aymard 1948, 236–239, 1950, 63, 96–97; Mossé 2001, 63. A city-state was typically defined by the community of its citizens (ἡ πόλις [‘the city’] or ὁ δῆμος [‘the people’], e.g., τῶν Ἀθηναίων [‘of the Athenians’]). The identification of a political community (an ethnos?) in the Μακεδόνες of the formula βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων and the attribution of an official (or even ‘constitutional’) value to the phrase (attested in both literary and epigraphic sources) βασιλεὺς ὁ δεῖνα καὶ Μακεδόνες are therefore crucial to the debate on the nature of the Macedonian state, on which a recent synthesis is King 2010; see also, among recent publications, Hatzopoulos 2015a and Panagopoulou 2019. My synthetic formulation in the text evidently follows the line going back to Holleaux 1907, 97–98, later developed by Aymard 1950, 77–84, 96–97; Papazoglou 1983; Hammond 1988, 1989, 49–52, 58–70; Hatzopoulos 1996b I, 261–263, 487–496; a different interpretation has been defended by Errington among others (1974, 1986, 196–205). Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 58, with Mari 2019a, 222.

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to open the conquered areas to the settlement of small Macedonian landowners. We can clearly reconstruct the phenomenon in the cases of Amphipolis, Methone, the Chalkidian territories in Philip II’s age, but the general idea of an ever-expanding Makedonia was already familiar to Thucydides.24 It was Philip, therefore, who turned a well-established element of Macedonian history into the fuel of a radical military and social reform and of an unprecedented territorial expansion: in this respect the age of Alexander did not bring any radical innovation.25 I think that Alexander’s assigning land ‘to the Macedonians’ in Kalindoia26 and Philip’s distribution of Methone’s territory ‘among the Macedonians’27 were largely similar. Although the procedural details escape us, in both cases the procedure’s final outcome was that a certain amount of conquered territory was distributed viritim to Macedonian settlers on the king’s initiative. Kalindoia and the neighbouring villages, on the one hand, and Pydna (which annexed the former territory of Methone to its own), on the other, thus became πόλεις Μακεδόνων. The epigraphic documents show the effects of such a transformation in status: huge numbers of colonists from the ‘Old Kingdom’ moved to the new territories, where typically Macedonian anthroponyms now appeared, along with the Macedonian calendar and other institutions.28 THE KING AND THE MACEDONIANS

The relationship between the king and the Macedonians was of a hierarchical nature, and Macedonian society as a whole was characterised by strong internal inequalities, even after the transformations and the increase of social mobility determined by Philip’s and Alexander’s policy of enrolment and distribution of conquered

24 25

26

27

28

Thuc. 2.99. See Mari 2019a, with references and bibliography (214–216 on Thucydides’ passage). See, along with Mari 2019a, Lane Fox 2011b and Hatzopoulos 2015b. The latter (ibid., 118, 120) also persuasively reconsiders the vexata quaestio of the reforms Anaximenes (FGrHist 72) F 4 attributed to an ‘Alexander’, who is said to have called the horsemen hetairoi (‘Companions’) and the infantry soldiers pezetairoi (‘foot Companions’) (cf. already Hammond / Griffith 1979, 705–713); if, as it seems most probable, we are dealing here with Alexander the Great, the denomination of the infantrymen symbolically acknowledges the social rise of so many Makedones prompted by Philip’s and Alexander’s military policies. Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 62: it is a list of the eponymous priests of Apollon and Asklepios from Kalindoia, which was engraved ‘since King Alexander a s s i g n e d t o t h e M a c e d o n i a n s ([ἀφ’ ο]ὗ βασιλεὺς Ἀλέξαν|δρος ἔδωκε Μακεδόσι) Kalindoia and the nearby districts of Thamiskia, Kamakaia, Tripoatis’. As described by Diod. 16.34.5. Hammond 1988 tried to establish a distinction, considering only that of Methone a case of viritim distribution of land to Macedonian colonists; thus recently also Faraguna 2018, 200; contra, Errington 1998, 79–82; Mari 2019a, 220–222. On these status markers of a πόλις Μακεδόνων see Hatzopoulos 1991, 28 and n. 1, 77, 80–86; Id. 1996b I, 163–165, 181–184, 188–189, 201–205, 382, 387–392; Mari 2018b.

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lands. Royal ideology and political discourse, however, managed to soften – if not to conceal – such a factual reality by emphasising the e g a l i t a r i a n aspects of the relationship between the king and the Makedones. The king was expected to share the lifestyle of his Macedonian subjects, on and outside the battlefield,29 and both constituent parts of the state took part in religious rites and public ceremonies which defined and periodically reaffirmed Macedonian ‘national’ (or, in Greek terms, ‘ethnic’) identity.30 Moreover, freedom of speech when addressing the king was granted not only to the royal Companions (hetairoi) but to the whole of the Makedones. This right of meeting the king and speaking frankly to him is frequently recalled in the literary sources and is not simply a literary topos.31 According to epigraphic evidence, Macedonian kings settled controversies at the public or private level when petitioned by private citizens or groups. In some cases the evidence clearly suggests that the petitioners personally met the king, thus enjoying the right of ἔντευξις (‘petition’).32 More generally, at the central level Macedonia was a monarchical state where accession to the throne was regulated by custom rather than by well­defined norms Literary sources frequently depict Philip II and Alexander as risking their lives in battle, and this seems a relevant element of Macedonian royal ideology (Hammond / Griffith 1979, 473–474). The idea that the king shared his soldiers’ labours, efforts, and lifestyle (while the conquered territories and booty actually belonged to them, and not to him) is a key-feature of Alexander’s speech to the Macedonians in revolt at Opis (Arr. Anab. 7.9.8–10.3): the speech, while obviously fictional, nevertheless insists on recurrent and reliable elements of the self­representation of the Macedonian kings. Sharing food (not only with the ‘Companions’, but with the Makedones as a whole) is another fundamental element of the relationship between the king and the Macedonians in royal self-presentation (Mari 2018c, 305–309). 30 See below, on the king as representative of the entire ethnos. 31 The tradition on Alexander records many episodes centered on the isegoria of the members of his circle and the accessibility of the king, and the progressive reduction of this right is significantly linked to the supposed evolution of Alexander’s conception of power and his assimilation of Oriental patterns: see Trampedach, this volume, on the significant cases of Kallisthenes and Aristandros of Telmessos. The fact that the freedom of speech was perceived as an essential feature of the relationship between the Macedonians and the king is admitted, for the Antigonid period, even by Polybios, whose representation of Philip V and of Perseus is in most cases hostile (5.27.6, and cf. Hatzopoulos 1996b I, 224 n. 1 and 2001a, 194, 197 n. 5). Significantly, Plutarch considers Demetrios Poliorketes’ growing ‘inaccessibility’ as a part of a failed attempt at introducing an autocratic conception of kingship which the Macedonians strongly disliked (Demetr. 42). 32 For example, the letters of Demetrios II (still regent at the time) to Beroia about the sanctuary of Herakles Kynagidas mention his meeting with the envoys of the sanctuary, to whom he gave the letters addressed to the civic officer Harpalos (Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 8, l. 1–3); while king, some years later, Demetrios received a letter from the Perrhaibian cavalry officer Philoxenos, who claimed the grant of a small estate which the king had promised to him during an encounter (Tziafalias / Helly 2010, no. 1, ll. 11–15). This aspect should not make us forget, however, that in the Hellenistic courts (including the Antigonid one) the more direct access and (at least virtual) closeness to the king marked the influence and power of the philoi when compared with the other members of the court and the common people: a significant example is offered by the fate of Apelles at the court of Philip V (see Polyb. 5.26, with Ma 2011, 522–523). 29

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of law and could become (especially in pre-Hellenistic times) the object of a furious struggle among the different branches of the royal clan.33 A candidate therefore needed the official recognition of the Makedones in order to be appointed basileus. This custom is suggested by sources in cases when regents (epitropoi) turned into kings (like Philip II), but it can be hypothesised that it applied to other cases too, including the accession of Alexander.34 Up to a certain point, therefore, we are entitled to describe the relationship between the king and the Macedonians as one of m u t u a l d e p e n d e n c e . In the literary tradition on Alexander, the extremely delicate balance between the king’s (legitimate) authority, his attempts at violating/innovating customary rules, and the Macedonians’ capacity to exercise their own rights and therefore to put pressure on (or openly contrast) the king’s will emerges in the clearest way in the narratives of the protest of the soldiers against Alexander’s decision to extend the Macedonian military training to tens of thousands of Asian boys, the so-called Epigonoi. The planned reform became a crucial issue in the last part of Alexander’s life, also because it implied a different conception of the empire and of royal power itself.35 According to Arrian, Alexander’s decision raised suspicion that he ‘was contriving every means of r e d u c i n g h i s d e p e n d e n c e o n M a c e d o n i a n s in future’,36 while Diodoros describes the new recruits as ‘ a n o p p o s i n g f o r c e ’ , or ‘ a c o u n t e r­ b a l a n c e ’ (ἀντίταγμα), to the Macedonian phalanx.37 Our sources stress the fact that the Epigonoi received Macedonian weapons and dress,38 and indirectly 33 34

35

36 37

38

See Mari forthcoming (b), with bibliography. On Philip II’s accession (after his original appointment as epitropos of the legitimate heir Amyntas, son of Philip’s brother and previous king Perdikkas III) see Just. Epit. 7.5.9–10; on Demetrios Poliorketes see Plut. Demetr. 37.2–3. On the general matter see Hatzopoulos 1996b I, 276–279, 290–291, and, for Alexander’s accession, Mossé 2001, 63–65. For cases in which the king’s will was read at his death and submitted for approval to the assembly of the Makedones, see Mari forthcoming (b), with references. On the development of the military reform and on the increasing employment of Iranian soldiers in Alexander’s army in the last years of his life see Olbrycht 2015. The name Epigonoi, according to Arr. Anab. 7.6.1, was chosen by Alexander himself. Just. Epit. 12.4.2–11 employs it to describe the children of Asian women by Macedonian soldiers: according to Arr. Anab. 7.12.2 those children too were included in Alexander’s project and supposed to be raised ‘in the Macedonian fashion’ (Μακεδονικῶς: cf. Hammond 1990b, 277–278). Arr. Anab. 7.6.2: ὡς πάντα δὴ μηχανωμένου Ἀλεξάνδρου ὑπὲρ τοῦ μηκέτι ὡσαύτως δεῖσθαι Μακεδόνων. Diod. 17.108.3. The name Epigonoi, ‘descendants’, alludes to a ‘replacement’ of the existing soldiers with the newly recruited ones (Olbrycht 2015, 197). On their ethnic origins see Hammond 1990b, 275–280; Olbrycht 2015, 203–204, 207, 2016, 66–67, 69. Most clearly Arr. Anab. 7.6.1 and 7.6.5 and Diod. 17.108.1–2 (cf. Hammond 1998, 245–246). It is important to stress, as an essential feature of Philip’s reforms, that the State provided the infantry soldiers with a part of their equipment and made it less expensive in general terms (Hammond / Griffith 1979, 352–362, 705–713; Hatzopoulos 1996b I, 268–271 and 2015b). The Antigonid military code shows that the army in the Hellenistic period was enlisted on a strict census system, and this was the case already under Philip and Alexander, although the details are unknown. According to this system, the Macedonians of modest means were enrolled as infantrymen on a

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allude to the inclusion of the young Asians into the same system of age classes which a few years earlier Philip II had rearranged.39 With their protest the Macedonians claimed the e x c l u s i v e right to participate in the educational and military system which had turned their homeland into a world power. Philip’s reforms (based, as we have seen, on extensive distributions of land) granted participation in military service and, therefore, full Macedonian citizenship to tens of thousands of people previously excluded by their low socio-economic level.40 Alexander’s enormous and rapidly achieved expansion of the empire raised a completely new set of issues (military control of the conquered territories, maintenance of a large army, peopling of newly-founded settlements) and thus undoubtedly marked the beginning of an era, in which, among other things, the prestigious ethnic Μακεδών was extended to non­Macedonians who ‘received their allotments of land in return for their own and their descendants’ military service in units armed and trained as Macedonian-style phalangites’.41 Such a l e g a l (rather than ethnic) definition of who the Makedones were, also helps to clarify the sense in which the Alexander sources d i s t i n g u i s h the ‘Macedonian’ from the ‘Greek’ participants of the campaign, and s e p a r a t e , among the areas under his control, ‘Greece’ from ‘Macedonia’.42 What is at stake in most cases in which those distinctions occur43 is the different legal status of Macedonian citizen-soldiers and of Greek allies or mercenaries in relation to the king, or, to put it

39

40 41

42

43

non-permanent basis (see Hatzopoulos 2001b, 89, 103–107 and the copies of the diagramma on military service from Drama and Kassandreia, ibid., epigraphic appendix, nrs. 2 I and 2 II). See Arr. Anab. 7.6.1; Diod. 17.108.3; Souda s.v. βασίλειοι παῖδες ἐξακισχίλιοι (who refers the reform to Egypt only). On the age classes in Macedonian military training, the basilikoi paides, and Philip’s initiatives in these fields see Hammond 1990b (in part. 278 for the inclusion of the Epigonoi in the same system); Gauthier / Hatzopoulos 1993, 65–78, 157–158; Savalli­ Lestrade 1998, 293–300; Hatzopoulos 2001b, 133–140. On the adoption of the same system in Hellenistic armies see Mari 2019b, 519–520; on age classes at the Antigonid court see Ma 2011, 525–526, 534–535. On these aspects and on the quantitative dimensions see Billows 1995, 9–23; Anson 2008. Billows 1995, 208 (cf. also 155–157). Many scholars scale down both the numbers of Macedonians stricto sensu who moved from their own land into new territories after the conquests of Alexander, and the duration of the phenomenon, with excellent arguments: e.g. Billows 1995, 6–7, 148–160, 183–212; Scharrer 2006. Abundant evidence from the Alexander historians is provided by Borza 1996, with whose interpretation that a l l these passages show an ethnic distinction between Greeks and Macedonians I basically disagree. Although not in a l l cases: the different condition of Makedones and Hellenes (in Alexander’s army as in other contexts) could be (and often was) p e r c e i v e d a n d r e p r e s e n t e d as an e t h n i c distinction: at least two passages discussed by Borza 1996 fit in with his ethnic interpretation (Arr. Anab. 2.10.6; Diod. 17.99.5–6); the effectiveness of Demosthenes’ statements on the barbarian character of the Macedonians, including their kings, speaks for itself (Mari 2015), and such propaganda was still employed against Macedonia in the late Hellenistic period (Thornton 2010, 2014, 16–19). But all of Borza’s other cases simply concern the coexistence of different ‘rules of engagement’ in Alexander’s army and, therefore, of different kinds of relations between the soldiers and the commander in chief. In the text I will briefly discuss only the

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in modern terms, the different ‘rules of engagement’ of the different components of Alexander’s army.44 The clearest example is a list of officers in Arrian’s Indika, in which some who were definitely born outside Macedonia proper are listed among the ‘Macedonians’ and not among the ‘Greeks’. The illuminating case of Nearchos (who is also the source of Arrian’s passage) suggests that these men had moved to Macedonia proper, presumably after receiving allotments of land from the king, and had therefore become full Macedonians.45 The boundary line between Greeks and Macedonians in this passage, as in many others, is therefore represented by ‘Macedonian citizenship’ vs. the citizenship in member states of the ‘League of Korinth’.46 Alexander was the basileus of the Macedonians, but was never described as such in relation to his Greek allies.47 THE KING AS REPRESENTATIVE OF THE ENTIRE ETHNOS

As a constituent element of Macedonian society the concurrent hierarchical n a t u r e and egalitarian r e p r e s e n t a t i o n of the relationship between king and Makedones

44 45

46

47

most significant case in which Borza’s interpretation appears wrong (Arr. Ind. 18.3–10, on which see already Hatzopoulos 2007, 59–63); on Eumenes of Kardia cf. infra n. 77. See Bettalli 2013, 377–383, who also highlights the fact that it is not always easy to distinguish between allies and mercenaries when the Greeks of Alexander’s army are concerned. Ind. 18.3–10; on Nearchos see § 10 (=  FGrHist 133 T 7): ναύαρχος δὲ αὐτοῖσιν ἐπεστάθη Νέαρχος ὁ Ἀνδροτίμου, τὸ γένος μὲν Κρὴς ὁ Νέαρχος, ᾤκεε δὲ ἐν Ἀμφιπόλει τῇ ἐπὶ Στρυμόνι. Among the other ‘Macedonians’ of the list, Laomedon (from Mytilene) and Androsthenes (from Thasos) are also classified as ‘Amphipolitans’ (§ § 3–4: ἐκ δὲ Ἀμφιπόλεως), as they too probably were permanent residents in that city. For biographical details see Berve 1926 II, no. 80, 464, 544; Heckel 1985, 1992, 190–195, 210–215, 2006, 29, 119, 146, 171–173; Bucciantini 2015, 9–28. On the general problems raised by Arrian’s list of Makedones see also Hammond / Griffith 1979, 353. Other prominent Greeks received allotments of land from Macedonian kings without ipso facto becoming ‘Macedonians’ (Dem. 19.145–146): the key-element clearly was permanent residence in Macedonia. Other possible cases are considered by Hammond / Griffith 1979, 648. Hatzopoulos 2007, 59–63, calls attention to the presence of the separate group of Cypriot officers at the end of the list (Arr. Ind. 18.8); the condition of the kingdoms of Cyprus was closer to that of Macedonia than to that of the home cities of the other trierarchs, as Cyprus ‘never adhered to the League officially styled as “the Hellenes”‘. While the phrasing also allows interpreting Arrian’s passage as i n c l u d i n g the Cypriots among the Greeks, other passages cited by Borza 1996 suggest that the distinction between Macedonia/Macedonians and Greece/Greeks in the literary tradition refers to the different kind of authority of the Macedonian kings over the two areas: cf. Arr. Anab. 1.11.3, on Alexander and Antipatros; Plut. Alex. 74.4, on Kassandros. See Mossé 2001 (on the ‘king of the Macedonians’ vs. the ‘hegemon of the Greeks’). The Makedones were definitely not members of the League of Korinth (Hatzopoulos 2007, 62), while, on the contrary, they did take part in the later ‘Hellenic league’ of Antigonos Doson and Philip V (see Polyb. 4.9.4). For Errington (1974, 33–37) the occurrences of the Makedones beside their king in official acts like the Delian dedication for the victory at Sellasia (Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 24) and the alliance between Philip V and Hannibal (Polyb. 7.9) simply imply their being the most powerful members of the ‘Hellenic league’, but this interpretation must be rejected (Papazoglou 1983, 197–202; Hatzopoulos 1996b I, 312–317).

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is only apparently puzzling. This fundamental aspect both explains and nuances the fact that kingship was the only Macedonian institution clearly v i s i b l e to an outside observer: the king was the only representative of his country in all official acts; he concluded alliances and issued coins in his own name; Macedonian political and religious interstate envoys were usually described as the king’s representatives. A few well­known examples will suffice to elucidate the point. Athenian diplomatic relationships with Macedonia during the fifth and the first half of the fourth century make exclusive reference to the king (Perdikkas II, Archelaos, or Amyntas III respectively).48 The Macedonian synedros to a panhellenic peace conference (probably that of 371) is described by Aischines as an envoy of the same Amyntas.49 Still at the eve of Philip’s accession to the throne (360 BC), his father Perdikkas III is the only theorodokos of the Macedonian state in a list from Epidauros,50 while, from Philip II’s reign onwards, Macedonia was represented in Delphi by hieromnemones invariably depicted in the epigraphic documents as envoys of the king.51 Circumstances like the ones I have just cited could easily suggest to Greek observers that all powers and functions were concentrated in the hands of the king and thus justify an interpretation of the latter’s power as autocratic.52 This symbolic role of the king as representative of the entire ethnos extended to the religious field, and this specific aspect has prompted several modern scholars to describe him as the ‘High priest’ of the state. Part of the evidence usually cited in

48

49 50 51

52

One of the Athenian treaties of alliance with Perdikkas II is preserved on stone (IG I3 89), while Thucydides frequently alludes to the king’s tendency to change sides (1.57.2, 1.61.3, 1.62.2, 2.29.6, 4.79.2, 4.128.5, 5.83.4, 6.7.3–4, 7.9). In 410 the Athenians offered their military help to Archelaos (Diod. 13.49.1–2), and in turn they honoured him for his cooperation, probably in 407/6 (IG I3 117). The Athenian alliance with Amyntas III is to be dated to (or soon after) 375 (IG II 2 102); in the 390s, the alliance with the Chalkidian koinon was also concluded in the name of ‘Amyntas son of Errhidaios’ (Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 1, A, ll. 2–3). On the almost exclusive visibility of the king in treaties and alliances involving Macedonia see Errington 1974, 32–36, with a very different interpretation. Aeschin. 2.32. IG IV 2(1) 94b, line 9, on which see Mari 2002, 67–71. Some references in n. 9; for Perseus’ representatives see CID IV, 108, ll. 5–7. The same qualification of envoys ‘of the king’ is applied, at Delphi, to the Macedonian tamiai: on both hieromnemones and tamiai, and more generally on the description of Macedonian officers in Delphic inscriptions see Mari 2002, 110–116, 153, 226–227, 277–282. Interestingly, the amphiktionic lists confirm Diodoros’ statement that in 346, at the end of the third sacred war, the two amphiktionic votes previously belonging to the Phokians were transferred ‘to Philip’ (16.60.1). The visible presence of Macedonian cities (and individuals) in panhellenic sanctuaries clearly grows in our evidence from the early Hellenistic period, possibly starting from the age of Alexander (Mari 2002, 319–329, 2007). It is hard to distinguish between simple misunderstanding and wilful distortion in these literary descriptions (see again Dem. 1.4). Interestingly, several modern scholars adopt a similar perspective: see e.g. Errington 1974, 33 (‘Nowhere is there any suggestion or even hint that the king might be acting juridically as the representative of the Macedonian People and not w h o l l y i n h i s o w n r i g h t ’).

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support of such an interpretation should in reality be dismissed as irrelevant.53 But the literary tradition on Alexander does offer some extremely interesting indications, not only showing him actually in a ‘religious’ role and performing rites in the name of the entire ethnos (a function for which the parallel of the Spartan kings can be usefully cited),54 but also insisting on the t r a d i t i o n a l character of such actions, which included the offering of sacrifices, the employment of (and cooperation with) specialists in divination, and the consultation of oracles.55 Well known is also the king’s personal attendance to ‘national’ festivals in which the entire community of the Makedones was supposed to take part.56 This was definitely the case of the Olympia, celebrated in autumn in the ‘pan-Macedonian’ sanctuary of Dion, and of the Xandika, which marked the beginning of the military season in early spring, each time in the place where the army first gathered. The most relevant evidence for the Xandika concerns Hellenistic episodes, but the festival undoubtedly had an ancient and traditional character, as suggested by the month named Xandikos in the Macedonian calendar. As for the Olympia, literary sources insist that the festival was introduced by king Archelaos, at the end of the fifth century; the participation of Philip and of Alexander in the festival is described by

Inscriptions, at least from the Hellenistic period, attest royal interventions aimed at regulating the relationships between cities and sanctuaries, defining the fiscal status of the latter, or even correcting details of cult practice: in my view all of this tells us less of the cultic or religious prerogatives of the king than of the large extension of his l e g i s l a t i v e authority (Mari forthcoming [a], with references). 54 On the Spartan kings’ ‘religious’ functions, see esp. Xen. Lac. 15.2, on Lykourgos ordaining ‘that the king shall offer all the public sacrifices on behalf of the state, in virtue of his divine descent’, and cf. Carlier 1984, 250–276, 292–301; R. Parker 1989, 154–160; Richer 2012, 244–252, 258–260. At Sparta no ‘national’ hiereus or ‘High priest’ (other than the king) is attested, while the existence of such a figure can at least be hypothesised in Macedonia under the last two Antigonids (Mari forthcoming [a]). 55 Most episodes (especially those describing the king as personally performing a sacrifice) were related to critical moments, such as battles, sieges, crossing of rivers, foundations of cities, or a mutiny, and the sources frequently stress the fact that the sacrifices were offered ‘in accordance with ancestral custom’ (τῷ πατρίῳ νόμῳ, ὡς νόμος, κατὰ νόμον) or ‘to the traditional (πάτριοι) gods’ (Arr. Anab. 2.26.4, 3.16.9, 3.25.1, 3.28.4, 4.4.1, 5.3.6, 5.8.2–3, 5.20.1, 5.29.1–2, 6.3.1–2, 7.11.8, 7.14.1, 7.24.4, Ind. 18.11–12; Plut. Alex. 76; Curt. 3.8.22, and cf. Fredricksmeyer 1966; Edmunds 1971). The king’s consultation of oracles may also be a part of his duties as representative of the ethnos towards the gods: many such episodes are attested in the tradition on Alexander and are in most cases to be accepted as historical. Moreover, the concession of the Delphic promanteia to Philip (Dem. 9.32) fits in perfectly with such an interpretation of the ‘religious’ role of the Macedonian king (Mari 2002, 138). Trampedach, this volume, also stresses the regular presence of ‘divinatory specialists’ in ancient Greek armies and their direct relationship with the generals. On the contrary, the late references to religious rites (ἱερά, sacra) which were specific and exclusive prerogatives o f t h e A r g e a d c l a n are not very reliable, due to the nature of the sources: see Ath. 14.659 F - 660 A, who quotes a letter by Olympias to Alexander, or Curtius’ reference (10.7.2) to Philip Arrhidaios being ‘sacrorum caerimoniarumque consors’ with Alexander. 56 See already above. 53

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the same sources.57 The traveling lifestyle of the army and therefore of the political community of the Makedones during Alexander’s Asian campaign58 possibly affected some aspects of Macedonian festivals and influenced later developments of the Hellenistic panegyreis (mainly, their being celebrated each time in a different location and their strongly military character), but, once again, significant continuity may be observed.59 RULER CULT

Another aspect of the religious relationship between the king and the Macedonians – the possibility of offering a cult to the ruler himself – did see significant changes over time, as far as our evidence allows us to conclude: and yet, once again, Alexander does not appear to have played the greatest role in that process. Some anticipation of the Hellenistic ruler cult in Greek cities can be observed in Macedonia (as in other areas of the Greek world), from the age of Philip II or even earlier,60 and Philip himself may have explored new forms of ‘State cult’ of the living king.61 If historical, the attempt was apparently unsuccessful, and the whole process, at least in Macedonia stricto sensu, does not seem to have been very advanced by the time of Alexander. Both Alexander and his father became the object of some form of cult by the Macedonians, either on the private level or as the result of exceptional circumstances, only after their death, while evidence of cult during their lifetime is practically non-existent.62 57

58 59 60

61

62

See esp. Diod. 16.55.1–2, on the Olympia of 348, celebrated by Philip (also mentioned by Dem. 19.192–193); Diod. 17.16.3–4 and Arr. Anab. 1.11.1, on those of 335, celebrated by Alexander (in

Aigai according to Arrian). For all the remaining evidence on both Olympia and Xandika and the relationships between Macedonian traditional festivals and some Hellenistic panegyreis see Mari 2017b, 2018c, 2019b. This aspect is briefly, but brilliantly, highlighted by Lane Fox 2011b, 387. See Mari 2019b, with remarks on the different elements of the Macedonian traditional panegyreis which possibly influenced later developments. See also Mann, this volume. See the appendix of sources at the end of Mari 2008, with all references: nos. 1 (sacrifices to Philip II, in his lifetime, at Amphipolis), 10 (temene of Philip [II] at Philippoi), 11 (a tribe named after Philip II at Philippopolis), 12 (a temple possibly dedicated already to Philip’s father, Amyntas III, at Pydna). See Mari 2008, 232–236, with a discussion of two possible ‘experiments’ by Philip: the allusion to some kind of ‘dynastic cult’ in the Philippeion at Olympia (Paus. 5.20.9–10), on which see von den Hoff, this volume; and the procession of images of the Twelve Gods, to which a statue of Philip himself was added (Diod. 16.92.5, 16.95.1; Stob. 4.34.70.846 W.). For local cults see above, n. 60; for Alexander, to date no cult at the local level is attested in Macedonia, and the kingdom stricto sensu was apparently not involved in Alexander’s so-called ‘claim to divine honours’ in 324 BC (literary sources are quoted by Mari 2008, 244 n. 59; probably the Thasian Alexandreia were introduced during Alexander’s lifetime, but the island was not part of the kingdom at the time: ibid. 245–247, 268, no. 15). An exceptional instance of posthumous cult is known from literary sources: according to Diod. 19.22 in 317 BC the Macedonian

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Things changed only in the Hellenistic period, when the cult of the living king, in Macedonia as in the remaining parts of the Greek world, became a key-element of the relationship between individual cities and central power. We can define the main aspects of the ‘Macedonian way’ of ruler cult as follows: 1) No positive evidence attests that the ceremonies following the death of members of the royal family ever gave rise to a r e g u l a r cult practice, with sacrifices, offerings, funeral games and a specific cult area dedicated to e a c h one of them, as an established part of a ‘national’ nomos in Macedonia, even in the Hellenistic period, when such a process took place in Ptolemaic Egypt. 2) In Macedonia (either before or after Alexander) no cult epithet p e r m a n e n t l y included in the titulature of any king is known so far, either from literary or epigraphic evidence (again in contrast to Ptolemaic Egypt). 3) On the contrary, in the Antigonid era, some epigraphic indications clearly suggest cults of Macedonian kings a t t h e l o c a l l e v e l , even in their lifetime. This typically Hellenistic interaction between kings and cities remained apparently alien to the Macedonian ‘Old Kingdom’: to date the available evidence comes exclusively from the ‘New Lands’ annexed to the kingdom by Philip II or later, which, in this respect, behaved exactly like the cities of other areas of the Greek world.63 We may wonder about Alexander’s specific contribution to (or influence on) these later developments. The debated evidence on the reactions of Macedonian officers and soldiers and of Greek members of Alexander’s inner circle to the attempt at introducing proskynesis in the court ceremonial in 328/7 can be of some use. Kallisthenes’ position, as it is described by Arrian,64 is particularly interesting, as he was a Greek intellectual born in a Greek city (Olynthos) with a glorious history as a free polis (after having been the capital-city of the Chalkidian koinon, it had been conquered and destroyed by Philip II in 348). In other words, towards the Macedonian central power Olynthos had found itself in a position quite similar to those of Pydna, or of Amphipolis (which apparently did offer a cult to Philip).65 Kallisthenes, therefore, was an influential member of the court who was well aware of both the Macedonian nomos and the Greek political tradition. In Arrian’s narrative, Kallisthenes interprets the proskynesis as a visible sign of divine cult (an interpretation probably shared by most contemporary Greeks, including the Macedonians) and connects such a ceremony exclusively to a barbarian conception of royal power. He probably agreed with Isokrates in dividing the world into three parts, as far as the satrap of Persia, Peukestas, offered ‘a magnificent sacrifice to the gods, and to Alexander and Philip as well’, and then a feast to which the whole army was invited; the participants occupied a large space, at the center of which ‘altars for the gods and for Alexander and Philip’ were located (see Mari 2008, 228–229). For examples of popular devotion towards the two great dead kings see Just. Epit. 24.5.9–11 and the late imperial graffiti from Pella published by Chrysostomou 1994. 63 For a complete collection of the evidence and a detailed discussion see Mari 2008. 64 Arr. Anab. 4.11–12. 65 See above, n. 60.

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conception of kingship and the ways of exercising it were concerned (εὐεργετεῖν / βασιλεύειν / ἄρχειν),66 and he apparently attributed the inclination of paying divine honours to living men only to barbarians (Isokrates’ third group).67 Be that as it may, in the literary tradition on the introduction of a cult of Alexander in the Greek cities, in 324 BC no Macedonian city is ever mentioned, and such a cult is so far unattested in Macedonia by contemporary epigraphic evidence.68 If ruler cult was basically a way of ‘coming to terms with royal power, or making sense of it’,69 it is understandable why Macedonian cities – even those only recently annexed to the kingdom – never needed to address Alexander in such a way. A few years later, even Demetrios Poliorketes, who in many respects tried to innovate the conception of royal power and broke with the Macedonian tradition, was much more cautious in Macedonia than in the rest of the Greek world with religious traditions and any connections between religion and power: but other prominent figures of the age of the Diadochoi and, more clearly, later Antigonid kings (particularly Philip V) acted in a markedly different way. Over time, therefore, the difference between Macedonia and the other Hellenistic kingdoms with respect to cults paid to living kings or members of the royal family decreased or disappeared. Several cities of the Macedonian ‘New Lands’ shaped their relationship with the kings also by employing the ruler cult as a flexible and effective tool.70 In short, the revolutionary changes sparked by Alexander’s conquests affected his own homeland at a slower rate.

66 67

68 69 70

Isoc. 5.154 (cf. supra). On Kallisthenes’ role first at Philip’s and then at Alexander’s court see Prandi 1985. See esp. Arr. Anab. 4.11.8, where Kallisthenes wonders about the practical consequences of an imposition of the proskynesis custom: ‘Consider this also: on your way back (to Europe) will it be the Greeks, the most free of all men, whom you will compel to bow down before you, or will you perhaps exempt the Greeks, and shackle the Macedonians with this shame? Or will you draw a line thus in the matter of honours for all the world, so that b y G r e e k s a n d M a c e d o n i a n s you shall be honoured as a man, a c c o r d i n g t o t h e G r e e k c u s t o m , and by f o r e i g n e r s only in this foreign fashion?’. This passage, which Borza 1996, 124 quoted as an example of an ‘ethnic’ opposition between Greeks and Macedonians (omitting any reference to the ‘barbarians’), actually is a contrast of both of them and the barbarians (on the recurrent distinction Greeks/Macedonians, or Greece/Macedonia, in the Alexander sources, see above). The literary tradition also records anecdotes on leading figures at court who resisted proskynesis or mocked the Persians for performing it: these are probably fictional, but all the same meaningful (see Mari 2008, 244 n. 58, for references). Above, n. 62, also for the apparent exception of Thasos. Ma 1999, 219. On Demetrios’ ‘religious policy’ see Mari 2016 (168–169 on Macedonia). On the cult paid by individual Macedonian cities of the ‘New Lands’ to Kassandros, Lysimachos, Eurydike (mother of Ptolemy Ceraunus, king of Macedonia between 281 and 279 BC), ‘Antigonos’ (Gonatas or Doson) and ‘Philip’ (to be identified in most cases with Philip V), in their lifetime, see Mari 2008, appendix (267–268).

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THE ‘MACEDONICITY’ OF THE KING

A final element needs to be considered, namely what we could label the ‘Macedonicity’ of the βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων himself. The epigraphic evidence of the Hellenistic period shows that the Macedonian king was sometimes described not as βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων, but as βασιλεὺς Μ α κ ε δ ώ ν .71 Such an ‘ethnic’ description was not limited to the Antigonids, but occasionally applied to the members of other Hellenistic dynasties: in this case, Errington’s explanation that a ruler was described as a βασιλεὺς Μακεδών exclusively for practical reasons and only in territories external to those under his direct control, seems to me unsatisfactory.72 It rather seems that these claims to ‘Macedonicity’ had an i d e o l o g i c a l significance and were part of a large and systematic effort to legitimise royal power (and the existence itself of the Hellenistic kingdoms) through some kind of connection with Alexander and his homeland.73 In earlier Macedonian history, the king’s b e l o n g i n g to the ethnos of the Macedonians was no less important, although for other reasons: as frequently stressed by modern scholars, in most of literary references Philip II is described simply as ‘the Macedonian’, often with polemical overtones,74 but the fact that the king of the Macedonians w a s h i m s e l f a Μ α κ ε δ ώ ν emerges also in the neutral context of an interstate alliance and is therefore particularly relevant. In one of the treaties he concluded with the Athenians – the only one which is preserved on stone –, Perdik-

See Aymard 1950, 67–68, 72–75, with references. See also Errington 1974, who concludes that a fixed and stable royal titulature never existed in Macedonia. 72 Errington 1974, 30–31, who quotes examples of the use of such a title as referred to Ptolemy III or Antiochos III. 73 On references to the Seleucids as ‘Macedonians’ and its meaning see Musti 1966 , 104 –105 , 111–121. Among other things, Musti stresses that in the cuneiform text of the Borsippa cylinder Antiochos I carries several royal titles (‘the Great king, the legitimate king, the king of the world, king of Babylon, king of all countries’), while the ‘ethnic’ definition ‘Macedonian’ is limited to his father Seleukos, in order to stress the dynasty’s M a c e d o n i a n o r i g i n s (cf. Aymard 1950, 67–68). On Ptolemies as ‘Macedonians’, particularly in dedications in the Panhellenic sanctuaries (Paus. 6.3.1 and 10.7.8), see Bearzot 1992a, 265–268, 1992b. No doubt that legitimatory claims to ‘Macedonicity’ or even to a direct blood relationship with the Argeads were more frequent in the first generation of the Diadochoi: see their attempts at establishing such a relationship through marriages (Diod. 18.23.3, 18.25.3, 19.52.1, 19.61.2), or Ptolemy’s ‘theft’ of Alexander’s corpse, who was buried at Alexandria and became the centre of an elaborate cult (Diod. 18.26–28 and Paus. 1.6.3, among others). But among the Antigonids Philip V apparently still showed a constant will to be associated – even in terms of ‘kinship’ – to Philip II and Alexander (Polyb. 5.10.9–11). In his case, of course, ‘Macedonicity’ was not questioned, but his being a member of the ethnos is in some way highlighted in I. Magnesia 47, ll. 1–5 (on which see Musti 1963, 230). Cf. also Meeus, this volume. 74 On Philip II as ‘the Macedonian’ (without the title basileus) in literary sources see Errington 1974, 30–31, and, with reference to Dem. 9.30–31, Mari 2015. 71

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kas II is alluded to as a member of the ethnos over which he rules (IG I3 89, l. 26: [Περδίκ]κο κ α ὶ τ õ ν ἄ λ λ ο ν Μ α κ ε δ ό ν ο ν ).75 The literary tradition on Alexander, in its turn, also shows – at least indirectly – this key-aspect of the royal ideology and self-representation, for instance in Alexander’s speech to the ‘mutineers’ at Opis in Arrian’s Anabasis (which insists on the common lifestyle shared by the king and the Macedonians, once again a literary topos more revealing than is usually assumed), or in Diodoros’ famous description of Alexander’s landing in Asia (‘he flung his spear from the ship and he fixed it in the ground, and then he went ashore t h e f i r s t o f t h e M a c e d o n i a n s ’).76 Even more meaningful are the passages in literary sources which attribute a specific meaning to the use of the M a c e d o n i a n d i a l e c t (or the refusal to use it) in Alexander’s circle. In Curtius’ narrative of the trial of Philotas, refusing to speak or even to learn the ‘language of the forefathers’ (patrius sermo) is taken as proof of Philotas’ general contempt of Macedonian customs and identity by Alexander, while in Plutarch’s Eumenes speaking Μακεδονιστί is a sign of cohesion among the phalangites when they hail Eumenes – a non-Macedonian by birth – as their commander-in-chief.77 Unlike other scholars, I do not think that such passages can be used in any way to demonstrate that ancient Greek authors considered Macedonian a non-Greek language.78 The Greek character of the language spoken in Macedonia can no longer be questioned.79 Thus, a different view of passages like those mentioned above can be taken. If speaking Greek (ἑλληνίζειν) was the key­feature of being (or becoming) Hellenes,80 s p e c i f i c d i a l e c t s too could be seen as mark75 76 77

78

79 80

Due to Perdikkas’ regularly switching sides and the fragmentary character of the text, IG I3 89 cannot be dated with certainty (above, notes 9 and 48). Cf. Arr. Anab. 7.9.8–10.3; Diod. 17.17.1–2 (πρῶτος τῶν Μακεδόνων). Curt. 6.9.34–36; Plut. Eum. 14.5. Eumenes of Kardia is an interesting case of a leading figure at Alexander’s court whose Greek (that is, non-Macedonian: see above) origin is frequently stressed by our sources: see the different interpretations by Borza 1996, 133–136, and Anson 2015c, 252–261. Sometimes more psychological than ideological interpretations of the use of the native dialect are evoked by our sources, as in Plutarch’s description of Kleitos’ murder (Alex. 51.4). According to Borza 1996, 132, Curtius’ passage would show that ‘Macedonian and Greek were mutually unintelligible languages in Alexander’s day’, but nothing of that kind emerges from Curtius’ words (cf. Hatzopoulos 2018, 320); J. Hall 2001, 161–163, interprets Plut. Ant. 27.3–4 as if the Macedonian was here included among barbarian languages, but this is definitely not the case. A very useful discussion and further bibliography can be found in Hatzopoulos 2007, 54–55 and n. 16. For recent discussions of the evidence and scholarship on the position of the Macedonian among the Greek dialects see Brixhe 2018; Hatzopoulos 2018. The locus classicus is Hdt. 8.144.2 (part of the Athenian reply to the Spartan envoys in 480/79 on Xerxes’ request to surrender), according to which the ‘Greekness’ (to Hellenikon) is, among other things, ‘kinship in blood and speech (ὅμαιμόν τε καὶ ὁμόγλωσσον), and the shrines of gods and the sacrifices that we have in common, and the likeness of our way of life’. On ancient and modern conceptions of the meaning of the words ἑλληνίζειν, ἑλληνισμός, ἑλληνιστής, used mainly – though not exclusively – in reference to non-Greeks, see Canfora 1987, 83, 85–89, 91–109; Musti 1990, 683–685.

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ers of identity, for example when they helped in defining the exact origin and ethnic composition of a Greek colony.81 In Alexander’s army and at court, Macedonian normally coexisted with other Greek dialects, and the same situation had already developed in Macedonia after the great expansion under Philip II.82 But the episodes I have recalled, regardless of the historical accuracy of the details, clearly show that the use of dialect could be seen as symbolically or ideologically meaningful.83 On the other hand, the ideological interpretation of the act of ‘speaking Macedonian’ which our sources suggest as a historical reality did not affect the official w r i t t e n habits of the kingdom and of the royal chancery. Philip II (if not already his predecessors) adopted Attic as the official language of the chancery, paving the way to a generalised use of the koine in official documents by Alexander, his successors and, within Macedonia, the cities themselves.84 In a way, public documents were a ‘literary genre’ requiring a specific dialect; in more practical terms, Philip’s adoption of Attic settled the problem of choosing one dialect among those spoken (and written) in the now enlarged kingdom (Macedonian, Ionic, Thessalian).85 If this usefulness of the koine is self-evident in the case of written usage, the same can be said of its adoption as the common language of Alexander’s army, which emerges from the literary tradition.86

81

82

83

84

85 86

See e.g. Thucydides’ remarks on Himera in Sicily, whose foundation by Chalkidians from Zankle and Syracusans was confirmed by the city’s dialect, ‘a mixture of Chalkidian and Doric’; and on the mixed population of the Akte peninsula, in Chalkidike, where the Greek element was represented by ‘a small number of Chalkidians’ (6.5.1 and 4.109.3–4 respectively). Herodotos, in his turn, classifies the Ionians of Asia in four groups according to their dialects (1.142). In the Chalkidian cities or in Amphipolis, for example, the Ionian dialect was still prevailing at the time of the Macedonian conquest and was slowly replaced by the koine (Mari 2018b, 182 and n. 12). It should be stressed that, while our sources’ distance in time from the events is usually a problem and can lead to misunderstandings or conscious distortions (for example when they apply rhetorical topoi or patterns taken from later historical periods to Alexander’s conception of kingship or to his approach to barbarian cultures), these references to the use of the Macedonian dialect are most probably genuine and already present in Plutarch’s and Curtius’ sources. References to the peculiarity of the dialect and to speaking Μακεδονιστί are never attested in Hellenistic sources: in Polybios μακεδονίζειν means ‘to side with the Macedonians’ (20.5.5), while epigraphic documents in Hellenistic Macedonia are invariably written in koine. No document issued by the royal chancery earlier than the reign of Philip II is available so far (see Hatzopoulos 1996b II and the updated list in Mari 2018a, notes 14, 15, 21, 27, 31, 32). Of course nothing can be said about the language of the royal letters, diagrammata or other official acts earlier than Philip II (on their possible existence see Mari 2006, 213–214). For references and bibliography see Mari 2018b, 182 and n. 12; on the koine spoken in Macedonia see Hatzopoulos 2018, 300, 305–307. See e.g. Curtius’ chapters on Philotas’ trial (6.9.35, 10.23). On koine (or ‘standard Greek’) as language for oral communication within Alexander’s army see the different views by Hammond 1994b, 137 and J. Hall 2001, 162–163. Brixhe’s view that the use of the dialect was precociously abandoned by the Macedonians, starting from the members of the elite, seems impossible to prove and possibly refuted by the passages already quoted, and his conclusion that ‘(e)n Macé-

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SOME (VERY LIMITED) CONCLUSIONS

In conclusion, I hope to have shown that the simple use of different royal titulatures, i f t a k e n i n i s o l a t i o n , does not prove the existence of completely different conceptions of royal power (in Macedonia or anywhere else). Every general interpretation of the nature of the Macedonian monarchy (before and after Alexander) as either ‘national’ or ‘autocratic’ should be based on larger and firmer grounds. The existence itself of the formula βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων and the explicit mention of the Makedones in official documents, however, are at least clear hints of the growing ‘visibility’ of the ethnos, in Hellenistic Macedonia, as one of the two constituent parts of the state. On the other hand, the use of the royal title itself (βασιλεύς, with or without Μακεδόνων) as an official description of Macedonian rulers remained unsystematic even in Alexander’s reign. The relationship linking the Macedonian kings – who were, first of all, military leaders – to the Makedones – whose condition was determined by census and military service – undoubtedly had a strongly charismatic character. At the same time, such a relationship determined some kind of mutual dependence between the two constituent elements of the state. As a consequence, a condition of permanent (or semi-permanent) war was needed, in order to legitimise the king’s power and ability to redistribute wealth, to fuel the Companions’ lifestyle,87 and to allow men of lower classes to reach the minimum census level necessary to be (in legal terms) Makedones. The conquests of new territories, which since the age of Philip II vastly expanded the recruitment pool of Macedonian infantry soldiers, were also the basic raison d’être of the Hellenistic kingdoms. Some important innovations can be attributed to Alexander, who certainly attempted to modify and expand the ethnic composition of his army and explored radically new ways of conceiving and representing kingship. But we should also admit that Philip II had already adopted a revolutionary approach to the exercise of royal power (his experiments in ruler cult being among the most impressive signs of such a new conception) and, on the other hand, that other innovations were fully completed only a f t e r Alexander: to the regular adoption of the royal title and the explicit mention of the Makedones in official documents we should add the diffusion of the civic cult paid to living kings in some areas of the kingdom. Apparently those changes did not entirely alter – even after Alexander – the ideological representation of the relationship between king and Macedonians as a fundamentally egalitarian one. In spite of the charismatic base of his power and of his position at the top of a deeply hierarchical society, the king (even Alexander at the height of his success) needed to present himself as a primus inter pares with regard to his Companions, or, doine, le dialect n’a (…) jamais été utilisé comme étendard identitaire’ (2018, 24), is in my view to be rejected. 87 On this aspect of the relationship between the king and the Macedonian elite see Monson and Meeus, this volume.

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with regard with the ‘common’ Macedonians, as a Macedonian himself, in lifestyle as in language. Nicholas Hammond rightly remarked that treating the reign of Alexander as a watershed in the historical development of Macedonian institutions and limiting ourselves to the study of only ‘one side or other of the watershed’ is a mistake that must be avoided.88 On the other hand, the different topics dealt with in the previous pages show that the reigns of Philip, Alexander and the Diadochoi can be taken together as a l o n g p e r i o d o f c h a n g e . The great expansion of Macedonian territories under Philip, Alexander’s long absence from the homeland and relations with foreign peoples, and the constant struggles among the Successors definitely affected the relationship between the king and the Macedonians, even though some remarkable elements of it remained stable and unchanged.

88

Hammond 2000, 141.

11 ON THE TITULATURE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT: THE TITLE BASILEUS Maxim M. Kholod It cannot be said that the title basileus in relation to the Macedonians monarchs, including Alexander the Great, has remained neglected in scholarship.1 Nevertheless, modern historians addressing this issue in one context or another have – with rare exceptions – considered it only briefly,2 and what has been most interesting for them, is when the Macedonian rulers began for the first time to use such a title. In the present essay, I intend to provide my thoughts on this particular matter too (for which I shall consider the relevant material relating not only to Alexander’s age but to the earlier period as well). Above all, however, my aim is to clarify the role the title basileus played in the representation of Alexander’s power during his reign and, in particular, in its legitimation, i.e. to highlight the subject that, for all I know, has been overlooked by scholars to date.3 In addition, I believe that my conclusions as well as the overview of relevant sources given below (to my knowledge the most complete one yet) can be useful to those who will subsequently try to contribute to our knowledge of the issue under consideration here in general or of one of its aspects in particular.

1

2 3

See e.g. Aymard 1948, 1950; Errington 1974; Goukowsky 1978–1981 I, 182; Griffith 1979, 387–389; Le Roy 1980, 57–61; Hammond 1988, 1990a, 1994; Badian 1989, 64–70, 1993, 1994, 1996, 11–12; Bosworth 1993, 420; Hatzopoulos 1995, 171–176; Carney 1995, 370–371; Borza 1999, 12–15; Arena 1999, 2003, 2004–2005, 2007, 2011, 2013; Anson 2009, 279–280, 2013, 20; King 2010, 375; Lane Fox 2011c, 359–360; Muccioli 2013, 38–39; Greenwalt 2015, 338; S. Müller 2016b, 26–27, 326; see also Mari, this volume, who has made some remarks on the issue. Of recent works, a series of articles by Arena (see the previous note) are an exception in this respect. When I say this, I leave out of account a number of works dealing with Alexander’s title ‘basileus of Asia’, because it is regarded as a special title. On the title ‘basileus of Asia’ (with relevant literature), see below.

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BEFORE PHILIP II

Epigraphic evidence. Among those few inscriptions that refer to the Argead rulers before Philip II, there is not a single stone where one of them is recorded with the title basileus. In these inscriptions, they are referred to by name alone, in some cases with patronymic: – a series of Athenian decrees concerning Methone mentioning Perdikkas II, 430/29–424/34 (IG I3 61, ll. 18, 27, 47–48, 50);5 – alliance between Perdikkas II and Athens, ca. 435 – ca. 413 (IG I3 89, ll. 9, 15–16, 25, [26], 35, 38, [40–42], 43, [55], 56, [57], 60);6 – Athenian decree in honour of Archelaos, 407/6 (OR 188, ll. [25, 33] =  IG I3 117); – alliance between Amyntas III and the Chalkidians, 390s–380s (RO 12, ll. 1–2, 5–6, 8, 13, 20, 25, [26]);7 – alliance between Amyntas III and Athens, 375–373 (Tod 129, ll. 2, [5–6], 14, [20], 21 =  IG II 2 102); – list of theorodokoi from Epidauros, where Perdikkas III is recorded, 360–359 (IG IV 2[1] 94b, l. 9 =  P erlman 2000, 177–179 [E.1]).8 At the same time, one of the listed inscriptions (heavily damaged) can attract attention, namely an alliance between Perdikkas II and the Athenians. It is noteworthy that the word basileus occurs in the text, however, is employed to describe a group of local kinglets from Upper Macedonia, formally – albeit not all of them actually – dependent on Perdikkas as his vassals at this time.9 Of course it cannot be ruled out that in some lost portion of the inscription Perdikkas was referred to as basileus too. Nevertheless, more probably, the word basileus is used here not as these kinglets’ formal title (it is hardly possible that they officially bore it) but merely as a synonym for ‘ruler’. Perhaps the appearance of such a description of them in the treaty was partly caused by the Athenian wish to flatter the kinglets – Perdikkas’ persistent headaches – a bit. But most likely, this happened first of all for a purely practical reason: to make it clear to every reader of the text that these obscure persons – in contrast to Perdikkas barely known to the overwhelming majority in Athens – also

4 5 6

7

8 9

All dates are BC/BCE. For the dating of these decrees, apart from the commentaries on them in a number of editions (IG I3 61; Tod 61; ML 65), see Hammond 1979, 124–125; Roisman 2010, 148–149. This alliance has been dated variously in scholarship. A useful summary of the relevant views, accompanying the arguments in favour of ca. 423: Borza 1992, 153 n. 56, his arguments: 153– 155, 295. Likewise, now see particularly S. Müller 2017, 192–196 (with further literature). Tod and Hatzopoulos (in their commentaries on the inscription: Tod 111; Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 1) as well as some other scholars relate this alliance to ca. 393. I follow Rhodes and Osborne (commentary on RO 12) who are more cautious in its dating. Thus too: Roisman 2010, 159. Cf. Borza 1992, 182–183. For the date of this inscription, now see Perlman 2000, 69–70. IG I3 89, l. 35: τὸς βασιλέας τὸς [μ]ετὰ Περδ[ίκκο]; l. 69: [… Δέ]ρδας, βασιλεὺς Ἀντίοχος, Δε[… βασ]ιλεύ[ς].

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were rulers of certain lands.10 (It appears that one can find an analogue to this case in an Athenian decree in honour of Hebryzelmis, an obscure Odrysian ruler, 386/5:11 in the document, he is also called basileus,12 contrary to the usual practice in Athens to describe the Thracian rulers in epigraphic documents by name only, sometimes with patronymic and/or ethnic.13 ) Numismatic evidence. The title basileus does not appear on the coins issued under Philip’s predecessors on the Macedonian throne. All that their legends contain is the names of monarchs, in full or abbreviated form.14 Literary evidence. The situation is different for our literary tradition. The word basileus is used to describe the status of these Macedonian rulers by Herodotos, Thucydides, and Xenophon, i.e. by our main historians of the period before Philip. Isokrates also employs the word basileus in relation to one of the Macedonian monarchs in those speeches that were composed prior to Philip’s accession to the throne. In connection with the Argeads the term basileus occurs in Herodotos only one time: he uses it (together with the word στρατηγός) to describe Alexander I, when the latter came to the Greeks on the eve of the battle of Plataiai.15 In other cases Herodotos, when he speaks about the Macedonian rulers, shows some diversity. In his account on the visit of the Persian embassy to Macedonia, Alexander claims that his father Amyntas is Μακεδόνων ὕπαρχος (5.20.3), while in the story about the coming of Alexander to Athens, dispatched by Mardonios there, the Spartan envoys state that Alexander is τύραννος (8.142.5). In turn, the power that Perdikkas 10

11

12 13

14 15

On the reign of Perdikkas II in general and his relationship both with Athens and the kinglets of Upper Macedonia in particular, see e.g. Hammond 1979, 115–136; Borza 1992, 132–160; Roisman 2010, 146–154; and recently S. Müller 2016b, 141–163, 2017. Mari, this volume, believes that the phrase τὸς βασιλέας τὸς [μ]ετὰ Περδ[ίκκο] surviving in the decree ‘could (or even should) be interpreted rather as extending the royal title (the only one through which a legitimate monarch could be described) to Perdikkas too’. However, in my view, this is not necessarily the case; the main point is the absence of Perdikkas’ direct description as basileus in the extant parts of the inscription. Tod 117 =  IG II 2 31. For the relatively new interpretation of this decree, including some ideas concerning Hebryzelmis’ reign, see Kellogg 2004–2005. In addition, on him, see Archibald 1998, 219; Zahrnt 2015, 44. Tod 117, ll. 5–6, 22–23. See, in particular, alliance between Athens and Berisades, Amadokos, and Kersebleptes, Odrysian rulers, 357 (RO 47, ll. 5–6, 8–10, 14–15, 18, 20 =  IG II 2 126); alliance between Athens and Ketriporis, an Odrysian ruler, Lyppeios, a Paionian ruler, and Grabos, a Grabaeanian/Illyrian ruler, 356/5 (RO 53, ll. 2, 9, 11, 15, [27], [29], 39–41, [43], [45], 46 =  IG II 2 127); Athenian decree in honour of the Odrysian Rhebulas, in which his father Seuthes and his brother Kotys (perhaps II and I respectively) are referred to by name only, 330 (IG II/III 3[1.2] 351, l. 1). On Rhebulas, see recently Delev 2015, 53. Furthermore, it should be pointed out that the title basileus is absent both in another inscription mentioning, in all probability, the same Hebryzelmis, found in Adrianopolis/Edirne (Lampusiadis 1897, 154; see also MDAI(A) 1897, 475), and in the legends of his coins (Head 1911, 284; Yurukova 1992, 56–60, 231–234 [nos. 44–48]). On the Macedonian royal coinage in this period, see Head 1911, 218–222; Gaebler 1935, 148– 162; Raymond 1953; Price 1974, 9–10, 18–21. Hdt. 9.44.1: Ἀλέξανδρος ὁ Ἀμύντεω, στρατηγός τε ἐὼν καὶ βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων.

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I established in Macedonia, Herodotos calls τυραννίς (8.137.1) and a little further – ἀρχή (8.139). In addition, he describes as basileus a ruler from Upper Macedonia who initially hired this Perdikkas and his two brothers to herd livestock (8.137.2–3, 5–138.1). Thucydides, in contrast, consistently describes the Macedonian monarchs only with the term basileus.16 Furthermore, Thucydides their power in Macedonia calls βασιλεία (2.95.2) and then writes that Alexander, father of Perdikkas II, and his ancestors, the Temenidai, ‘were kings’ (ἐβασίλευσαν) there (2.99.3). Besides, it should be pointed out that he refers to the kinglets of Upper Macedonia, considered formally the Argead house’s vassals, as basileis too.17 Xenophon in his Hellenika speaks about the representatives of the ruling dynasty of Macedonia only in connection with Amyntas III. In one passage, he calls Amyntas basileus18 and slightly later describes his power as ἀρχή (5.2.38). Likewise, he refers to the kinglet Derdas of Elimeia as ἄρχων (5.2.38). Finally, when Isokrates twice mentions Amyntas III, he also uses the word basileus,19 adding in the last case that after the restoration of his authority over Macedonia Amyntas ‘being king’ (βασιλεύων) died at an advanced age.20 THE REIGN OF PHILIP II

Epigraphic evidence. In the inscriptions uncontroversially dated to Philip’s reign, he does not appear with the title basileus but is referred to by name alone: – alliance between Philip and the Chalkidians, 357/6 (RO 50, ll. 3, [9], 11–12); – alliance between Athens and Thracian, Paionian, and Illyrian rulers, 356 /5 (RO 53, ll. 41, 43–44); – Athenian decree concerning Akanthos and Dion, ca. 350 (IG II/III 3[1.2] 388, l. 13); – arrow points and sling bullets from Olynthos, 348 (D. Robinson 1941, 383 [nos. 1907–1911], 431–433 [nos. 2228–2241]);21

16

17 18 19 20

21

Perdikkas II: Thuc. 1.57.2, 2.29.7 (Περδίκκας ὁ Ἀλεξάνδρου, Μακεδόνων βασιλεύς), 2.95.1 (Μακεδονίας βασιλεύς); cf. 2.99.6. Archelaos: 2.100.2 (Ἀρχέλαος ὁ Περδίκκου υἱὸς βασιλεύς). Rulers before Archelaos: ibid. (βασιλῆς). Such kinglets in general: Thuc. 2.99.2. Antiochos of Orestis: 2.80.6. Arrhabaios of Lynkos: 4.79.2, 83.1. Xen. Hell. 5.2.12: Ἀμύντας ὁ Μακεδόνων βασιλεύς. Isoc. 4.126, 6.46: Ἀμύντας ὁ Μακεδόνων βασιλεύς. In addition, it is relevant to note in the context that Plato, in contrast to the above-indicated ancient authors, does not use the word basileus in connection with the Macedonian rulers. Plato describes Archelaos one time as τύραννος (Alc. II. 141d) and twice as ἄρχων (Theag. 124d, Gorg. 470d), while this ruler’s power in Macedonia he calls ἀρχή (Gorg. 471a–d). Likewise, when Plato speaks about Perdikkas III’s power, he employs the term μοναρχία (Epist. 5. 322a). A number of sling bullets bearing the name of Philip (without the title basileus) have been found in other places as well. For them, see Avram / Chiriac / Matei 2013, 235.

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– Athenian decree concerning the Olynthian refugees, 348/7 (Tod 166, ll. [5, 15] =  IG II/III 3[1.2] 503); – Delphian lists of the Amphiktionic hieromnemones and tamiai (CID II 36 col. I, l. 23 [343/2]; col. II, ll. 13, 35 [342/1]; CID II 43, ll. 16, 41 [340/39]; CID II 44, l. 5 [339/8]; CID II 74 col. I, ll. 31, 43; col. II, l. 22 [337/6]); – Athenian variant of the oath sworn by the Greek states participating in the Korinthian League, 338/722 (IG II/III 3[1.2] 318, ll. [5], 11);23 – Athenian decree in honour of a certain friend at Philip’s court, 337/6 (IG II/ III 3[1.2] 322, ll. 13, 15). Philip is attested without such a title also in a number of epigraphic documents belonging to a slightly later date: – Alexander’s settlement concerning Philippoi, 335–330 (Vatin 1984, A, l. [9], B, l. 10 =  M issitzis 1985; Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 6);24 – list of sales from Philippoi, second half of the fourth century (Hatzopoulos 1996 b II, no. 83, ll. 1, 6); – land grant of Kassandros to Perdikkas son of Koinos, ca. 306–297 (Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 20, ll. 9–10). On the date of the inscription from Oleveni, where the title basileus is used along with Philip’s name (IG X[2.2] 1, ll. 14–15 =  H atzopoulos 1996b II, no. 5), there is no consensus among modern scholars: part of them are inclined to consider this basileus to be Philip V.25 Again, there is no certainty about the restoration of the name of Philip in the text of Amphissa’s dedication in Delphi (IG IX[1] 775, The idea of Worthington (2008a) that the first fragment of this inscription refers to the bilateral treaty between Philip and Athens which concluded their war right after the battle of Chaironeia in 338, is interesting, but, in my view, unconvincing. On this peace (the so-called Peace of Demades), see now in detail Kholod 2013c, 495–507. 23 Although the word βασιλεία is preserved in line 11 ([τ]ὴν βασιλείαν [τ]ὴν Φ[ιλίππου καὶ τῶν ἐκγόν]ων), this proves nothing, since Philip himself is mentioned here without the title basileus. In all likelihood, as Borza (1999, 12) believes, the word βασιλεία in this line ‘means … the “rule” or “authority” of Philip over his land’. See also Bosworth 1993, 420 n. 5; Badian 1996, 12; RO 76 (commentary). Mari, this volume, holds the – in her view different – opinion that this phrase describes ‘the (legitimate) monarchic power of Philip and of his descendants’. But I do not see how Borza’s interpretation contradicts such a position (though he omits the mention of Philip’s descendants). At any rate, it is most important for me that Philip does not appear with the title basileus here (and perhaps in line 5); if it was essential for him to be described as basileus, this would certainly have been reflected in the document. 24 Because this inscription is poorly preserved, scholars propose divergent interpretations of the document (as well as various restorations of its damaged parts). Detailed bibliography: Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 6 (commentary). Also, there is no unified position on the exact date of the inscription. See e.g. Vatin 1984, 262 (‘late 335’); Missitzis 1985, 13–14 (‘before the Persian campaign’); Hammond 1988, 383 (‘the winter of 335/4’), 1990a, 173 (‘May or so of 335’) (cf. 1994a: 386–387); Badian 1989, 67–68, 1993, 137–138, 1994, 389 n. 1 (‘not earlier than ca. 330’); Hatzopoulos 1997, 50–51 (‘between January and May of 330’); cf. Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 6 (‘330’). 25 More recently Papazoglou 1998 ; Arena 2003 (both articles contain detailed bibliography). Their arguments seem persuasive to me. Cf. IG X(2.2) 1 (commentary). That this is Philip II is 22

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ll. [1–2] =  Daux 1949, 258–260: [Ἀμ]φισσεῖς Φ[ίλιππον Ἀμύντα] βασ[ιλέα])26 and, consequently, about the attribution of the document to the respective period. The same can be said also on an inscription from Mygdonia concerning the demarcation of borders between various cities, at the beginning of which the word βασιλεία has survived (Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 4, ll. [1–2]: [Ἐπὶ τῆς Φιλίππο]υ βασιλήας τοῦ Ἀ[μύντου]).27 Besides, 338/7 as the date for an Athenian decree moved by Archedikos, where the phrase ‘the friends of the basileus and of Antipater’ occurs (IG II/III 3[1.2] 484, ll. 3–4: τῶν τ[ο]ῦ βασ[ιλέως φίλ]ων καὶ Ἀντιπάτ[ρ]ου),28 seems doubtful to me. More likely, this decree is related to a later time, perhaps to 322, shortly after the battle of Krannon, and if so, the mentioned basileus is Philip III Arrhidaios (it is possible that until that point either Alexander IV was not also proclaimed basileus or such news was not yet known in Athens).29 In turn, there is no unanimity in scholarship on the identification of ‘the basileus’ recorded in a very fragmentary Athenian decree proposed by Demades in 337/6 (IG II/III 3[1.2] 326, l. 20: τὸμ βασιλέα): while some modern historians hold that this is Philip,30 others argue that the inscription refers either to the Persian king31 or to the Athenian official.32 In any case, it is evident that this question cannot be solved definitively because of the document’s very bad condition. On the other hand, we have two copies of an inscription (now lost) from Lebadeia, recording the prescriptions for consulting the oracle of Trophonios, supplemented by a list of names of visitors, where, if its text is restored correctly, Amyntas son of Perdikkas III (and nephew of Philip)33 is called basileus (IG VII 3055, ll. 7 –8 : Ἀ[μ]ύντα[ς] Π[ερ]δί[κ]κα [Μα]κεδόνων βασιλεύ[ς] =  SEG 44 .414 and most actively argued by Hatzopoulos (e.g. 1982 and esp. 1995). See recently also Lane Fox

2011c, 359. 26 27 28 29 30 31

32 33

On this inscription, see also Arena 2004–2005, 2007. Furthermore, the word order in the proposed restoration of these lines makes me somewhat doubtful. Though cf. IK.Mylasa 5, ll. 1–2 (353/2). For such a date, see Tracy 1993. Bosworth 1993. Cf. Habicht 1993, 255 n. 12; Badian 1994, 389–390; Arena 1999, 85–87; IG II/III 3(1.2) 484 (commentary). See e.g. Schweigert 1940, 326; Schwenk 1985, 32; Cargill 1995, 15, 43 n. 1. Arena 2002. I admit that Arena’s identification is possibly correct, but I do not agree that this decree was relevant (at least directly) to the military operations waged by the Macedonian advance-guard in Asia Minor from the spring of 336. On these operations, see now in detail Kholod 2018b. If Arena is right about the identification, it is more likely that the Persian king was mentioned in the decree in some other connection. Humphreys 2004, 82 n. 12, 123 n. 41. Another opinion identifies this Amyntas as Amyntas II (the Little) who ruled in Macedonia over a brief time in the late 390s and whose patronymic is unknown (perhaps his father was a certain Perdikkas): Errington 1974, 26; similarly Anson 2009, 276–277. Nevertheless, see Errington 1990, 28, 269 n. 6, where he has changed his earlier position, this time believing that the father of Amyntas II was Archelaos. I am inclined to hold that Amyntas II was a son of Menelaos. Thus, in particular, Hammond 1979, 168–169; Borza 1992, 178; March 1995, 279. It is hence most probable that the Lebadean inscription is irrelevant to his reign.

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48.571).34 Despite disagreement among scholars on the exact date of this document,35

it appears that it was engraved either in the period of Philip’s reign or soon after his assassination (but prior to the spring of 335, as by that time Amyntas had been already executed):36 even if one admits that after the death of his father in 360/59 Amyntas was ruler of Macedonia for a short period and Philip acted then as regent (Just. 7.5.9),37 his pilgrimage to the oracle of Trophonios as a boy, and possibly a small boy,38 seems highly unlikely39 (at least it is quite unclear for me what answers Amyntas at this age could seek from the oracle). However, the difficulty with such a dating40 is that Amyntas, whether or not he had once occupied the Macedonian throne, could not officially bear the title basileus, when Philip and Alexander were ruling in Macedonia. Therefore it is credible that the Lebadeians inscribed the word basileus in the document not as a formal title but simply as a descriptive definition in order to emphasise to later visitors – to whom this Amyntas might have been unknown – his high status as one of the main representatives of the Argead house.41 In turn, several roof­tiles with the words βασιλέως Φιλίππου were discovered during a series of excavations of a Hellenistic city on the Hill of St. Panteleimon above Florina,42 which were dated to the reign of Philip II, like some finds (walling and pottery) that imply the existence of this city already at his time (Rizakis – Touratsoglou 174).43 Nevertheless, the published material of the excavations leaves me

34 35 36

37

38 39

40

41 42 43

On the history of the inscription and its restoration, see J. Ellis 1971, 16–17. See e.g. Lane Fox 2011c, 340 (‘360/59’); Hammond 1979, 651, 1989, 137 n. 1 (‘359–357’); Griffith 1979, 703–704 (‘346–339’); J. Ellis 1971, 18–21 (‘336–335’). Arr. Anab. 1.5.4 implies that Kynnane, Amyntas’ wife, already was a widow by this spring because Alexander offered her then as bride to Langaros, ruler of the Agrianes (Heckel 2006, 23, no. 1). In addition, see Satyr. (FGrHist 161) F 5 (Ath. 13.557b). The reign of Amyntas son of Perdikkas III is controversial. Most scholars now reject his reign, arguing that Philip ascended the throne immediately and never acted as regent (see e.g. J. Ellis 1971, 15–16, 21–22; Griffith 1979, 208–209, 702–704; Borza 1992, 200–201, 1999, 52–53; Worthington 2008b, 21–22; Anson 2009; Lane Fox 2011c, 339–340; cf. Hatzopoulos 1986, 280–281). However, for a contrary view, see Hammond 1979, 651, 1989, 137; Tronson 1984, 120–121. Cf. Errington 1990, 37, 271 n. 9. On his age at the time, see J. Ellis 1971, 18. Griffith 1979, 703. Nevertheless, see Lane Fox 2011c, 340, who dates this visit of Amyntas to 360/59, to the moment of Perdikkas’ death (hence, in his view, the Lebedeans wrongly anticipating the outcome of events in Macedonia described Amyntas as basileus). Cf. Errington 1974, 26. I place the inscription in the period between ca. 346 and the winter of 336/5. Indeed, while the first half of the 350s was, I think, barely suitable for Amyntas’ pilgrimage because of his young age, in the years 355–346 (i.e. during the Third Sacred War) northern Boiotia, as Griffith (1979, 703) rightly noticed, was a dangerous region for visitors. Errington 1974, 28. Cf. Griffith 1979, 703. Eight roof-tiles with the name of Philip were found there in the early 1930s and three in 1982. The earlier publication of such roof-tiles: Bakalakis 1934, 104–113; see also Guarducci 1970, 500. Besides, for the later excavations at the site, see Lilibaki­Akamati / Akamatis 1990.

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unconvinced44 that these roof-tiles belong to Philip’s age and not to a later time, e.g. to the reign of Philip V. Lastly, we possess an inscription from Thasos with the text [β]ασιλέως Φιλί[ππου] σωτῆρος (Hamon 2015–2016, 117),45 engraved probably on an altar, which some scholars, judging from its letter forms, relate to the second half of the fourth century and thereby connect with Philip II, perhaps with his local cult.46 But the following circumstance is a matter of concern: we have no piece of evidence for the existence of Philip’s official cult in his lifetime, which does not give rise to doubts in scholarship.47 Taking this into account, it seems that the inscription needs further consideration. At any rate, even if the inscription was indeed engraved during the reign of Philip II and related to his unofficial local private cult, the word basileus here does not necessarily reflect Philip’s formal title but perhaps was used simply as a synonym for ‘ruler’; absolute accuracy was not demanded at the private level. Numismatic evidence. As in the case of the Macedonian rulers before Philip, the title basileus is absent from all types of his coins. Most of their legends contain only his name (ΦΙΛΙΠΠΟΥ), sometimes in abbreviated form.48 Literary evidence. We have a number of mentions of Philip and other Argead rulers as basileis, made by his contemporaries. In those speeches of Demosthenes that are considered authentic, Philip is referred to as basileus one time (6.20), and three times he is presented in such capacity together with his ancestors (to whom the orator compares him).49 Additionally, Demosthenes speaks about Perdikkas II (confusing him with Alexander I) as ‘being king’ (βασιλεύων) in Macedonia at the time of the Persian invasion (23.200; сf. [11].16, [13].24). In turn, Aristotle in the Politics – a large part of which was written most probably in Philip’s lifetime50 – refers to the Macedonian rulers in general as basileis.51 Besides, in the story about the death of Archelaos, he describes a kinglet of Elimeia as basileus too (5.8.10 1311b).

44 45 46

47

48 49 50 51

In contrast to Lane Fox 2011c, 343, 359. On this inscription, see also Holtzmann 1975, 292, 1976, 792; BÉ 2002 284 (Hatzopoulos). Hamon 2015–2016, 118 (with indication of those scholars who are of such an opinion). Jim is also inclined to relate this inscription to the period of Philip II. At the same time, she argues – in my view convincingly – that a number of other known dedications similarly addressed to a ‘basileus Philip’ should be connected not with Philip II, as Hatzopoulos and some historians believe, but with Philip V. See Jim 2017 (with references to Hatzopoulos and further relevant literature). So too: Kuz’min 2016b, 369–372. On the question of Philip’s deification, see, in particular, Habicht 1970, 12–16, 245; Baynham 1994; Badian 1996, 13–17; Worthington 2008b, 228–233; Mari 2008, 232–242; Kuz’min 2016a, 125–132; in addition, see Kholod 2016, 497–498 n. 7. For Philip’s coinage, see Head 1911, 222–224; Gaebler 1935, 162–168; Price 1974, 21–23; and now in more detail Le Rider 1977 and 1996; in addition, see Flament 2010, 77–123. Dem. 1.9: οὐδείς πω βασιλεὺς γέγονεν Μακεδονίας; 2.15: μηδεὶς πώποτ’ ἄλλος Μακεδόνων βασιλεύς; 6.20: πάντες οἱ πρότερον Μακεδονίας βασιλεῖς; cf. [7].11, [11].11. On the date, see, in particular, Dovatur 1965, 87–91; Schütrumpf 1991–2005 I, 37–134, II, 89–118, III, 109–185, IV, 63–170 (with further literature). Arist. Pol. 5.8.5 1310b: βασιλεῖς Μακεδόνων.

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Isokrates in his letters to Philip does not designate Philip as basileus at all (in contrast to Amyntas in his earlier works; see above) but refers to him by name alone. At the same time, when Isokrates speaks about Philip’s and his ancestors’ power in Macedonia, he makes use of a group of cognates: βασιλεία (Phil. 19, 105, 107–108, Ep. 2.24, 3.5), βασιλεύω (Phil. 67, 154), βασιλικῶς (Phil. 154), βασιλικός (Ep. 2.3). Furthermore, in a passage recording the activities of Perdikkas I Isokrates uses the words βασιλεία, ἀρχή, μοναρχία, and δυναστεία as synonyms (Phil. 105–108).52 PRELIMINARY CONCLUSION

This overview of the sources has yielded no reliable evidence that the Argead rulers before Philip II bore the formal title basileus. Unfortunately, the epigraphic material from Macedonia itself is absent. But the extant inscriptions, whose provenance is external to the country, and coins (the best available evidence in that regard) do not confirm this absolutely; they describe the Macedonian monarchs by name alone. In turn, reliance on our literary evidence in the case, it seems, cannot be considered strong: it is obvious that the above-named Greek authors are mainly inconsistent when describing the authority and position of the Argead rulers, and it appears that all of them use the term basileus not as a formal title of the Macedonian monarchs but merely as a synonym for ‘ruler’ (at least it is significant that they also describe those rulers who officially never bore or normally did not bear the title basileus, for example the Thracian ones, in the same way53). The situation with Philip may, however, be different. Although, as in the case of the earlier Argeads, it seems impossible to regard the literary sources as reliable evidence of the use of the formal title basileus in Macedonia during his reign, we have a number of inscriptions that might support this. Nevertheless, none of them can be considered irrefutable proof in the connection. Therefore at present the question of Philip’s use of the official title basileus remains open.54

Rightly noticed by Borza 1999, 13 n. 14. One of the examples is the following: Xenophon refers to the Paphlagonian Otys as basileus (Hell. 4.1.2, cf. 4.1.4), although there is no doubt that this petty ruler never bore, at least officially, the respective title. As to the Thracian rulers, judging from the extant epigraphic and numismatic evidence, they usually did not describe themselves as basileis. The only exception known to me is Getas, a very obscure Edonian ruler (ca. 480s–460s): the title basileus is struck on his coins (Head 1911, 201; Gaebler 1935, 144; Price 1974, 8; Yurukova 1992, 23–25, 217 [no. 19]; cf. Archibald 1998, 106; Vassileva 2015, 325). For the case of Hebryzelmis, see above. 54 Mari, this volume, states that, unlike me, she holds a number of epigraphic documents from the period before Alexander to use the formal title basileus for the Macedonian rulers. I do not find that this is right in the case of the extant inscriptions dated prior to Philip’s reign. At the same time, I do not rule out the possibility that some documents attest the use of the title basileus under Philip; nevertheless, it should be recognized that because of the state of relevant evidence, one cannot be sure of this at present. 52 53

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We can only speculate on why the Macedonian monarchs ignored such a title. (It seems evident that its omission in those known documents which were composed with the monarchs’ participation, was at least approved by the rulers themselves, if not, as in the coin legends, due to them.) In this connection, the following words of Badian perhaps deserve attention: ‘But they were not legitimate Greek kings, like those at Sparta, and so they may have preferred to avoid a title that would seem invidious to Greeks and would set them apart from Greek aristocrats, among whom they wanted Greeks to count them’.55 Indeed, it is plausible that the principal reason was the Macedonian rulers’ concern for the creation and maintenance of a positive image of themselves in the Greek world: since the overwhelming majority of Greek society, except a group of intellectuals in the fourth century,56 were prejudiced against any king and even regarded kingship as a mark of the uncivilised and barbarian,57 it appears to have been natural for the Macedonian monarchs to avoid the title basileus at the official level in order not to be alien in the eyes of the Greeks.58 And if the formal title basileus indeed began to be occasionally used by Philip, one may suppose that it was because he already did not need, at least in some matters, to adapt to the Greeks’ tastes as much as his ancestors; his deeds forced the Greeks to take him seriously and very often treat him even respectfully. THE REIGN OF ALEXANDER

Epigraphic evidence. In contrast to his predecessors on the Macedonian throne, Alexander is explicitly recorded with the title basileus in a range of extant inscriptions from his reign. Moreover, they originate not only from the Greek cities/Greeks (though such documents are the majority) but also from Macedonia/Macedonians and even from Alexander himself. These inscriptions are as follows: – Alexander’s dedication of the Prienian temple to Athena Polias, 334–323 (IK. Priene 149, l. 1);59 Badian 1996, 12; cf. Griffith 1979, 388–389. For them, see, in particular, Frolov 1974 and more recently Barceló 1993, 246–284. 57 The classical expression of such a view: Isoc. 5.107–108. Isokrates’ statement that monarchy is the typical sort of rule for barbarians, is essential in this passage. And although the orator praises Philip’s ‘Greek’ ancestor Perdikkas (I) for establishing his royal power over the Macedonians, the very fact that as monarchs the Argeads exercised a sort of rule unacceptable to the Greeks could not but tarnish them to some degree. Additionally, one should remember that many Greeks, unlike Isokrates, doubted the Greek origin of the Macedonian royal house (see e.g. Borza 1992, 80–84). On Greek attitudes towards Macedonian kingship, see also Mari, this volume. 58 Though it does not follow from this that one or another Macedonian monarch would not answer, if someone called him basileus. It appears that unofficially, in daily life, the Macedonian rulers could well be called not only by mere names but also – at least sometimes – basileis. 59 I do not retract the opinion I have supported elsewhere (Kholod 2005, 23–26, 2009, 117–125) that this dedicatory inscription was engraved already in 334. Nevertheless, given the reconsideration of the chronological phases of the Prienian temple’s construction made recently by Arena,

55 56

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– Iasian decree in honour of Gorgos and Minnion (the so called ‘Little See’ decree), 334–323 (Fabiani 2007, 382–383, l. 17 =  IK.Iasos 24+30);60 – Alexander’s ‘First Letter’ to Chios, 332 (RO 84A, ll. 1, 18);61 – Mytilenean decree concerning the restoration of exiles, 332/1 (RO 85B, ll. 28, 45, 47 =  IG XII[2] 6);62 – sling bullets of Zopyrion’s Macedonian soldiers, one from the area of Olbia (Anochin / Rolle 1998, 840, 842 [no. 1] =  SEG 48.1021) and two from the region of modern Dobrudja, 332 /1 (Avram / Chiriac / Matei 2013 , 230 [nos. 1–2]);63 – dedication of the Orchomenian allied cavalrymen to Zeus Soter, 329 (Tod 197 =  IG VII 3206, ll. [1–2]);64 – Delphian list of the Amphiktionic hieromnemones, 326/5 (CID II 42, l. 43);

60

61

62 63

64

who argues that the building was completed to the level of the anta only in the 320s, at the end of Alexander’s reign (2013, 54–63), I prefer to be, at least here, more cautious in the dating of the dedication. Cf. IK.Priene 149 (commentary). This decree has been dated variously by scholars. A recent summary of the relevant views: Vacante 2011, 324, who himself relates the document to the years 326–324. Since I do not regard the date of 334 as absolutely impossible for the decree (like any other point after the surrender of Iasos to Alexander), I am inclined to choose the wide dating: 334–323. On the date of the document, see Kholod 2012, 26, where the opinion that it can be related to 334 (thus Heisserer 1973 and 1980, 79–95) is rejected. Yet, such an opinion has been recently repeated once more (Wallace 2016, 246). It is enough to provide only one argument in favour of its dating to 332 (cf. Kholod 2018b, 16 n. 46). From the ‘First Letter’ we know about Alexander’s decision to install his garrison in Chios (RO 84A, ll. 17–19). However, according to Arrian, the city surrendered to Memnon in 333 without resistance (Anab. 2.1.1, 3.2.5). It is difficult to imagine that such a result would have been possible if Alexander’s garrison was present in Chios at the moment (the case of Mytilene is quite significant in this respect: Arr. Anab. 2.1.1–5; cf. Diod. 17.29.2). At the same time, it is highly unlikely that Alexander, contrary to his decision, did not install the garrison in Chios, or he withdrew it very soon: the Persian threat still existing in the region in 334 had certainly to prevent him from doing so. On the other hand, there is no reason to doubt the establishment of Alexander’s garrison in Chios in 332, when the Macedonian commanders, Hegelochos and Amphoteros, freed it from Persian control (Arr. Anab. 3.2.3–5; Curt. 4.5.14–21). Moreover, the point that the garrison was established then in Chios, is explicitly confirmed by Curtius (4.8.12). On Alexander’s garrisons in the Greek cities in Asia Minor and the nearby islands, see in detail Kholod 2010a. For the date, see recently Kholod 2010b, 41–44 (with relevant literature). That these sling bullets belonged just to the soldiers of Alexander’s general Zopyrion (who made a campaign to the Northern Black See area, which ended, when the Macedonian forces returned, in catastrophe), is argued by Anochin / Rolle 1998, 843–848; Avram / Chiriac / Matei 2013, 227–258. In addition, see Vinogradov 2006, 105–108; Yaylenko 2017, 385–386 n. 69. Although the word basileus is lost in lines 1–2 of the inscription, it is, I believe, safely restored due to the preserved sigma just before the name of Alexander in line 2.

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– dedication to Apollon from Macedonian Kalindoia, followed by a list of priests of Asklepios, 323–306/5 (or 303) (the lines mentioning Alexander, 323) (Vokotopoulou 1986, 90–93, ll. 5–6 =  H atzopoulos 1996b II, no. 62).65 Additionally, cf. the dating formula in an inscription from, in all probability, Gambrion concerning the conveyance of an estate from Krateuas to Aristomenes, 326/5 or 325/4 (Syll.3 302, ll. 2–3: βασιλεύοντος Ἀλεξάνδρου).66 Alexander is called basileus also in two dedications which, however, are likely to be later ancient forgeries: – Alexander’s dedication from the Letoon in Xanthos, 334/3–323 (if genuine) (Le Roy 1980, 56 =  SEG 30.1533);67 – Alexander’s dedication to Ammon from the temple in the Bahariya oasis, 332– 323 (if genuine) (Bosch­Puche 2008, 37 =  SEG 59.1764).68 Сf. SEG 43.1276 (restored inscription on a bronze ring from Dodona, surely fake). In turn, Alexander is styled basileus in several inscriptions that were engraved after his death but, insofar as we are able to judge, reflect closely, if not precisely, the language of their underlying documentary sources from his reign (although changes, including the addition of the title, cannot be ruled out): – extract from Alexander’s edict to Priene, ca. 285 (its original, probably 334) (IK. Priene 1, l. 1);69 – Tyrants Dossier from Eresos, ca. 306–301 (the documents themselves, 332/1 – ca. 306–301) (Ellis­Evans 2012, 204–210, A1, ll. 10, 25, (33) [ca. 306–301]; B4, l. 18 [332/1] =  IG XII[2] 526);70 65

66 67 68

69

70

On the dating of the inscription as a whole and of its lines mentioning Alexander, see Vokotopoulou 1986, 97–98; Hammond 1988, 384, 1990a, 174–175; Badian 1989, 65–66, 1993, 138; Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 62 (commentary). For this inscription, see also Thonemann 2009, 370–384. That this dedication is an ancient forgery, has been argued by J. and L. Robert (BÉ 1980 487). See also Wallace 2018b, 166. At the same time, cf. Goukowsky 1978–1981 I, 115–117. For the arguments (in my view, quite convincing) that an ‘altar’ from the Bahariya oasis, recording this dedication as well as an hieroglyphic inscription, was created not in the age of Alexander but under the early Ptolemies, see Ladynin 2014b and 2017, 512–534. In addition, see Wallace 2018b, 166. That the surviving inscription is not an authentic edict of Alexander but an excerpt from it, published by the Prienians in the temple of Athena Polias later, under Lysimachos (ca. 285), has been convincingly argued by Sherwin­White 1985. On the date of 334 for Alexander’s original edict to Priene, see Kholod 2005, 10–23. My arguments in favour of this date have been supported, among other scholars, by Mileta 2008, 36–37. The same opinion on its dating is shared also by Thonemann 2012, 23–36, who has recently proposed a new reconstruction of the extant inscription. Nevertheless, Blümel and Merkelbach write rather vaguely in this connection, putting Alexander’s original edict to the Prienians in the years 334–330: IK.Priene 1 (commentary). Although, as has been shown by Ellis­Evans (2012, 188–189), the Tyrants Dossier as a whole was inscribed in ca. 306–301, it contains several documents of different times: concerning a trial, ordered by Alexander, of the ex-tyrants Agonippos and Eurysilaos, 332/1 (2012, 204–209. A3, ll. 1–32, В4, ll. 1–33); concerning the attempt of the descendants of Apollodoros, Hermon, and Heraios, the ex-tyrants being in power before Agonippos and Eurysilaos, to return under

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– part of the Lindian Chronicle, recording Alexander’s dedication in the temple of Athena, 330 (the inscription itself, 99) (I.Lindos 2, l. 104 [xxxviii]). Besides, Alexander is described as basileus in a group of epigraphic documents which postdate him by several years, thus being chronologically rather close to his age: – dedicatory epigram on Krateros’ lion monument in Delphi, after 321/0 (FD III.4 137, l. 8);71 – dedication of Philonides of Crete to Zeus Olympios, probably 320s–310s (IVO 276–277, l. 1);72 – Athenian decree in honour of Ainetos of Rhodes, 319/8 (Agora 16 101, ll. 16–17); – Rhoxane’s dedications to Athena Polias in Athens, 319/8 (IG II 2 1492, ll. [46– 47], 53, 56 =  SEG 53/1.172);73 – Kolophonian wall-building decree, 311–296 (Meritt 1 сol. I, l. 6);74 – Samian decree in honour of a certain Antigonid officer, 306–301 (IG XII[6] 28, ll. [2–3], 6). On the other hand, we have a number of inscriptions belonging to Alexander’s reign, which refer to him by name alone (in those that are in bad condition, his name occurs in their preserved portions):75

71

72

73 74

75

the terms of Alexander’s Exile Decree (after Alexander had referred a decision in that regard to the Eresians, they refused the exiles’ readmission), 324/3 (A3, ll. 33–41, А4, ll. 1–20); concerning the next attempt of the descendants of the ‘first’ tyrants to return (this was forbidden by the rescript of Philip III Arrhidaios), 319/8 (A4, ll. 21–28); and, finally, concerning the attempt of the descendents of Agonippos and Eurysilaos to return (the beginning of Antigonos the One-Eyed’s letter to Eresos and a decree of the community confirming all the actions taken by the citizens against the tyrants and their descendents from the late 330s), ca. 306–301 (A1, ll. 4–40, A4, ll. 29–43). For recent interpretations of the Tyrants Dossier, see also Teegarden 2013, 115–141; Lehmann 2015b; Wallace 2016; in addition, see Kholod 2018b, 18–19. On the date of this monument’s completion and dedication, see Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 90[E] (commentary); and now especially Dunn / Wheatley 2012 (with detailed bibliography). Tod dated this dedication (in his commentary on it: Tod 188) too vaguely: ‘after 334 BC’ In my opinion, it is better to relate the inscription to a time already after Alexander’s death, when Philonides stopped to hold the positions of ‘hemerodromos of king Alexander and bematist of Asia’ and thus could return to Greece. See also Wallace, this volume. For these dedications and their dating, see Themelis 2003, 164–168; cf. Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 3[E] (commentary) (‘327–323 v.  Chr.?’); Kosmetatou 2004 (‘between 327 to 316 BC’). Following Robert’s suggestion (1936, 158–161), scholars traditionally date this epigraphic document to 311–306. However, Vacante (2015) has recently argued against such a date, supposing that the inscription is related to 296 (survey of the previous opinions on the issue: ibid., 558–560). I dare not support either of these assumptions and hence I propose the wide dating: 311–296. In addition, it should be noted that in at least two of the inscriptions listed below (Bowman / Crowther / Savvopoulos 2016, 101; RO 101) the title might have occurred in a lacuna.

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– part of either a treaty between Alexander and the Greek states, connected with his renewal of the Korinthian League, 336, or a bilateral treaty between him and Athens, 333 (IG II/III 3[1.2] 443, l. 8);76 – Delphian lists of the Amphiktionic hieromnemones and tamiai (CID II 76 col. I, l. 17 [336/5]; CID II 77 col. I, l. 4 [336/5]; CID II 79A, col. II, l. 7 [334/3]; CID II 80, l. 7 [333/2]; CID II 82, l. 18 [333/2]; CID II 86, l. 7 [331/0]; CID II 69, l. 19 [330/29]; CID II 89, l. 7 [329/8]; CID II 71, l. 42 [328/7]; CID II 94, l. 2 [328/7]; CID II 72, l. 4 [327/6]; CID II 97, l. 57 [327/6]; CID II 99B, l. 13 [326/5]; CID II 100 col. I, l. 2 [325/4]; CID II 102 col. I, ll. 5–6 [324/3]); – several sling bullets from various places, 336–323 (Avram / Chiriac / Matei 2013, 236); – Alexander’s settlement concerning Philippoi, 335–330 (Vatin 1984, A, l. 3; B, ll. [5], 11–12; see above); – part of a list of the Milesian stephanephoroi, 334/3 (I.Delphinion. 122, l. 81, with patronymic); – Alexander’s dedication to Apis in Memphis, 332 (Bowman / Crowther / Savvopoulos 2016, 101);77 – Athenian treasury accounts recording two crowns for Alexander, 331/0 (IG II 2 1496, l. 56); – Tegean decree concerning the restoration of exiles, 324/3 (RO 101, l. 2).78 Despite the disagreement of modern historians on what kind of treaty this fragmentary inscription presents, they usually connect it with Alexander’s renewal of the Korinthian League in 336. On these views, see Heisserer 1980, 13–14; Worthington 2004, 62–64. Cf. Antela­ Bernárdez 2007, who has argued that the inscription records a bilateral treaty of alliance between Alexander and the Athenians which he made right after the Theban catastrophe in 335 along with other such treaties with the Greeks, constituting Alexander’s formal renewal of the Korinthian League. For a critique of this idea, see Worthington (2004 and 2007), who argues that the inscription has nothing to do with Alexander’s renewal of the Korinthian League. He suggests that it is part of a bilateral treaty between Alexander and Athens, made in the summer of 333 because of the potential threat to Macedonian security from the Persian fleet in the Aegean in 333–332. In turn, according to Tronson (1985), this inscription does not concern Alexander the Great but records a treaty between Alexander II of Macedon and Athens, concluded in the early 360s. Nevertheless, such a view is highly problematic: Worthington 2004, 63–68. 77 On this inscription (recently rediscovered in storage at the Ashmolean Museum) and its – in my view convincing – restoration, see Bowman / Crowther / Savvopoulos 2016, 100–102. I also agree with their suggestion that this Alexander is Alexander the Great. 78 According to the communis opinio, this document is connected with Alexander’s Exile Decree and thus belongs to 324/3. At the same time, in the course of his discussion of the Tegean decree Heisserer pointed out that Plassart’s restoration in line 2 [βασιλεὺς Ἀλέξ]ανδρος (1914, 104) can be replaced with [Κάσσ]ανδρος and so this would provide another context for the inscription: the events following Polyperchon’s edict of 319 on the return of exiles. However, such an alternative was ultimately rejected by Heisserer himself in favour of the usual dating of the inscription (Heisserer 1980, 205–229). On further arguments against its dating to 319, see Worthington 1990, 197–198, 202–203 and 1993; Dmitriev 2004, 351–354. Nevertheless, see recently Loddo 2016, who argues that the connection of the Tegean decree with the effects of Polyperchon’s edict is not impossible. I believe that although there is no absolute certainty, the decree’s traditional 76

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In addition, cf. the Samian decree in honour of Gorgos and Minnion, shortly after 322 (IG XII[6] 17, ll. 7–8, 12); dedicatory epigram on the monument of Archon son of Kleinias in Delphi, after 321 (RO 92 block a, § 1, l. 4); Nesian decree in honour of Thersippos, 319–317 (IK.Adramytteion 34, ll. 1, 3). Likewise, it should be pointed out that in two of the above-mentioned documents (in each of them) Alexander is described both as basileus and by name only: – Alexander’s ‘First Letter’ to the Chians (RO 84A, l. 7: ‘Alexander’); – Tyrants Dossier from Eresos (Ellis­Evans 2012, А1, ll. 2, 18, А3, ll. 6, 14, 34–35, 39, A4, l. 24: ‘Alexander’).79 Before proceeding further, it is necessarily to make one note. Although the majority of the epigraphic documents contemporary with Alexander that record him with the title basileus originate from the Greek cities/Greeks, there appears to be no reason to doubt that they do not reflect adequately a practice of such a description of him, established by the time of their publication. In the case of Alexander’s dedication of the Prienian temple to Athena Polias, the probability of any ‘editorial changes’ is equal to zero. In his ‘First Letter’ to Chios, they are, however, observed but represent a number of inessential (technical and stylistic) alterations.80 At any rate, it is highly unlikely that the Chians, when they inscribed Alexander’s ‘First Letter’ on stone, referred to him as basileus81 arbitrarily, not relying on the already existing formal pattern (it is even plausible that they copied such a description of him directly from the original). As to other such epigraphic documents, the possibility of the ‘accidental’ references to Alexander as basileus in them also seems minimal. Most probably, they simply repeat in this connection what their composers, like Zopyrion’s Macedonian soldiers and the Orchomenian allied cavalrymen, themselves had to know well or found in the official documents received immediately from Alexander (or his chancellery): it is significant that both in the Mytilenean decree concerning the restoration of exiles and in the Tyrants Dossier from Eresos, the references to Alexander as basileus occur mainly in those places where such documents (διαγραφαί) are mentioned as well.82 (Incidentally, one cannot rule out that when the Prienians

79 80

81 82

dating to 324/3 is preferable (like the restoration in line 2 [Ἀλέξ]ανδρος implying none other than Alexander the Great). For the references to him with the title basileus in these inscriptions, see above. The Chians added to the document the heading indicating its date (according to their eponymous prytanis) and somewhat altered the very beginning of the original, turning it into the rest of the prescript (RO 84A, ll. 1–2). The persistent use of the eastern Ionic forms αο and εο for αυ and ευ was certainly introduced by them too. The varying employment of the first and third person in reference to Alexander (πρὸς Ἀλέξανδρον [l. 7], μεθ’ ἡμῶν [l. 10], παρ’ | ἡμῖν [ll. 16–17], πα | Ἀλεξάνδρου [ll. 17–18]) is noteworthy as well. At the same time, there is no doubt that in other respects the inscription cites its original precisely. For the alterations, cf. Ehrenberg 1938, 24; Lenschau 1940, 205–206; Heisserer 1980, 89–92; cf. also Tod 192 (commentary). RO 84A, ll. 1, 18. Mytilene: RO 85B, ll. 28–29, cf. l. 20; Eresos: Ellis­Evans 2012, A1, ll. 10, 25, (33), B4, l. 18; cf. А3, l. 35. On that, cf. Heisserer 1980, 92 n. 31.

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composed the extant extract of Alexander’s edict to their city, they also borrowed the title basileus for the inscription’s heading from the original.83) Numismatic evidence. The legends of various types of Alexander’s coins issued during most of his reign, contain his name alone (АΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΟΥ). Nevertheless, as is usually thought, this situation changed ca. 325–323, when, along with the former variant, another one appeared – the legends including the title basileus together with Alexander’s name (in full form – ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ АΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΟΥ, or, on some bronze coins, in abbreviated form – ΒΑ).84 Literary evidence. The Athenian orators of Alexander’s age refer to him, in contrast to his predecessors ruling in Macedonia, by name only, apart from one case: in the speech against Demosthenes, Hypereides speaks about one of the propositions, discussed in Athens in 324/3, to set up a statue of ‘basileus Alexander, the invincible god’ (Ἀλεξάνδρου βασιλέως τοῦ ἀνικήτου θεοῦ) (Dem. fr. VII[VIII]. col. 32 Burtt), and it seems quite probable that this description reflects an official formula. As to the writings representing the early historical tradition on Alexander, in the extant fragments of chronologically the first of them, the Deeds of Alexander by Kallisthenes,85 Alexander is referred to both by name alone and as basileus.86 However, there is no certainty that these fragments, like those of all other lost early For the point that the heading of this inscription (l. 1) was added by the Prienians later, at the moment of its publication in ca. 285, see Sherwin­White 1985, 81; IK.Priene 1 (commentary). 84 As regards the dating of this innovation, I follow Newell 1923, 26–151; Thompson 1984, 242– 243; and esp. Price 1991 I, 32–33, 1993, 174. Cf. Mørkholm 1991, 51. It should be pointed out, however, that according to Troxell 1991, 61, who has relied on the tetradrachm issues of the Amphipolitan mint, the legend ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ АΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΟΥ on the coins appeared only after Alexander the Great’s death and hence designated not him but Alexander IV (however, cf. 1997, 96–98). This opinion was supported and refined by Le Rider 2007, 71, 93, etc. He has assumed that the striking of the Alexanders with such a legend, as well as with the legend ΦΙΛΙΠΠΟΥ, started in the period of the joint rule of Alexander IV and Philip III Arrhidaios. Cf. Arena 2011. I do not agree with this hypothesis. Among other arguments against it, the most important one, in my view, is the following. It is significant that the number of the Alexanders with the legend ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ АΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΟΥ in the earliest posthumous hoards is considerably higher than the number of those bearing the name of Philip III, with and without the title basileus (it is enough to compare them in the great Demanhur Hoard, buried ca. 318: 428 to 96; see Newell 1923, 152–154 [dating], 26–64 [coin catalogue]). Because, as is well known, Alexander IV had equal status with Philip III, the reliable explanation of this disproportion, I believe, is that the Alexanders with the legend ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ АΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΟΥ began to be struck already in the last years of Alexander the Great and then continued during the reign of Alexander IV and Philip III (now simultaneously with those bearing the name of the latter). Furthermore, this is very much in line with the point that, judging from our epigraphic evidence, at least at the end of Alexander the Great’s life the title basileus was used in relation to him actively (see above). On Alexander’s coins with the legends including the royal title, see in more detail Kholod 2019. 85 It was published presumably soon after 330. But it is not ruled out that Kallisthenes continued to describe the expedition’s events until his death in 327: see, in particular, Pearson 1960, 22, 48; Bosworth 1988a, 296; Baynham 2003, 9. 86 FGrHist 124 F 14а (Strab. 17.1.43), 31 (Schol. T Eusth. Hom. Il. no. 29), 35 (Polyb. 12.17–22), 37 (Plut. Alex. 33). 83

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historical works dealing with Alexander, have not been rephrased by the authors preserving them. Yet, this is not to say that we must totally set aside the fragments of such writings, at least those passages where various persons address Alexander in direct speech.87 Indeed, it seems that these addresses (irrespective of whether or not the speeches containing them are genuine) can well serve as valuable evidence for us: on the one hand, in this case any later distortions on stylistic grounds or because of text reduction did not make much sense and hence it is worth regarding their possibility as minimal; on the other hand, all of them have proceeded out of the mouths of the persons who were either members of Alexander’s inner cycle or participants of his campaigns and, consequently, had good knowledge of the practices adopted at the court of Alexander, including of course the forms of address to him there. In this case we have the following picture. Judging from those fragments that can be reliably related to the particular works belonging to a group of primary literary sources on Alexander, it turns out that there were two forms of address to the monarch: ὦ βασιλεῦ88 and ὦ Ἀλέξανδρε.89 Moreover, such material creates the impression that both these forms were employed interchangeably; at least it appears impossible, relying on it, to reveal any difference as regards time and circumstances of their use. It remains to discuss the works constituting the secondary historical tradition on Alexander, i.e. those that were written centuries later and survived in more or less complete form in Greek and Latin. Unfortunately, the value of these writings for our study is generally modest. In fact, it is hard to expect that their authors used the title basileus in relation to Alexander accurately: while it is obvious that when describing events they use Alexander’s name and the word basileus (rex) in an arbitrary manner, in the speeches and letters they include the wording cannot be trusted, even if one admits that some of these speeches and letters are not the complete late fabrications but based on the reliable historical material or, in the case of the letters, represent the somewhat reworked versions of original texts. It seems that we possess only two pieces of evidence that can be interesting for us, because they, as is usually believed, preserve the correct forms of Alexander’s description in particular circumstances:90 first, an inscription, most likely genuine, accompanying the suits of Persian panoplies that Alexander sent to Athens after the battle of Granikos (334), Badian (1996, 11, with n. 4) also paid attention to the forms of addresses to the Macedonian monarchs, including Alexander. But part of his examples of Alexander’s being addressed by name alone cannot be considered suitable because it is uncertain whether a number of direct speeches whence he has derived these examples originate indeed from the early historical tradition on Alexander. 88 FGrHist 125 (Chares) F 14a (Plut. Alex. 54.5); 133 (Nearchos) F 1 (Arr. Ind. 20.5, 35.6, 36.4); 138 (Ptolemy) F 7 (Arr. Anab. 2.12.4); and 139 (Aristobulus) F 10 (=  138 F 7), F 54 (Arr. Anab. 7.16.6). 89 FGrHist 133 (Nearchos) F 2 (Arr. Anab. 6.13.5); 139 (Aristobulus) F 29 (Arr. Anab. 4.8.7). 90 It is not excluded that these pieces of evidence can be supplemented by a dedicatory epigram appended to a thank­offering to Zeus, made by the Thespian allied cavalrymen, 329 (if genuine) (Anth. Pal. 6.344.3: ‘Alexander’). Yet, we cannot be sure that this is not a later forgery. But even if it is not, it is hard to expect from the epigram as a poetic text that it should necessarily have recorded Alexander with the formal title basileus. 87

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where he is referred to by name only, with patronymic (Plut. Alex. 16.8; Arr. Anab. 1.16.7);91 second, the indication that Alexander was proclaimed ‘basileus of Asia’ (βασιλεὺς τῆς Ἀσίας) on the battlefield of Gaugamela after his victory (331) (Plut. Alex. 34.1).92 CONCLUSION

The evidence considered explicitly shows that during his reign Alexander was referred to with the title basileus rather often. The earliest instance recorded in our epigraphic documents is dated to 332. (Nevertheless, the existing uncertainties as regards the dating of the two above-mentioned inscriptions, allowing one in principle to relate them to 334, do not rule out that Alexander used the title basileus already in the first year of his expedition in Asia.) Henceforth the references to Alexander with the title basileus appear in our inscriptions regularly. Moreover, as far as we can tell, in the final years of his reign this title began to be included in the legends of his coins, but the variant without the title continued to exist as well. Likewise, it is relevant to note that after Alexander’s death the title basileus became widespread when referring to his immediate successors – Philip III Arrhidaios and Alexander IV.93 In turn, as can be seen, the references to Alexander by name alone occur in the extant inscriptions rather frequently too, and such a description remained the only one in the legends of his coins over a long period of his reign. At the same time, if we leave aside a group of numerous similar inscriptions from Delphi, in which, apart from one case, Alexander is referred to by name only, it turns out that the overwhelming majority of these descriptions in our epigraphic documents (including the text that accompanied the suits of Persian panoplies sent Part of shields from this dedication of Alexander to Athena may have been displayed on the eastern architrave of the Parthenon: a series of dowel holes for the attachment of shields are visible there. See Themelis 2003, 163; cf. Bringmann et al. 1995, KNr. 2[L] (commentary); von den Hoff, Wallace, this volume. 92 Only a few scholars doubt that the information of Plutarch is correct. See Altheim 1947, 177– 182, 202–203, who – in this and in his other works – rejects the historicity of such a proclamation at all; Goukowsky 1978–1981 I, 175, who believes that the proclamation took place but happened in 324, not in 331; cf. Hatzopoulos 1997, 44. For a critique of these views and for the arguments in favour of the correctness of Plutarch’s information, see Fredricksmeyer 2000, 137–139; Nawotka 2012, 349–350. 93 See Philip’s and Alexander’s dedication of the ‘Doric building’ to the Great Gods at Samothrace, 323–320 (McCredie 1979, 8); Samian decree in honour Antileon and Leontinos, 321–319 (IG XII[6] 42, l. 64); Nesian decree in honour of Thersippos, 319–317 (IK.Adramytteion 34: ll. 7, 13, 27); Mylasean decree concerning a gymnasion, ca. 317 (IK.Mylasa 21, ll. [4–5]; cf. l. 3). Cf., in particular, Amyzonian decree in honour of Bagadates and his son Ariarames, 321/0 (Amyzon I 2, l. 1); Pidasean decree in honour of several officials of Asandros, satrap of Karia, 321/0 (Kizil et al. 2015, 379, l. 1); Koaranzean decree in honour of Konon son of Poseidippos, 318 (IK.Stratonikeia 503, l. 1). In addition, take into account the imperial coinage under these rulers (see above). See in more detail Arena 1999; cf. Meeus, this volume, on the Diadochoi. 91

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by him to Athens) fall within approximately the first six years of his reign. Besides, in our two inscriptions recording the events of 332–331, he is described both as basileus and by name alone. As to the rest of Alexander’s life (after ca. 330), we have a single inscription, where he appears without the title basileus (and only if its traditional dating, 324/3, is correct, and if this title was indeed absent in the document’s damaged initial part).94 Additionally, there are three inscriptions referring to Alexander by name alone that postdate his death by several years. All other, later, inscriptions that describe him in this way should be set aside, since they cannot be regarded as even almost contemporary.95 The resulting picture does not seem to be accidental: it reflects the gradual replacement of one form of Alexander’s description (by name only) by another (with the title basileus) in the official sphere. Although this process was not completed (as our epigraphic and numismatic sources as well as the forms of address to Alexander, recorded in the early historical tradition on him, show), it is quite possible that the observed tendency would eventually lead at least to the almost total domination of the latter at the official level, if not to the complete disappearance of the former there. Of course these developments could not have happened in a vacuum. Regardless of exactly when Alexander began to employ the formal title basileus for the first time – either right after his accession to the throne, adopting such a practice from Philip (see above), or only at the beginning of his Asian expedition, in a time before 332 – it is worth thinking that its increasingly frequent use afterwards should have been directly connected with Alexander’s growing claims to new lands in Asia, provoked by his political-military successes, as well as, and especially, with the increase of his power and transformation of its quality in the process of conquering these lands. Indeed, it seems that the above-noted developments concerning Alexander’s description are to be put in a close relationship with another, larger, process (which, insofar as we are able to judge, also remained incomplete). It was the transformation of Alexander’s kingship from a traditional ‘national’ monarchy, when he, like his ancestors, ruled over a more or less united and unified people, into a new model, namely an absolute monarchy, reminiscent of the Oriental patterns,96 that was graduFor the Tegean decree, see above. See, in particular, statue base with epigram in honour of Antigonos son of Kallas from Amphipolis, late fourth – early third century (ISE 113, l. 1); list of gymnasiarchs from Pherae, late third – early second century (SEG 29.552 col. A, l. 1); statue base with epigram in honour of Gorgos from Epidauros, late third – early second century (IK.Iasos T 52, l. 5 =  IG IV 2 617; cf. IK.Iasos T 51, l. 6 =  IG IV 2 616; on the epigrams in honour of Gorgos and their dating, see also Heisserer 1980, 194–203; Dmitriev 2004, 370–372). Besides, it should be taken into account that two of these three inscriptions are poetic and therefore any formal accuracy is not their mandatory characteristic. But see Wallace, this volume, for a different view. 96 Though the first steps in this direction may have been made already by Philip: Borza 1992 , 248–252. 94 95

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ally taking shape in the course of the creation of the vast Empire comprising, apart from Macedonia, various countries and peoples.97 It is obvious that under these circumstances Alexander’s description by name alone, which was well suited earlier for its use in the Macedonian society still being rather patriarchal or in relations with the Greek cities having the traditional prejudice against any kings (especially in the case of the cities in mainland Greece), turned out to be not enough with time. And on the contrary, in such a situation the preferable description of Alexander with the title basileus was becoming more natural. This title not only adequately reflected Alexander’s new position but was quite understandable and acceptable for the Macedonians remaining the main pillar of his state to the end (albeit dislodged to some degree in this respect by the Orientals, primarily by the Persians, in the final years of Alexander’s reign), particularly if it had already been used by the former Argead monarchs, whether officially or unofficially. The same went for part of the Greeks, who did not see anything wrong with such a description of him – above all, as one can see, for the Greek communities in Asia Minor and the nearby islands that appear to have been more ready for this because of their past. In addition, since in the process of Alexander’s Eastern conquests the Korinthian League was becoming increasingly unimportant for him and at the end of his life he did not even take it into consideration in major issues,98 it was logical that with time, and probably rather soon, he no longer needed regularly to underscore for the Greeks his role as their leader in describing himself by name alone, unlike at the very beginning of his expedition.99 Besides, it is evident that there was no real alternative to the title basileus. Indeed, it is not attested in the sources we can consider reliable that Alexander ever bore the title ‘basileus of the Macedonians’ (βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων) as his full official title, which suggests that it was not employed in relation to him normally, if at all.100 In turn, Alexander’s adoption of any of the Achaimenid royal titles, like for Cf. e.g. Hammond 1986; Errington 1990, 103–114; Borza 1992, 231–252, 1999, 14–15; Stewart 1993, 86–95; Fredricksmeyer 2000; Wiemer 2007; Lane Fox 2007. 98 On that, see, in particular, Bosworth 1988 a, 220 –228 ; Jehne 1994 , 244 –261 ; Blackwell 1999, 145–155; Poddighe 2009, 117–120; Nawotka 2010, 355–361. 99 For instance, see Alexander’s inscription sent to Athens immediately after Granikos (above). 100 Probably like in relation to his predecessors on the Macedonian throne. Indeed, if one leaves aside the above-discussed inscription from Lebadea mentioning Amyntas, the title ‘basileus of the Macedonians’ appears in our epigraphic documents for the first time only under Kassandros. See an inscription concerning his land grant to Perdikkas son of Koinos, ca. 306–297 (Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 20, ll. 1–2); and Kassandros’ dedication to Zeus from Dion, 305(?)–297 (Hatzopoulos 1996b II, no. 23, l. 1). Of recent publications, where the opposite view – in my opinion unpersuasive – is argued, see the following: Lane Fox 2011c, 359–360. Mari, in this volume, is not sure that the fact by itself that Alexander never appears in our sources with the title “basileus of the Macedonians” can be regarded – given the general shortage of attestation of such a title – “as reflecting a radical change in the way Alexander conceived his own basilea”. There is a need to comment on this statement. I do not completely rule out that Alexander sometimes used the title ‘basileus of the Macedonians’. But, in my view, if he used it, he did this 97

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example ‘Great King’ (Pers. xšāyaθiya vazarka) or ‘King of Kings’ (Pers. xšāyaθiya xšāyaθiyānām), before or after the death of Dareios III (irrespective of how Alexander himself treated this) was quite impossible, because it would not be supported by most of the Macedonians and Greeks and would surely create considerable resentment among them. Also, Alexander had to take into account that many peoples of the Persian Empire did not like, if not hated, the Achaimenids who brought them violence and subjugation, and therefore his assumption of the titles of the Persian monarchs, showing him in direct succession from them, would have a negative impact on these peoples’ attitude towards his power. It is thus not surprising that we have no evidence that Alexander ever used any of the titles the Persian kings had used.101 Of course in such countries as Egypt and Babylonia he could be – and was – described by a set of titles and formulas traditionally used there for their recognised rulers,102 or he could be merely regarded by the Orientals, including the Persians, if they wanted, as Great King, King of Kings, etc. However, all this never did spread at the imperial official level. Besides, it seems that it is barely possible to consider the title ‘basileus of Asia’ applied to Alexander right after the battle of Gaugamela (Plut. Alex. 34.1) a serious alternative to the title basileus as well. No matter how one understands the precise sense of the title ‘basileus of Asia’ (whether it meant that Alexander was proclaimed king of the Persian Empire103 or king of his own, unique, state covering the lands, and potentially beyond, formerly ruled by the Persians on the continent of Asia),104 it is clear that such a title was not widespread under Alexander: we have only two pieces of evidence of its use in relation to Alexander in his age and one dated to a later moment (furthermore, note that their value cannot be

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only to stress the ‘Macedonian’ aspect of his kingship; such a title was too limited to adequately describe Alexander’s new power as a whole, at least at the end of his reign. Plutarch writes that Alexander did not call himself ‘King of Kings’ (Demetr. 25.3). It is credible that in the case, the ancient author (or his source) has merely subsumed within this notorious title of the Persian monarchs their other titles. On Alexander’s ignoring of the Achaemenid regal titulature, cf. Hammond 1986, 79; Fredricksmeyer 2000, 162; Muccioli 2013, 52–56. In the extant Babylonian documents Alexander is standardly described – apart from the abbreviated form ‘King’, LUGAL, Akk. šarru (see e.g. van der Spek 2003, 310. Text 4: ll. 2’, 6’, 7’) – as ‘King of the Lands’, LUGAL KUR.KUR, Akk.  šar  mātāte (for example: Sachs-Hunger no.-329B. obv.: l. 1’; Stolper 1993, 70–73. A2–2. rev.: l. 23’), and one text designates him ‘King of the World’, LUGAL ŠÚ, Akk. šar kiššati (Sachs-Hunger no.-330. obv.: l. 15’; rev.: l. 11’ =  van der Spek 2003, 297–299. Text 1). The reading LUGAL GAL-ú in a document published in Sachs 1977, 146–147, l. 8’ (=  van der Spek 2003, 300. Text 2) is now considered erroneous and replaced with LUGAL (van der Spek / Finkel 2006, with commentary on l. 8’). It thus turns out that the title ‘Great King’ (LUGAL GAL, Akk. šarru rabû) is not attested under Alexander. On his Babylonian royal titles, cf. van der Spek 2003, 299; Boiy 2004, 104–117; Oelsner 2006, 9; Collins 2013, 139; Rollinger 2016, 221. (I am grateful to Dr. R. Pirngruber for his useful advice on this issue.) For Alexander’s Egyptian regal titulature, see von Beckerath 1999, 232–233; Blöbaum 2006, 419–423; and recently Ladynin 2017, 210–226 (with further literature). Nawotka 2012, 350–354 (with detailed bibliography). See e.g. Hammond 1986; Lane Fox 2007, 274–275; and esp. Fredricksmeyer 2000.

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accepted without reservation).105 It is credible that the title ‘basileus of Asia’ – if it really was a separate title under him and not a variation of the title basileus merely comprising a territorial specification – was usually absorbed by the latter, the shorter and more general form.106 That the title basileus became a prevailing title of Alexander at the official imperial level, appears to have been significantly helped by one more circumstance. This brief title allowed both individuals and various peoples of Alexander’s Empire to give it their own meaning: the Macedonians could have meant by the title exclusively their monarch extending, with their assistance, Macedonian power over Asia, while the Oriental peoples, each of them, could have understood this Greek title in their own way, in accordance with their traditional perceptions of their sovereign, now Alexander, and their position under his authority. (As to the Greek cities being not part of Alexander’s Empire, they had to regard the title as that of an external ruler with whom they have a certain relationship, formally partner, since for them he was only the leader of Greece, hegemon of the Hellenic League.) Moreover, it is worth believing that such flexibility of the meaning of the title basileus should have made, inter alia, its contribution to the legitimation of Alexander’s authority over the conquered countries, as it thereby permitted various elements of his Empire to consider him, if they wished, their rightful ruler. Additionally, it seems obvious that this title could not but evoke among the Macedonians and Greeks associations with the famous basileis of the Heroic epoch, including Herakles and Achilleus, Alexander’s ancestors, and ultimately with Zeus, basileus of the gods and human beings, and therefore take its place in the set of mythological symbols and concepts that, as is well known, were actively used by Alexander to legitimate his conquests and monarchy created as a result.107 As to Alexander himself, it would hardly be erroneous to suggest that the main meaning he gave his title basileus must have been – at least at the end of his reign – Apart from Plut. Alex. 34.1 (cf. Plut. Arist. 11.9: βασιλεύοντα τῆς Ἀσίας), the phrase ‘basileus of Asia’ occurs also in Alexander’s letter he sent to Dareios from Marathos in 333/2, given by Arrian (Anab. 2.14.9, cf. 7.15.4: ἐπὶ τῇ βασιλείᾳ τῆς Ἀσίας). However, it should be pointed out that this piece of evidence cannot be regarded as undisputable. Indeed, it is impossible to say how the cited letter differed from its original, and therefore one cannot be sure about the accuracy of word usage in it. For this letter as historical source, see e.g. Kholod 2011, 150–151 n. 5. At any rate, it is not completely clear whether we meet here the actual formal title that Alexander already applies to himself or a descriptive definition showing his claim to be a single ruler of Asia: at least it is noteworthy that in the same letter Alexander describes himself also as ‘lord of all Asia’ (2.14.8: τῆς Ἀσίας ἁπάσης κυρίου) and as ‘lord of all your (sc. Dareios’) possessions’ (2.14.9: κυρίῳ πάντων τῶν σῶν); cf. I.Lindos 2, l. 105 [xxxviii] (κύριος τᾶς Ἀσίας). Lastly, the expression ‘basileus of Asia’ in connection with Alexander appears in the abovementioned dedicatory epigram on Krateros’ lion monument in Delphi (FD III.4 137, l. 8: Ἀσίας βασιλεύς) that was composed after the monarch’s death (see above). But the value of this indication cannot be considered unquestionable either, given the source’s poetic character and its date. 106 Cf. Muccioli 2013, 56–58. 107 See in particular the chapters in the first section of the present volume. 105

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only one: in his case this title had to mean the only legitimate, especially protected by the gods, and absolute master of all countries and peoples under his authority as well as those that he intended to conquer. It is highly likely that if Alexander had not passed away so early and his power continued to be strong, just such a meaning of the title basileus would eventually become dominant, gradually substituting all other, more particular, meanings of the title in the ideological sphere of the Empire.

12 ALEXANDER THE GREAT AND ASIA MINOR: CONQUEST AND STRATEGIES OF LEGITIMATION Michele Faraguna The theme of the impact and forms of legitimation of Alexander’s conquest in Asia Minor is a question that cannot be dealt with in this paper exhaustively, or even in a sufficiently comprehensive manner. This is due not only to the broad scope of the subject but, above all, to the direction taken by scholarship over the last decades: research perspectives have become more and more articulated and diversified, widening well beyond the mere question of the nature of political relations Alexander established with the Greek communities of the coast. In the past scholars’ efforts had the primary objective of establishing, on the basis of the scanty documentation available, whether or not the Greek poleis of the Asiatic coast became part of the League of Korinth.1 More recent approaches, with a reversal of the vantage-point, have aimed instead at placing Alexander’s conquest of Asia Minor within the context of the much wider phenomenon of the ‘transition’ from the Persian empire to the Hellenistic kingdoms. This line of investigation has led, on the one hand, to underlining the significance of the Achaimenid administrative tradition and exploring the ways in which it came to interact with the Macedonian one, and, on the other hand, to probing into areas of continuity and discontinuity through surveys carried out on a local or regional basis, with attention to different situations and specific cases as well as to dynamic aspects and factors of change even within the limited time frame of Alexander’s reign.2 In light of recent scholarly contributions, which mainly originate from the publication of new inscriptions or from new interpretations of other ones already long known, and due to the incoherent and patchy character of the documentation it appears untimely to attempt a comprehensive synthesis at present. In the following

1

2

Bickermann 1934; Ehrenberg 1938, 1–51; Bosworth 1988a, 250–258; Jehne 1994, 209– 215; Kholod 2013a, argue against their incorporation, while Tarn 1948, 199–227 and Badian 1966 on the basis of very different premises reach the opposite conclusion. The latter view, long abandoned in scholarship, has now been revived by Lehmann 2015a, 109–113, esp. 112. For a brief overview of the debate see Nawotka 2003, 16–18. Briant 2006; cf. also Capdetrey 2012.

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observations I therefore plan to take stock of a limited number of issues by means of some case studies. ALEXANDER, THE GREEK CITIES AND THE ‘ROYAL ECONOMY’

Despite the multiplicity of situations and solutions implemented by Alexander both during and after the conquest, some recurring patterns can surely be identified. The first is undoubtedly the result of his decision, taken when he was still in Ephesos, to overthrow oligarchic (and pro-Persian) regimes in the Greek cities and establish democracies in their place, while guaranteeing at the same time autonomy and exemption from the payment of the φόρος that had been due to the Great King.3 As demonstrated by K. Nawotka, Alexander’s ‘democratic’ political line is reflected in the significant increase in the number of decrees recorded on durable material especially from Ephesos, Erythrai, Kolophon and Priene, and therefore in an altered epigraphic habit,4 although the case of Iasos, to which we shall return at the end of this paper, seems to present a picture that is barely consistent with the general rule attested by the literary sources and, on a methodological level, should prompt caution. Another recurring pattern, this time oriented in the direction of continuity, is constituted, from the moment when Alexander began to consolidate his territorial control over Hellespontine Phrygia and Lydia, by his choosing to adopt and not modify the Achaimenid administrative and tributary system, and therefore maintain the Persian φόρος as the fundamental criterion of taxation that could, according to each case and circumstance, be applied or condoned, and which, in any case, served as a yardstick.5 At Sardis, which was granted a privileged status,6 Alexander appointed Nikias, a man perhaps of Greek origin, as the official in charge of the collection of φόροι. The reading of Arrian’s passage providing the relevant information is problematic,7 and it remains uncertain whether the task assigned to Nikias was to provide for the ‘assessment and collection of φόροι’ (as suggested by the comparison with 3.17.6) – although, to some extent, this would appear to contradict the principle of continuity in Achaimenid practice repeatedly evoked by Arrian – or to

3

4 5 6 7

Arr. Anab. 1.18.2; and, with reference to Caria, Diod. 17.24.1; see also IK.Erythrai 31, ll. 22–23 (Erythrai); Meier 2012, no. 52, ll. 6–8 (Kolophon). On the ‘pragmatic’ nature of Alexander’s support for democratic regimes cf. Wallace 2018a, 50–52. Nawotka 2003. Briant 1993; Schuler 2007, 384–390. Arr. Anab. 1.17.4. Arr. Anab. 1.17.7: κατέλιπε…ἐπιμελητὴν…τῶν δὲ φόρων τῆς συντάξεώς τε καὶ ἀποφορᾶς Νικίαν. Cf. most recently Kholod 2017, 137–140.

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be responsible ‘for the collection of φόροι and σύνταξις’, according to the emendation proposed by G. Wirth.8 In order to get a concrete idea of the mechanisms of this tributary system, however, it is necessary to turn to the epigraphic documentation. The wider picture appears to be effectively summarised in the ‘theoretical’ section of book II of the Oikonomika of the Aristotelian corpus, a treatise that most likely reflects the functioning of the economic and financial system in these regions of the empire in the transitional phase following the conquest of Alexander, since its focus is on the poleis of Asia Minor and the satraps of Caria and Egypt, and almost none of the historical examples appear to be later than Alexander’s death.9 It describes and compares the four fundamental forms of financial administration (oikonomia), the royal (basilike), satrapal (satrapike), city-state (politike) and private (idiotike) ‘economy’ (1345b11–1346b31). The royal and satrapal economies are complementary and tightly interlocked in so far as the royal economy is in charge of the sphere of control and use of wealth (primarily for military purposes owing to the almost continuous wars that characterise the period), while the satrapal economy focused on the production side and, especially, on the revenues that came to the king via different forms of taxation levied on land, people and other resources. Here the author in particular distinguishes between tribute (ἐκφόριον, otherwise φόρος) collected in coin on landholdings and tax levies in kind (δεκάτη, or ‘tenth’, but the percentage could actually vary according to circumstances and contexts) (1345b31–32). It is debated whether the former was connected to the land under the control of private individuals and communities and the latter to the royal (or ‘tributary’ [φορολογουμένη]) land,10 directly administered by the king through his agents, or whether a more fluid picture with less clear­cut distinctions applied, in which case it would be necessary, in the first place, to distinguish between the unit of calculation and the form in which the tax was actually collected.11

Wirth 1972; for Alexander’s administrative and financial organisation of Asia Minor with a view to ensuring an efficient collection and transport of ‘tribute’ (φόρος) and ‘contributions’ (σύνταξις) to cover military expenses see Kholod 2013b and 2017. 9 Descat 2003, 153–159; Zoepffel 2006. Musti 1981, 134–143 remains essential. 10 For the expression ἡ φορολογουμένη χώρα cf. Welles 1934, no. 3, ll. 83–85. 11 For the view that a clear-cut distinction applied cf. Descat 2003, 164–165: ‘l’ekphorion, c’est un autre nom du phoros, qu’on retrouve sous cette forme dans l’inscription de Mnésimachos et qui désigne une somme payée au roi pour toux ceux, individus et communautés, qui disposent par ailleurs des revenus fonciers. La dékatè, c’est en revanche le prélèvement direct pesant sur une terre royale, qui, dans ce cas, ne paie pas de phoros’. For the opposite view see de Callataÿ 2004, 35 and 40–42, who posits a more fluid picture: if, on the one hand, some taxes were a priori levied in kind, for those prima facie payed in coin it cannot be ruled out that ‘les sommes exprimées en statères d’or pour le domaine à l’évidence rural de Mnésimachos’ are only ‘l’expression comptable de revenus perçus en nature’ (42). 8

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The document that best seems to illustrate the workings of this system is an inscription from Gambrion in Troad12 concerning the ‘grant’, in actual fact an emphyteutic lease, by a Macedonian named Krateuas to a certain Aristomenes of a small estate, including arable land (γῆ ψιλή), building plots (οἰκόπεδα) and a garden planted with trees (φυτόν), which Krateuas had in turn most probably received in usufruct as a lease-holder from Alexander on the same terms (SIG 3 302 =  P ernin 2014, 291–293 [no. 135]). From Xenophon we learn that the Great King owned vast tracts of land in this region which he granted ‘as a gift’ to noble Persians but also to Greek exiles (Hell. 3.1.6).13 It can be assumed that after the conquest of Hellespontine Phrygia and Lydia Alexander had proceeded to redistribute to Macedonian nobles some of these estates and farms that had become vacant as a result of his arrival.14 The inscription is noteworthy for the dating formula which, according to a chancery style witnessed by numerous documents from Lydia and Caria, in absolute continuity with the Achaimenid period, includes the (eleventh) regnal year of Alexander (326/5) and the name of the satrap.15 The prescript, however, also refers to the prytanis of Gambrion, the civic eponym, which might suggest that the estate, first granted to Krateuas and then conveyed to Aristomenes, was located in polis territory (and thus was not part of the βασιλικὴ χώρα).16

12 13

14

15

16

Rubinstein 2004a, 1041 (no. 808). According to Rigsby 1989, 249–250, the inscription must be attributed to Pergamon. On the status of these estates see Briant 1985, 58–59, 62–64, 2002, 561–562. The question has now been re­examined, with specific regard to the domains granted to Mentor and Memnon, by Kholod 2018a. It is tempting to assume that Krateuas, the grantee of our inscription, was related to Peithon, son of Krateuas, Alexander’s somatophylax: cf. Heckel 1992, 254–257 with n. 93; see also Berve 1926 II, 227 no. 447; Thonemann 2009, 370 n. 28. Thonemann 2009, 371–374; Marek 2013, 247–248. Cf. also the new decree from Pidasa (321/0 BC) published by Kizil et al. 2015, with the ‘dual­dating’ formula [Φιλίπ]π̣ου βασι­ λεύοντος ἔτους τρίτο̣[υ], [Ἀσά]νδρου σατραπεύοντος (ll. 1–2). In light of this, Lane Fox (2007, 270–271) may well be right that in the propaganda he skilfully orchestrated to legitimise his conquest in Greek Asia Minor, in Lydia and in Caria, in presenting himself as liberator and, to quote an example, in granting the Sardians and the other Lydians the privilege to use their own laws (Arr. Anab. 1.17.4) Alexander performed ‘the reversal of recent or long-standing grievances against Achaemenid rule’. The fact remains, however, that in practical terms little will have changed after his arrival and that the Lydians were still subject to the payment of tribute and placed under direct satrapal control. Mithrenes, the phrourarchos holding the city, defected to Alexander and was welcomed into the royal entourage (Arr. Anab. 1.17.3). Cf. Briant 1993 and 2002, 842–843. Thus Thonemann 2009, 375–376, on the basis of Rigsby 1989, 248. Rubinstein 2004a, 1041, suggests that ‘[t]he Macedonians may have controlled land-ownership directly’. This can make sense only if we assume that they continued administrative practices that had already been in operation long before Alexander’s conquest. The possibility should be entertained, however, that Gambrion, now under the authority of Alexander’s satrap, had lost its status as a Greek polis or was not recognised as such by the Macedonian king.

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Our interest in this document lies especially in the information it provides about the tax levies on the land ‘given’ by Krateuas to Aristomenes: the κῆπος (probably to be identified with the φυτόν mentioned at ll. 10–11) was subject to a fixed tax equal to a gold stater per year, while, even in the absence of any explicit provisions, it can be supposed that the arable land, whose production capacity was quantified not in surface units but in 170 ‘measures’ of seeds (ll. 12–15), was liable to a proportional tax, and as such variable from year to year, on the annual harvest (equal, presumably, to 10 or 12 %). It can be supposed that the rate of this proportional tax was established by tradition and did not therefore need to be specified in the document.17 It should be emphasised that a fundamentally similar system is also reflected in the Mnesimachos inscription (end of the fourth century), engraved on a wall of the temple of Artemis in Sardis (Sardis VII, 1, 1). It concerns a contract (II, l. 4) according to which, being unable to repay to the temple the sum of 1325 gold staters received as a ‘deposit’ (παρακαταθήκη) – in actual fact a mortgage loan on the security of a large domain (οἶκος) that had been awarded to him as a lease­hold by Antigonos Monophthalmos (I, l. 2)18 – Mnesimachos committed himself and his descendants (II, ll. 1–2) to convey the estate in usufruct to the Artemision in an antichresis relationship.19 The οἶκος consisted of several villages (κῶμαι) and plots of land (κλῆροι), for each of which, in the first column of the inscription, the amount of φόρος levied was indicated in gold staters (I, ll. 4–10), for a total assessment of the estate of 116 staters and 7 gold obols. Continuity with respect to Achaimenid administrative practices emerges at different levels. Firstly, for the single parts that constituted the οἶκος, which were not geographically coherent and contiguous but scattered over an area of considerable dimension,20 reference is made to the chiliarchies, in other words the various fiscal districts to which they belonged. Scholars almost unanimously assume that these tax and, above all, military districts were originally part of the administrative and organisational structure of the Persian empire21 and therefore remained in operation 17 18

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20

21

Thonemann 2009, 381–384; cf. Pernin 2014, 292–293. An alternative explanation could be that the γῆ ψιλή was not productive at the time and, as such, was not yet subject to taxation. The grant of the οἶκος by Antigonos is in all likelihood to be dated between 318 and 306 BC; cf. Mileta 2008, 208 n. 416: ‘zwischen 318 (Beginn der Herrschaft des Antigonos über Kleinasien) und 306 v.  Chr. (Annahme der Königstitels durch Antigonos)’. See also Buckler / Robinson 1912, 25: ‘When the award to Mnesimachos took place, probably between 311 or even earlier and 306, we may suppose that Antigonus…had not yet become king’. For the interpretation of the legal relationship established by the contract between Mnesimachos and the temple of Artemis in terms of a transfer of usufruct (antichresis) see Scheibelreiter 2013. Buckler / Robinson 1912, 65–66. Cf. Capdetrey 2007, 156: ‘Ce que nous appelons un domaine n’était en réalité qu’un agrégat de terres diverses, la plupart du temps séparées les unes des autres. Constitué de kômai, de klèroi et de paradeisoi, le domaine de Mnésimachos dépendait ainsi de différentes chiliarchies’. Buckler / Robinson 1912, 65–69; Briant 1982b, 210–211, 224–225 n. 385 and 2002, 411–412, 766. See also Aperghis 2004, 278–279; Kholod 2018a, 184–186.

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also after the Macedonian conquest, all the more so during the reign of Alexander.22 Secondly, at the end of the first column of the inscription, the properties assigned as an ἐξαίρημα to Pytheos and Adrastos (but which remained in any case, from the point of view of taxation, a constituent and indivisible part of the οἶκος) are described as including paradeisoi and oikopeda whose value (or fiscal value) is, for some reason, indicated, as in the case of the inscription of Krateuas, in terms of the quantity of seed expressed in artabai (I, l. 15). As pointed out by P. Briant, this was a Persian unit of measure, extensively documented by Elamite, Babylonian and Aramaic texts.23 The conclusions that can be drawn from the preceding observation are less clear. P. Thonemann suggested that the assessment of the value in terms of seed-requirements surely must imply that, alongside the φόρος quantified in gold staters, which represented a fixed annual tax levied on agricultural products, excluding the grain harvest, and perhaps also on buildings and laoi, arable land was in addition liable to a tax proportional to the yearly yield, so that the sum of 1325 gold staters borrowed by Mnesimachos was to be guaranteed exclusively by that part of the oἶκος for which the φόρος ἀργυρικός was paid. It must be said, however, that this hypothesis remains somewhat doubtful: it is true that Mnesimachos and his descendants committed themselves, should they have failed to act as guarantors in favour of the temple against claims by third parties to the right of usufruct, to repay twice the value of the loan and on top of this, in the event that they are not harvested that year, that of γενήματα and καρποί ‘at whatever sum they are valued’ (II, ll. 7–10: ὁπόσου οὖν χρυσίου ἄξια ἦι καὶ ταῦτα ἀποδώσομεν). The same was nonetheless also true for ‘the buildings and the fruits’ (II, ll. 10–11) and can thus be interpreted as some sort of compensation for losses incurred both in terms of produce and investment. It should moreover be noted that at I, ll. 11–16, the portions ‘reserved’ as an ἐξαίρημα to Pytheos and Adrastos are said to have been taken from the whole of the estate granted to Mnesimachos, and, to be more precise, ‘from all the villages, and from the allotments and dwelling-plots thereto appertaining, and from the serfs with their households and belongings, and from the wine-vessels the dues rendered in money and in labor, and from the revenues of other kinds accruing from the villages and still more besides these’.24 Reference is therefore made, on the one hand, to the properties (komai, kleroi, oikopeda) that constituted the domain and the revenue accruing Debord 1999, 42, reconstructs the workings of the financial system on the basis of the assumption that the chiliarchies, comprising villages and plots, were in the organisation of the administrative structure on the same level as the poleis, being their equivalent for the chora. Cf. also Wiesehöfer 2009, 83–84. 23 Briant 2002, 286–288, 414 (‘it is important to stress that the introduction of the ardab was not limited to Egypt: it was also found in Babylonia during the time of Cambyses as well, and the Mnesimachos inscription…shows that in the Sardis region, at the end of the Achaemenid period, gardens and paradeisoi were evaluated in proportion to the number of ardabs of seed needed to saw crops’); 2006, 339–340. 24 Trans. Buckler / Robinson 1912, 15. 22

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from them, and, on the other hand, to the obligations, both in terms of tribute and corvées (we must imagine including military corvées), they were subject to.25 It is striking, however, that in these lines, where we would actually expect to find some mention of it, any indication of a proportional tax on arable land is totally lacking (while, on the contrary, indirect reference to the production of wine is made). A third document, which takes us to the context of the royal land directly under the control of the king, consists of an inscription from the territory of Aigai in Aiolis (SEG 33.1034),26 whose date was recently moved back on palaeographic grounds to the end of the fourth century by R. Descat.27 It cannot be ruled out that at A, ll. 1–2 we may even restore in the text the name of [Πυθ]έας, an official who features at the head of a chiliarchy (even though in the form Πύθεος) in the Mnesimachos inscription (I, ll. 5–6).28 In the document, following the restitution to a village community of land, vineyards and houses it had previously been deprived of for some unknown reason (B, ll. 5–10), the fiscal obligations of the community are listed. These included a wide-ranging variety of taxes, among which a tenth on arable land (as implied by the contrast with the ξύλινος καρπός),29 but also a tax equal to one eighth (ὀγδόη) on fruit trees, a fiftieth on ‘capital’ (or on sale and transit) of sheep and goats (although an exemption for the ‘new born’ [ἐπιγονή] was foreseen) as well as an eighth on hives, together with the supply of parts of animals that were the booty of hunting. The community in question was most likely settled on royal land. This is shown by the fact that the ἐργαζόμενοι, probably to be identified as the equivalent of the laoi of Mnesimachos’ inscription, were to receive τὰ ἐπιτήδεια, in other words the tools and other necessary things (seeds?), from the βασιλικόν (B, ll. 2–5: ἐ᾽ βασιλικοῦ). 30 The uncertainty regarding the date of the inscription, which its first editor assigned to the reign of Antiochos I, does not allow us to safely conclude that the tributary system reflected in the document was indeed the one in force in the Achaimenid empire at the time of Alexander’s conquest (or during the reign of the latter) – in this 25

26 27 28 29 30

Descat 1985, 108–109: ‘c’est un récapitulatif des droits et des devoirs de la dôrea qui consiste en 1. des élements tangibles sur le terrain…et des hommes…2. des charges…3. les bénéfices de détenteur…4. un surplus possible’. See also Briant 2002, 401–402: ‘the peasants as a general rule were subject to tribute and to corvée’. Cf. moreover the inscription of Dareios’ letter to Gadatas (ML 12) who was reproached for having made ‘the sacred gardeners of Apollo pay tribute and ordered them to till profane land’ (ll. 20–22). On the problem of the authenticity of this document see Lane Fox 2006 and Lombardi 2010, reviewing earlier literature. Cf. also Ceccarelli 2013, 36 with n. 58. Malay 1983; Chandezon 2003, 201–205 (no. 52). Descat 2003, 160–165. Buckler / Robinson 1912, 38–39. Chandezon 2003, 204: ‘On sait qu’elle fonctionne souvent comme un antonyme de σιτικοὶ καρποί, qui qualifie les produits de la céréaliculture’. Chandezon 2003, 203 with n. 81: ‘Il vaut mieux suivre l’opinion de Corsaro… qui fait de ce village une propriété royale. Les Séleucides possédaient en effet des domaines dans la région comme le prouve une borne délimitant l’un d’eux avec le territoire d’Aigai’.

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case we cannot rely on strongly distinctive ‘markers’ such as the artaba or the reference to a chiliarchy – but the fact remains that there are significant parallels with the taxation system described in relation to the satrapal economy in the Aristotelian Oikonomika (1345b29–1346a4),31 whose ‘theoretical’ part, as we have seen, fits precisely into the chronological context under consideration here. CONTINUITIES AND DISCONTINUITIES: THE IMPACT OF ALEXANDER’S CONQUEST

In the light of these documents and the – inevitably fragmented and partial – image they project of the operation of the financial and fiscal organisation of Asia Minor between the late Achaimenid and the early Hellenistic period, we may legitimately ask in what way, and to what extent, the Macedonian conquest in the short term had an impact on the established system with its complex administrative mechanisms. Everything naturally revolves around the interpretation of Arr. Anab. 1.17.7 and the plausibility that Nikias was entrusted with the task of providing not only for the collection of φόροι but also for their σύνταξις, in other words for their ‘assessment’. All in all, it appears more credible that the innovations introduced by Alexander during the short period in which he remained in Asia Minor and in the Western satrapies of the empire between 334 and 331, except for the exemption from φόρος granted in principle to the Greek poleis and for the demand and collection of σύνταξις – whose existence is indirectly witnessed, independently from Arrian’s controversial passage, by IK.Priene 1 (=  RO 86B), ll. 11–13 (τῆς δὲ συντάξεως ἀφίημι τὴμ Πριηνέων πόλιν) –, mainly focused on the officials placed at the top of the fiscal apparatus. We are thus told about the creation of some ad hoc tasks, such as that of Nikias, who, having received this specific financial responsibility in 334, was meant to collaborate with Asandros, son of Philotas, satrap ‘of Lydia and the rest of Spitridates’ province’ (Arr. Anab. 1.17.7). This was followed, in 331, by the appointment of Philoxenos to the charge of collecting the φόρος (a term that most likely included the σύνταξις, although this is not explicitly stated by the sources) in the region of ‘Asia on this side of Tauros’ (Arr. Anab. 3.6.4). In the latter case the appointment entailed some sort of coordination and supervision with an authority extended to more satrapies, and thus of a super-regional nature.32 In other words, it can be assumed that during this phase when the conquest was still in progress Alexander’s actions, rather than aiming at changing the structure of the Achaimenid taxation system, had the primary objective of ensuring its function-

Descat 2003, 164–165; Capdetrey 2007, 412–413. More in general see also Corsaro 1985. Briant 2002, 399–400, nonetheless warns, a propos our inscription from Aigai, that ‘it is impossible to state that all these taxes already existed during the time of Darius’. 32 Kholod 2017, 141–146. 31

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ing and making an efficient collection of φόρος and other forms of financial contributions for military expenses possible. A paradigmatic case: Ilion On the other hand, one should not exaggerate in emphasising the rigidity of the administrative system and stressing the aspect of absolute continuity with respect to Achaimenid practices. Changes and adjustments prompted by local situations are inevitably to be expected. In order to get an idea of how this could be achieved it is useful to return to the question of Alexander’s political relations with Greek cities and other non-Greek communities and peoples with whom he needed to consolidate his conquest and ensure recognition of the legitimacy of his territorial control. To this end, it is appropriate to keep in mind, as an example with paradigmatic value, the specific case of Ilion which Alexander visited after crossing from Europe to Asia, symbolically bringing offerings, among others, to Achilleus (Arr. Anab. 1.12.2–5; Diod. 17.17.2, 6–18.1; cf. Plut. Alex. 17.7–9) as a part of the Homeric reminiscences characterising the rituals he performed at the beginning of his expedition,33 and which Strabo (13.1.26) claims he ‘refounded’, also at the monumental level, with the status of polis free and exempt from tribute. These measures, which clearly marked a break with the pre-existing political framework, were followed, after the victory of Gaugamela, by a further demonstration of benevolence on the part of the Macedonian king who, in a letter, promised to ‘make the city great and the sanctuary magnificent and to proclaim sacred games’. The suggestion, recently made by C. Lasagni, that the ultimate sources on which Strabo’s information was based, whatever their documentary typology (diagramma or letter),34 were two decrees issued by the king inscribed on epigraphic monuments displayed in the sanctuary of Athena Ilias is persuasive.35 In this context, with regard to Alexander’ settlement in 334 the verb κρῖναι is significant as it reveals that the king took his decision on the question of the status of Ilion not on his own initiative, but rather because he was prompted by ambassadors – according to Strabo after the battle of the Granikos river – sent by the community, which, following a synoecism, had become a κώμη integrated in the territory of Sigeion. Alexander thus acted in response to their appeal and their requests. The project of making Ilion a ‘great city’, though not implemented in the time of Alexander, was later to bring about the foundation of the koinon of Athena Ilias by Antigonos Monophthalmos, perhaps already

Zahrnt 1996; see also Hölscher and Mann, this volume. Cf. Mari 2017a, 351–353, noting that it is ‘opportuno mettere in guardia da posizioni troppo dogmatiche sulla distinzione di contenuti e destinatari, e di impostazione formale, tra epistole reali e diagrammata, per la Macedonia come per altre aree del mondo ellenistico’. Contrary to the opinion long prevailing in scholarship, the boundaries between these typologies of documents are often far from being clear-cut: diagrammata could sometimes concern local matters, while regulations with a general character are in some cases defined as epistolai. 35 Lasagni 2016, 44–48. 33 34

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before 306 BC (IK.Ilion 1), which resulted in the recognition of Ilion’s political and religious centrality in the region.36 Priene’s territory and Alexander’s diagramma The parallel of the case of Ilion, however imperfectly known – we must rely almost exclusively on Strabo’s passage – can provide new insights for analysing the issues related to the status of Priene and the population of its territory, for which the documentation is certainly much larger but also controversial in view of its fragmentary character and the uncertainties connected to the dates of some inscriptions.37 I would like to revisit the problem, starting from a piece of evidence which has not yet been exploited to its full potential. It is the text of Rhodes’ arbitration in the on-going territorial dispute between Samos and Priene, inscribed, as part of the famous ‘archive of Priene’, on the outer wall of the north anta of the temple of Athena Polias, next to the edict of Alexander (IK.Priene 132).38 In the final part of the document, according to the new reading proposed a decade ago by A. Magnetto, in the section containing the verdict of the arbitrators, the arguments advanced by the Prienians, to which the disputed territories were eventually adjudicated, are summarised. Reference is made to the fact that, at the time when Alexander crossed to Asia (Ἀλεξά]νδρου διαβάντος εἰς τὴν Ἀσίαν), the Prienians ‘reaped the fruits’ (ἐνέμον[το]), and therefore held control, of the territory of Karion and Dryoussa, located north of Mykale (ll. 168–169). We do not know on what evidence the Prienians based their argument, whether on the basis of an edict or, much less probably, an arbitration of Alexander, but it is important to emphasise that Alexander’s reign clearly marked a fundamental time of definition and consolidation of the northern portion of the territory of Priene.39 This finding is of crucial significance because, on the one hand, it substantiates in an even more concrete manner S. Sherwin-White’s insight that the text of the edict of Alexander published on the anta immediately below the dedication of the temple (IK.Priene 149 =  RO 86A) was only an excerpt from a larger document, probably a diagramma, functional to selectively proving the territorial limits and tax privileges of the city, with regard to the issues under discussion in the mid-80s of the third century, during the reign of Lysimachos, when the integrity of the chora IK.Ilion 1, pp. 5–6: ‘Malousios hat zinsloses Geld für die Bedürfnisse der Panegyris (d.h. des Bundes) vorgestreckt, zur Finanzierung von Gesandtschaften an König Antigonos Monophthalmos und vor allem zum Bau der Anlagen, die für das Fest des Koinons nötig waren. Wahrscheinlich darf man aus dieser regen Bautätigkeit schliessen, dass die Gründung des Koinons noch nicht lange zurückgeht, dass sie etwa 310 v. Chr. stattgefunden hat’. See also Landucci Gattinoni 2005–2006; Pillot 2016. 37 For a valuable analysis of the questions posed by the dating of the inscriptions from Priene between the end of the fourth century and the beginning of the third century cf. Fröhlich 2016, 561–568 (supporting the ‘low’ chronology proposed by Crowther 1996). 38 On the ‘archive’ of Priene Sherwin­White 1985 remains fundamental. 39 Magnetto 2008, 68–70, 103–106. 36

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in its (north)-eastern sector had been threatened by an invasion of Magnesians and Pedieis together with a force of soldiers, probably of Demetrios Poliorketes (IK. Priene 2–4)40; on the other hand, it reveals how Alexander’s settlement on Priene concerned the overall structure of the civic territory and, while dealing with a series of quite specific issues, must have been based on precise and direct information. Also owing to the lack of information in the literary sources, however, it remains unclear on which occasion Alexander’s decisions were taken, whether the king himself visited Priene at the time of the siege of Miletos, or whether contacts were kept on his behalf by Antigonos, who was granted honours by Priene in a decree whose date is debated again (IK.Priene 15)41, or whether Alexander was requested to take a stand on these territorial issues following an embassy from the city42. It is also obscure whether Alexander formalised his decisions regarding Priene on a single occasion (e.g. in 334, when he was engaged in the siege of Miletos, his rulings thus complementing the more general orders he had given Alkimachos about the political status of the poleis of Ionia) or whether, as in the case of Ilion, he was called upon more than once to decide on the status of the city and the geographical boundaries of its chora as a result of negotiations conducted over a long period of time43. My impression, for reasons that will soon become clear, is that it is preferable to think of a single comprehensive settlement, most probably to be placed precisely in 334. In this context, in order to clarify the situation both conceptually and in its practical implications, the parallel of the inscription bearing Alexander’s regulations about the territory of Philippoi (SEG 34.664 =  H atzopoulos 1996b II, no. 6 =  P ilhofer 2009, no. 160a) still remains illuminating. In the document, which is difficult to classify, Alexander is consistently referred to in the third person, so that it appears necessary to assume that the terms of his settlement (probably issued in the form of a diagramma) are related, as a sort of report, either by the city’s ambassadors who

Kah 2012, 54. Status quaestionis in Debord 1999, 439–443 (dating the decree to 313/2 or the following years); Paganoni 2017. IK.Priene 15 attributes the document to 334/3 (thus also Crowther 1996, 198 and 201–206). Fröhlich 2016, 562–564, believes that the decree has nothing to do with Antigonos Monophthalmos and dates it, on the basis of the formula αὐτονόμων [ἐόν]των Πριηνέων, to later than 297 BC. 42 Briant 2006, 332, ‘Il s’est passé en Asie mineure après le Granique ce qui s’est passé en Babylonie et à Susa après Gaugamèles: le camp d’Alexandre est entré en contact avec les cités, et des messages et messagers ont informé Alexandre des demandes présentées par les cités; de contacts ont été également établis avec des hauts dirigeants impériaux, y compris des satrapes. Dans ces conditions, l’on peut estimer, lorsqu’ Alexandre arrive à Priéne, la chancellerie royale avait déja preparé un brouillon de décision’. 43 For the latter option see e.g. Vacante 2010 , who implausibly identifies, within Alexander’s edict, three different sections, each of them representing an archival ‘excerpt’ of separate rulings issued between 334 and 324/3 BC. Arena 2010 (cf. also 2013) places the edict in 332, ‘dopo la riconquista…seguita alla controffensiva persiana del 333 nell’Egeo orientale’ (260). 40 41

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had joined Alexander in Persis in 330 BC 44 or by Antipatros who held power in the name of the king in Europe while he was absent in Asia.45 The contents of the inscription aim to regulate a number of questions concerning the chora controlled by the Greek polis and the different legal grounds that ensured its citizens the right to possess and exploit it. Three parties definitely seem to be involved: Alexander, heir of Philip, the city founder, and holder of the chora bordering that of Philippoi, the polis of Philippoi itself, and the Thracians settled in neighbouring areas. The latter were being accused of having encroached into the territory belonging to the polis since its foundation, so that, according to the restoration of this fragmentary part of the text proposed by M.B. Hatzopoulos, it was necessary to prove when, and under what circumstances, occupation of the disputed land originated.46 In particular, in the document, from which it emerges that Alexander’s ruling was prompted by a request for intervention by the polis of Philippoi itself, a distinction is made between the territory originally ‘given’ (in ownership) to the city by Philip (the χώρα πολιτική) and the marshy areas that ‘are of the Philippians’ (εἶναι τῶν Φιλίππων) up to a certain geographical limit (A, ll. 7–9, B, ll. 12–13), on the one hand, and the portion of uncultivated (ἀργός) land which belongs to Alexander and which the Philippians can exploit economically and cultivate (ἐργάζεσθαι) on condition that they pay a φόρος after its delimitation has been carried out (A, ll. 4–6). Similarly, in column B it is stressed that the Thracians had been granted the right to καρπίζεσθαι certain portions of territory and the polis of Philippoi was entitled to νέμεσθαι the territory ‘near the land of Serres and Daineros’ (B, ll. 8–10).47 In the final analysis, even though the expression ἡ βασιλικὴ χώρα (only attested in I.Ilion 33, ll. 41–44, 64–71) does not appear in the inscription, the document draws a clear distinction between the polis territory and the royal land that the king, while retaining ownership, could grant for cultivation to ‘Greek’ communities or indigenous groups settled in the area. As noted by P. Briant, in regulating the relationship between the royal land and the chora of Priene and their respective status, Alexander, on the one hand, intervened in a local situation where the notion of royal land was already well established in the administrative history of the Achaimenid empire, but, on the other hand, in dealing with the question, he was also drawing on his own experience rooted in the Macedonian tradition.48 As a consequence, the core question becomes that of understanding what the solutions adopted by Alexander with regard to Priene consisted of and what their actual meaning and impact was. Notwithstanding the fact that Priene, like other Greek cities of Ionia, obtained freedom, autonomy and exemption from tribute Hatzopoulos 1997. Errington 1998, 82–86. 46 For a more extensive analysis and discussion of the document see Faraguna 2018, 201–203. In addition to the bibliography therein quoted, cf. also Lehmann 2015a, 135–143. 47 On the topographical aspects cf. Faraguna 1998, 375–377. 48 Briant 2006, 336. Cf. also Magnetto 2008, 106 n. 23. 44 45

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(φόρος), it is now essential in this perspective to engage critically with the new edition of the Alexander’s edict proposed by P. Thonemann – adopted without substantial changes also in the new corpus of the inscriptions of Priene by W. Blümel and R. Merkelbach (IK.Priene 1)49 – which offers a significantly different text compared to those of F. Hiller von Gaertringen in I.Priene 1 (1906) and A.J. Heisserer (1980).50 Two issues in particular stand out as fundamental and require in-depth analysis. The first issue revolves around the legal status of Naulochon and the implications of the provisions concerning it. P. Thonemann has indeed suggested restoring the first lines of the text in the sense that ‘of those who live in Naulochon, as many as are Greeks (and not, as in previous editions, ‘Prienians’), shall be autonomous and free, in full possession of the land and of all the houses in the city and also the territory, just like the Prienians themselves’, thus suggesting that the community of Naulochon was made up of Greeks and non-Greeks and that the Greeks who were not Prienians were equated with the latter, so that they were extended the same privileges as those conferred to Priene.51 This provision, in Thonemann’s opinion, was to have enormous significance because ‘Alexander was offering favourable treatment, not merely to the Greek poleis of Asia Minor, but to all the ethnic Greeks of Asia Minor, whether or not they belonged to a particular citizen body… From now on, “Greekness” in the East was to become, at least in part, a matter of maximizing public finances. It need not surprise us that the pace of Hellenization accelerated after 334’. It should, however, be observed that this interpretation, while solving a textual problem – Thonemann rightly notes that stating that those who are Prienians in Naulochon must have the same privileges as the Prienians is to some extent tautologic –, nevertheless in turn raises new questions. The first concerns the relationship between the two communities of Priene and Naulochon: if this clause was inscribed as a part of the ‘archive’ on the anta of the temple of Athena Polias, it can only mean that Naulochon, which had previously been an autonomous city with its own coinage,52 was integrated by Alexander in the territory of Priene. But it is precisely in this perspective that the new proposal raises questions about the status of Naulochon and the forms and modalities of its integration. One of the privileges associThonemann 2013. Cf. also RO 86B. 51 Thonemann 2013, 28: ‘I would understand the Prieneans to have consulted Alexander on the specific problem raised by the existence of an ethnically mixed community on their territory, Naulochon, with a population consisting of Greeks and non-Greeks living side by side. Most of the inhabitants of Naulochon were not Prienean citizens, and hence would neither be covered by any block grant of fiscal privileges to the “cities of Ionia” in general, nor by any specific favours accorded to the city and citizens of Priene in particular. Were the Greek inhabitants of Naulochon therefore still required to pay the φόροι? Alexander’s reply was that the Greek population of Naulochon and only the Greek population, was to enjoy the fiscal privileges already granted to the Greek citizens of Priene’. 52 Rubinstein 2004b, 1089 (no. 857). 49 50

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ated with full citizenship was in fact ἔγκτησις and one is therefore led to ask how non­Prienian Greeks could ἔχειν, i.e. have property rights with respect to houses and land not only in Naulochon but also in the territory of Priene without being Prienian citizens in their own right. We should infer from this clause either that Naulochon became part of Priene by virtue of a synoecism or sympoliteia agreement, and, in other words, its citizens became full Prienian citizens, or that Naulochon had a legal status that assimilated it to a dependent polis to which Priene’s privileges were extended with the exclusion of non-Greeks. It will in any case be necessary to assume that this community was partly constituted by non-Greeks, i.e. natives who were evidently in a subordinate position. Such inference in turn has a bearing on the question of the Πεδιεῖς, in a generic and non-technical sense the inhabitants of the ‘plain’ of the Maeander. In Thonemann’s new edition they have disappeared from the text: he convincingly proposes to restore the names of three indigenous villages subsequently referred to in the document by the expression ἐν ταῖς κώμαις ταύταις of ll. 12–13. Yet they do appear in IK.Priene 16, the decree in honour of Megabyxos of Ephesos, generally dated to the period of Alexander (334–323 in the new edition of the inscriptions of Priene, but 296/5 BC according to Crowther and Fröhlich53), in which it is specified that the honorand was to be awarded among other privileges also ἔγκτησις, with the exclusion of those κτήματα that were in the possession of the Pedieis (ll. 12–15). It is therefore a persuasive hypothesis that Pedieis, as revealed by the comparison between IK.Priene 2, ll. 5–7 and 3, ll. 10–15, was a name with a simply descriptive, ‘geographical’ and not ethnic value, since it could include the citizens of Magnesia (IK.Priene 2, ll. 6–7: [… ἐπὶ τοὺς Μάγνητας] καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους Πεδιεῖς).54 The fact nonetheless remains that this name was clearly applicable also to individuals or groups settled in the territory of the city with a right to have possession of certain portions of land, of κτήματα, which was legally recognised by the Prienians55. The possibility that such individuals and groups were native non-Greeks is not to be ruled out, especially on the basis of the information we have on the diverse ethnic composition of the community at Naulochon.56 All in all, it appears that Alexander’s decisions concerning the status of the communities settled in the territory neighbouring Priene (including of course that of the Crowther 1996, 196–221; Fröhlich 2016, 564. Kah 2012, 53–57; Thonemann 2013, 33–36. 55 Mileta 2014, esp. 427–435, underlines the fact that Alexander and his successors, in consolidating their power base, could not disregard the indigenous population: this is supposed to mean that, in the case of Priene, the Pedieis not only were subject to tax obligations and corvées but were also ‘Objekte der herrschaftlichen Fürsorge der Monarchen’. I cannot, however, find myself in agreement with his arguments at pp. 431–432, which, as Mileta himself acknowledges (n. 42: ‘I.Priene 16 [=  IK.Priene 4] enthält eine nicht eindeutig zu rekonstruierende Regelung bezüglich der besetzten Ländereien’), are speculative and based on insecure grounds (for a critique of Mileta’s approach see Boffo 2011). 56 On the population of the territory of Priene see Kah 2012 and 2014, 150–156. 53 54

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polis itself, the χώρα πολιτική) are loaded with considerable complexity. Firstly, leaving aside the manifestly selective criteria underlying the choice of the territorial and fiscal provisions to be recorded in IK.Priene 1, it becomes clear that the regulations originally had a much broader and more comprehensive character than we can prima facie imagine, touching not only on the region of Μαιάνδρου πέδιον57 but also the northern sector of Mykale in the area bordering the peraia of Samos and the territory of Ephesos. Secondly, it is necessary to recognise, as in a sort of patchwork pattern, the mixed ethnic character and diverse legal status of the population living in this territory, including Prienians, Greek communities, such as that of Naulochon, perhaps with the subordinate status of dependent polis, and indigenous groups settled without interruption both within and outside the boundaries of the polis’ chora. Alexander’s ruling, as revealed by the verb γιγνώσκω, which is in fact a synonym of κρίνω in Strabo’s passage on Ilion, was therefore presumably aimed at setting apart the territory belonging to the Prienian chora and the territory pertaining to the royal land, thus identifying those villages that were directly under his control and subject to payment of φόρος, in a line of continuity with the Achaimenid administrative tradition. Such measures, as suggested by Briant, may have had the objective of claiming his rights on the royal land in the face of illegal seizure and encroachment on the part of Priene.58 Alternatively, it could be supposed that the villages inhabited by the Pedieis, though dependent on Alexander, as in the case of the Phrygians settled in the chora of Zeleia59, were ‘attributed’ to the territory of Priene and placed under its control, provided Priene collected the φόροι levied as a proportional tax on the annual produce and paid these to the king, this time on the basis of a flat­rate tax, thus making a profit from the differential between the amount that was collected and the amount actually transferred to the royal administration. The hostile attitude of the Pedieis towards the city, which is apparent in the correspondence between Lysimachos and Priene ca. 285 BC (IK.Priene 2–4), could in this perspective have originated from the strong fiscal pressure exerted on them by the polis.60 This latter hypothesis has the particular advantage of being consistent with what emerges from the first part of the diagramma, namely that within the community of Naulochon there surely was a difference in the fiscal status of the Greeks and of the native inhabitants of non-Hellenic origin respectively. The situation thus appears as ‘fluid’ and marked by the presence within the polis of groups subject to different statuses before the king, in a patchwork pattern without clear territorial boundary divisions, perhaps again in continuity with the practices already existing under the Persian empire.61 A picture characterised by diversiCf. the sources collected in Kah 2012, 54 n. 13. Briant 2006, 330–336. 59 Corsaro 1984, 474. 60 Thus Bertrand 2004, 83–89. 61 Kah 2012, 56: ‘Vielleicht muss man in dieser frühen Zeit [scil. of the Hellenistic period] von einem Flickenteppich unterschiedlicher territorialer Rechtstitel ausgehen, der aus der Perserzeit stammte und erst im Laufe des Hellenismus in arrondierte Stadtterritorien überfuhrt wurde’. 57 58

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fication in the forms of legal title that ensured the polis control over a large territory, along a continuum whose two extremes were represented, on the one hand, by full ownership, on the other by the right to exploit a part of the royal land against the payment of ‘tribute’ is, moreover, reflected, as we have seen, also by Alexander’s diagramma regarding Philippoi. An exception to the rule? Iasos The fact that Alexander’s rulings mostly happened in response to specific requests from the various communities is also revealed by the case of Iasos, which introduces us to a rather different scenario. The rule here applies once more that ‘[p]er prendere le diverse decisioni, il re doveva dunque essere regolarmente informato delle situazioni particolari e di tutte le realtà con le quali entrava in rapporto’. 62 Diodoros recalls, on the subject of Caria, that Alexander benefited the Greek cities, granting them autonomy and exemption from tribute and stressing, on the ideological level, that the liberation of the Greeks was the very reason for the war against the Persians (17.24.1), but does not mention in this context ‘democracies’ in the same way as he does for Ionia and Aeolis. This is moreover consistent with the fact that in Caria Alexander made the choice of reconnecting to the local dynastic tradition and the Hekatomnids, being adopted by Ada in order to legitimise his power in the region in an anti-Persian stance.63 In fact, unlike what was assumed by K. Nawotka,64 for Iasos there are prosopographic indications of political continuity between the Hekatomnid period and that of Alexander. Power remained in the hands of a ruling class at the head of a fundamentally oligarchic regime which emerged in the city after the repression of a conspiracy (ἐπιβουλή) against Mausolos in the mid­50s of the fourth century,65 with ‘una profonda integrazione di Iasos…nel contesto politico e culturale cario’.66 In particular, as suggested by R. Fabiani, the two most prominent figures of the city at the time of Alexander, Minnion and Gorgos, sons of Theodotos, appear to have been members of a family already connected to the Hekatomnids in the past67. Moreover, S. Wallace has recently shown that the model of political relations between Alex62 63

64 65 66 67

Fabiani 2015a, 288. On Alexander and Caria cf. Capdetrey 2012, 229–232, emphasising that the legitimation process was here carried out in two phases: first Ada was recognised as ‘queen of Caria’ (Plut. Alex. 22.7: πρὸς Ἄδαν…ἣν ἐποιήσατο μητέρα καὶ Καρίας βασίλινναν), ‘c’est­à­dire comme la figure principale de l’alliance du koinon des Cariens’, and then appointed as satrap of the region, ‘autrement dit qu’il lui attribua une autorité administrative sur une unité territoriale désormais reconstituée par la reddition de la capitale’, in other words Halikarnassos. On the reasons that might have driven Alexander to claim legitimacy, in opposition to the Achaimenids, for his power in Caria by means of his ‘kinship’ and (mother-son) relationship with Ada cf. Sears 2014. Nawotka 2003, 24–25. I.Iasos 1, ll. 2–6 (the names of the magistrates and the list of the properties confiscated and publicly put up for sale follow). Fabiani 2013, 2015a, 2 and 284–289, 2015b, 186–192 (quotation 186–187). Fabiani 2013, 327–330 with discussion of the sources (cf. also 2015b, 190–191).

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ander and the Greek cities of the Asiatic coast in Arrian (Anab. 1.18.2) should be interpreted in a nuanced fashion and assessed on a case-by-case basis and without assuming pre-established patterns.68 In some cases Alexander even supported tyrannies.69 Other than for the nature of its political regime, the case of Iasos is of interest because an inscription, a decree precisely in honour of Minnion and Gorgos, consisting of two fragments now recognised as part of a single document (I.Iasos 24 + 30; see also RO 90A),70 reveals how Alexander’s personal intervention regarding this polis once again focused on its territory: it concerns the ‘restoration’ to the demos of the so­called ‘Little Sea’ (μικρὰ θάλασσα) which came about, in a phase marked by the expansionism of Mylasa, by virtue of the action of the two brothers who successfully conferred about this issue with the king (ll. 14–17). This body of water, now mostly silted up, is generally identified with the marshy area at the mouth of the Sai Çai river. It probably had a significant economic value for the city for fishing and other resources (salt­pans, pastures) connected to a similar swampy surface, but also as the site of a port and customs station for commercial traffic with Mylasa and other inland communities.71 The problem is dating Alexander’s decision: in general, scholars have favoured a date late in his reign, starting from the assumption that the decree would fit better at a time when Gorgos, ὁπλοφύλαξ of Alexander in 324 BC,72 had won a position of influence with the king. Such an argument, however, can hardly apply to his brother Minnion, himself the recipient of honours voted by the city, who was certainly active in Iasos in the 320s, in so far as he appears as στεφανήφορος in IK.Iasos 27 and 52. The decree on the ‘Little Sea’ is consequently dated precisely to 334/3 by R. Fabiani, when ‘è ragionevole pensare che Iasos abbia interpellato il sovrano su una questione che tanto le stava a cuore nel momento in cui si trovava vicino e poteva meglio comprendere e intervenire sul problema’.73 ALEXANDER IN ASIA MINOR: LEGITIMATION AND WEBER’S HERRSCHAFTSTYPEN

In conclusion, the case of Iasos turns out to be of some significance in reminding us how, both at the level of the tax system and of political relations with the Greek and non-Greek communities, the conquest of Asia Minor and its legitimation, in other words the transition from Persian to Macedonian monarchy, were carried out

68 69 70 71 72 73

Wallace 2018a, 50–52 and, especially, 63–70. Schorn 2014, 85–87. Fabiani 2007 (cf. 2015a, 309–310 [no. 1]). Vacante 2011; Lytle 2012, 16–19. Ephippos (FGrHist 126) F 5 (Ath. 13.537e–538b) with Prandi 2016a, ad loc. Fabiani 2015a, 288. On Gorgos and Alexander see also Wallace, this volume.

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by Alexander according to a spectrum of different options and possibilities. These ranged between the two extremes of the takeover of administrative practices belonging to the Achaimenid tradition and the introduction of new elements and solutions which were mostly implemented in response to ‘local’ situations as they presented themselves in the course of time (sometimes even with subsequent adjustments and modifications). In particular, as J. Ma recently pointed out, ‘the conquest involved a…deconstruction of the Achaimenid formation, first by the turning of imperial structures of control and extraction to support the invading and nomadic army…, second by using the same techniques of negotiation and bargaining with local elites that the Achaimenid state relied upon’.74 In actual fact, the forms of legitimation of Alexander’s domination (Herrschaft) in Asia Minor, as we have seen, appear to have been diversified, as were their recipients. A first element that must be taken into account is that this region, in light of a history of contacts and interactions that already began at the end of the sixth century and, more recently, of the operations conducted by Philip II in the years 336–335 BC75, was hardly terra incognita for the Macedonians: as several authors have emphasised, the strategies implemented by Alexander during the conquest were not only of a reactive type nor the result of improvisation, but revealed a fully developed organisational project and attitude right from the beginning.76 The origin of Alexander’s authority was rooted in the charismatic dimension, more precisely in the elaborate rituals he staged before and after crossing the Hellespont, in his heroic connections and models, in his successfully seizing control of the coastal cities of Asia Minor and, ultimately, in his self-presentation as the liberator of the Greeks (as well as, as we have seen, of the Lydians and Carians), and new founder of some of their poleis, but the forms concretely taken by his power were shaped by the subsystems and long-established customs he integrated into his new structure of authority. In Weberian terms, this was largely achieved both with respect to the Greek ethnic component and to the native population in accordance with tradition, ensuring continuity in the functioning of the administrative and tributary structures of the Achaimenid empire. Changes, as far as we can see, only affected the top positions of the Persian administrative machinery to which some of Alexander’s followers were assigned. At the same time, the specific solutions adopted in the individual circumstances bring to the foreground the problem of knowledge, i.e., in what way, in taking his decisions and making his choices, Alexander was sufficiently well informed about the various concrete and specific situations it was necessary to deal with. In this perspective, in the extant literary and epigraphic documentation, which is inevitably very selective, a paradigmatic value can be attributed to those cases in which, in the context of the relations with the Greek cities of the Asiatic coast, regardless of the Ma 2013b, 114; cf. Giangiulio, this volume, on Central Asia. On Philip’s advance guard and military operations in Asia Minor see Kholod 2018b. 76 Briant 2006, 332; Mileta 2008, 32–35, 2014. 74 75

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role played by the royal chancery, the importance of reports and demands coming bottom up through ambassadors and direct contacts clearly emerge. If it is in fact undeniable that in principle – although also with some exceptions77 – the arrival of Alexander entailed the ‘liberation’ of such poleis, and, together with it, the exemption from tribute and establishment of democracies, the case of Priene, exemplifying the complexity of problems and solutions adopted, becomes emblematic: in defining the boundaries of the city’s land, and acting as guarantor for the ensuing territorial organisation, Alexander could only respond to requests that were advanced by the polis itself and, one can suppose, in the first place by its political elite. On the Weberian principle that ‘die Natur der Herrschaft von den Beherrschten aus zu bestimmen ist’,78 this defines Alexander’s authority and decision­making, at least in the perception of his ‘audience’, in terms of legal power. In other words, the legitimation of Alexander’s power in Asia Minor was the result of a combination of different factors involving all three Herrschaftsformen described as Idealtypen by M. Weber. To tie up the threads of my analysis, I will close by quoting U. Gotter’s illuminating comments on the theoretical foundations of Weber’s notion of charismatic power and, more generally, of his Herrschaftssoziologie, which seem to me to apply perfectly to the picture I have reconstructed in this paper: ‘[a]nalytischer Ausgangspunkt muß die Beobachtung sein, daß die antiken Alleinherrschaften die historischen Ordnungen nicht – wie Weber es vorauszusetzen scheint – primär geprägt haben, sondern sich gewissermaßen sekundär in prinzipiell anders orientierte normative Systeme eingesetzt oder – um ein anderes Bild zu benutzen – diese Ordnungen sekundär überwölbt haben. Eine vollständige normative Reorganisation bzw. eine kompakte und widerspruchsfreie Ausrichtung an der neuen Autoritätsstruktur aber fand dadurch nicht statt…. Unter diesen Umständen mußte der Zusammenhalt der Ordnung im wesentlichen über die Figuration des Herrschers hergestellt werden: Seine zentrale Bewährung lag dauerhaft darin, verschiedene normative Subsysteme erfolgreich zu integrieren. Die spezifischen Anforderungen der Untertanen an ihren Herrscher wurden dabei von diesen in ihren jeweiligen Traditionen verhafteten Subsystemen generiert’.79

Faraguna 2003, 107–115. Gotter 2008, 174–175 and 184–185. 79 Gotter 2008, 185. 77 78

13 ALEXANDER’S TRIBUTARY EMPIRE* Andrew Monson Monarchy. It is neither descent nor legitimacy which gives monarchies to men, but the ability to command an army and to handle affairs competently. Such was the case with Philip and the Successors of Alexander. For Alexander’s natural son was in no way helped by his kinship with him, because of his weakness of spirit, while those who had no connection with Alexander became kings of almost the whole inhabited world.1 When his Companions asked him to whom he was leaving the kingship, he replied, ‘to the strongest’.2

WHAT IS LEGITIMATION?

The volume’s editors pose the question of what strategies of legitimation, if any, Alexander employed to secure his empire. Inspired by Max Weber they suppose that lasting domination (Herrschaft) requires legitimacy because compliance could never be assured by brute force. By focusing on legitimation, however, there is a risk that we understate the violence of Macedonian imperialism, usurpation, and autocracy. Even without overt coercion, illegitimate rulers arguably use incentives and fear to orchestrate disingenuous displays of acceptance that mask the true preferences of their subjects. Contemporary autocratic regimes often force subjects to witness one another as participants in outlandish spectacles and propaganda, making them complicit in dissimulation and economizing on the use of force. Triggers that

*

1 2

The author is grateful to everyone at the conference, especially to his respondents Manuela Mari and Michael Jursa, for valuable feedback on the pre-circulated paper. The organisers did a remarkable job of facilitating dialogue between contributors and improving the volume with thorough editorial criticism. Alexander Meeus, Michael Peachin, and Benjamin Straumann deserve special thanks for helpful discussions and bibliography. Souda s.v. Βασιλεία (2), trans. Austin 2007, no. 45. Arr. Anab. 7.26.3: ἐρέσθαι μὲν τοὺς ἑταίρους αὐτὸν ὅτῳ τὴν βασιλείαν ἀπολείπει, τὸν δὲ ὑποκρίνασθαι ὅτι τῷ κρατίστῳ.

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reveal a ruler’s weakness and lack of consent may cascade into revolts and revolutions, from which legitimate rulers would be immune.3 It should not surprise us that those who profited from Alexander’s empire were loyal and fought on his behalf, nor that his subjects would publicly recognise him as king to save their lives and possessions even if they did not believe he was legitimate. Drawing on political theory and fiscal sociology, I argue that Alexander had little interest in and need for legitimacy, which would entrench but also constrain his power. Had he grown old that might have changed but as long as he lived his booty and tributary revenue gave him an unprecedented degree of personal autonomy from the conventions and laws of the people he ruled. With Rodney Barker one could agree that all governments engage in endogenous self­legitimation in the sense that they make justificatory claims about their right to rule others. Napoleon’s commission of Jean-Jacques David’s famous coronation painting completed in 1807 is used as a striking example. For Barker, the message of the work is that Napoleon rules with no one’s consent: ‘He is legitimate because he legitimates himself, and the coronation is in effect a self­coronation[…]’ The ritual serves ‘to impress, not the emperor’s subjects, but the emperor himself’.4 Barker argues that endogenous self-legitimation gives expression to the ruler’s identity and sense of purpose. He deliberately brackets and ignores whether those claims also have normative validity for his subjects. Yet he concedes that ‘democracy may operate in a distinctive manner to make more likely a correspondence between the self­identification of rulers and ruled, and to make dissonance less likely’ because its leaders draw their confidence to govern from citizens.5 Autocratic, imperial and colonist regimes, by contrast, may develop triumphalist self-narratives that deliberately alienate the ruler or ruling elite from ordinary subjects. On Barker’s model, in other words, all rulers construct their identity by justifying their right to rule but this identity could be more or less constrained depending on how much they decide to adhere to the exogenous legitimating discourse of their subjects. Why would any ruler conform to what his subjects regard as legitimate instead of forming an alien self­justification for personal domination? In one of the most famous passages of ancient political theory, Polybios provides an answer by contrasting monarchy (monarchia) with kingship (basileia). Monarchy arises because human beings in the state of nature are so weak and insecure that they accept ‘by fear and force’ (φόβῳ καὶ βίᾳ) rule of whomever has the most strength and courage. Within this constitution (politeia), subjects first develop moral awareness and communicate about what is just and unjust, applying these judgements to the conduct of their monarchs. Whereas under monarchy ‘strength (ischys) is the criterion of rule’, 3

4 5

Kuran 1995; Wedeen 1999, 1–31 provides an outstanding account of these issues, arguing that ‘Asad’s cult [in Syria] is a strategy of domination based on compliance rather than legitimacy’ (6); cf. Teegarden 2013, 17–30. Barker 2001, 5. Barker 2001, 117.

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so the strongest always usurps power, kingship gradually emerges as monarchs begin to govern according to justice (dikaion), so that the people ‘join in maintaining his rule even if he is quite enfeebled by age, defending him with one consent and battling against those who conspire to overthrow his rule’ as well as the rule of his successor, even in childhood.6 Cicero would later argue along similar lines, reprising the Academic skeptic Karneades’ speeches in Rome in 155 BC, that even an empire ought to rule lawfully (ius) and with its subjects’ consent (voluntas) rather than by force (vis) and fear (terror) or else it would die an early and unnatural death.7 Aristotle had also distinguished the concepts of monarchy, kingship, and tyranny in his Rhetoric, where monarchy denotes that one is sovereign over all (hapanton kyrios) while kingship entails conformity with some order (kata taxin) and tyranny is unlimited.8 The Polybian model suggests that legitimacy protects rulers from usurpation when they lack the strength to wield power autonomously. This maps nicely onto the distinction between acceptance and legitimacy that Egon Flaig draws in his study of the Roman emperors.9 Flaig’s work elaborates on several passages of Theodor Mommsen: There was never a regime that has lost the concept of legitimacy so completely as the Augustan Principate; the rightful princeps is the one recognized by the Senate and the soldiers, and he remains so, as long as they recognize him. […] But even in this case, the popular will is not bound by the Senate’s pronouncement; rather, he is always and everywhere justified, if he proves himself to be the true will of the whole by the right of the stronger.10

Mommsen’s claim that Roman emperors ruled unconstitutionally by the right of the stronger was forgotten amid all the emphasis on legitimacy and legality in his Römisches Staatsrecht. However, it accords well with more recent appraisals of the role of the emperor.11 Just as there was not much legitimacy to protect one from usurpation, a usurper could conversely justify himself as emperor by governing effectively. That meant preventing the coordination of any opposition, masking his subjects’ true preferences, and keeping key military and political actors loyal. One can perhaps test Mommsen’s hypothesis quantitatively by comparing the incidence of premature termination of emperors’ reigns with other monarchies in world his-

6 7 8 9 10

11

Polyb. 6.4.1–3, 6.5.9–6.7.9 with Straumann forthcoming. Cicero, Rep. 3.41; Atkins 2018, 172–174. Arist. Rhet. 1.8.4; for kyrios as ‘sovereign’, see Lane 2016. Flaig 1992, 174–207. Mommsen 1873: II/2 844, 1133: ‘Es hat wohl nie ein Regiment gegeben, dem der Begriff der Legitimität so völlig abhanden gekommen wäre wie dem augustischen Principat; rechtmässiger Princeps ist der, den der Senat und die Soldaten anerkennen und er bleibt es, so lange sie ihn anerkennen. […] Auch in diesem Fall aber ist der Volkswille nicht gebunden an die Aeusserung durch den Senat; vielmehr ist er immer und überall berechtigt, wenn er als der wahrhafte Wille der Gesammtheit sich ausweist durch das Recht des Stärkeren’. The two passages were paired and discussed by Pfeilschifter 2013, 2. Flaig 1992, 184–196; Peachin 2005; Pfeilschifter 2013, 2–9.

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tory. Some preliminary calculations by Walter Scheidel suggest that being a Roman emperor was far less secure than being a monarch elsewhere even if one excludes the third century AD, where few emperors lasted more than two years. Interestingly, however, Hellenistic kings were not far behind with their short reigns and frequent usurpations, especially in the Seleukid kingdom which inherited much of Alexander’s empire.12 It would be too narrow to equate legitimacy with legality and to hold Roman emperors or Macedonian kings to the standard of constitutional monarchs. Weber’s sociological approach is more attractive. For him a legitimate order guides actions through normative beliefs, which range from traditional social conventions to formal constitutional laws: Action, especially social action which involves a social relationship, may be guided by the belief in the existence of a legitimate order. The probability that action will actually be so governed will be called the ‘validity’ of the order in question. […] To be sure, when evasion or contravention of the generally understood meaning of an order has become the rule, the order can be said to be ‘valid’ only in a limited degree and, in the extreme case, not at all. Thus for sociological purposes there does not exist, as there does for the law, a rigid alternative between the validity and lack of validity of a given order.13

Argead kings admittedly ruled by a measure of strength and mere acceptance but they were also relatively constrained by a traditional legitimate order that guided behaviour and secured consent. An assembly enjoyed some collective authority and customary freedoms; kings were called by their name as any other person; they were expected to be approachable, to feast, and to hunt with their companions.14 Lacking other means of coercion, their military and financial power was so dependent on the consensual cooperation of their Macedonian subjects that they could scarcely afford to behave autocratically by violating the legitimate order. Even with the Greeks it was expedient for Philip and Alexander to seek legitimation from the League of Korinth to obtain resources for their campaign against Persia.15 If legitimation is understood as an agreement on certain ‘rules of the game’, then Alexander by contrast had little need for legitimation as his personal power increased and his comScheidel unpublished; Chrubasik 2016, 9–10, 227–234 argues that the Seleucid kings obtained acceptance (in Flaig’s sense) but not legitimacy and were therefore extremely vulnerable to usurpation. 13 M. Weber 1956 , 16 –17 =  1 978 , 31 –32 : ‘Handeln, insbesondre soziales Handeln und wiederum insbesondre eine soziale Beziehung, können von seiten der Beteiligten an der Vorstellung vom Bestehen einer legitimen Ordnung orientiert werden. Die Chance, daß dies tatsächlich geschieht, soll “Geltung” der betreffenden Ordnung heißen. […] Wenn freilich Umgehung oder Verletzung des (durchschnittlich geglaubten) Sinn seiner Ordnung zur Regel geworden sind, so “gilt” die Ordnung eben nur noch begrenzt oder schließlich gar nicht mehr. Zwischen Geltung und Nichtgeltung einer bestimmten Ordnung besteht also für die Soziologie nicht, wie für die Jurisprudenz (nach deren unvermeidlichem Zweck) absolute Alternative.’ Cf. M. Weber 1956, 16–20, 27, 122–124 =  1978, 31–38, 50–51, 212–217. 14 Hammond 1989, 53–70; Hatzopoulos 1996b I, 261–267, 276–279; Mari in this volume. 15 Poddighe 2009, esp. 100–101 on the kings’ need for legitimation by the League. 12

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mitment to adhere to any rules became less credible. Consequently, after he usurped the Persian throne, seized its treasury, and appointed his own men as collectors of imperial tribute, the social order changed dramatically. Since Hans-Joachim Gehrke’s programmatic article in 1982 there has been a Weberian turn in studies of Hellenistic monarchy. The source of legitimacy for Alexander and his successors, according to Gehrke, was their charisma. The misunderstanding that frequently arises, however, is that rulers perform their charisma through displays of military victory and generosity with their wealth in order to impress their subjects.16 One fails to appreciate that charisma in its purest form is the transgression of an established legitimate order, overthrowing all custom, law, and tradition.17 Those who benefit from the state of affairs that the bearer of charisma creates seek its routinisation (Veralltäglichung) as a new legitimate order: It is the basic feature of this ever-recurring development that charisma is captured by the interest of all economic and social power holders in the legitimation of their possessions by a charismatic, and thus sacred, source of authority. Instead of upsetting everything that is traditional or based on legal acquisition (in the modern sense), as it does in statu nascendi, charisma becomes a legitimation for ‘acquired rights’. […] We must now go back to those economic motives mentioned above [ii.1] that largely account for the routinization of charisma: the needs of the privileged strata to ‘legitimize’ their social and economic conditions, that is, to transform them from mere resultants of power relationships into acquired rights, and hence to sanctify them.18

For Weber, in other words, charismatic legitimation refers to the entrenchment process and not to the performance of charisma. Alexander’s followers could receive sanction of their property and privileges by appealing to their king, who legitimates himself and dispenses law to his subjects by the right of the stronger. Those who benefited materially from his conquests were understandably loyal and receptive to his personal narrative of divine birth and superiority. Of the three sources of legitimacy in Weber’s typology (tradition, charisma, and rationality), charisma is the least stable because its normative validity (Geltung) relies on routinised manifestations and otherwise dissipates once its initial bearer becomes weak and dies.19 After Gehrke 1982 =  G ehrke 2013b; Gotter 2008, 176–80. M. Weber 1956, 122–124, 140–148, 555–558, 662–695 =  1978, 212–217, 241–254, 1111–1156. 18 M. Weber 1956, 670–671, 688 =  1978, 1122, 1146: ‘dies ist der Grundzug dieser typisch sich wiederholenden Entwicklung – die Interessen aller in ökonomischen oder sozialen Machtstellungen Befindlichen an der Legitimierung ihres Besitzes durch Ableitung von einer charismatischen, also heiligen, Autorität und Quelle. Statt also, seinem genuinen Sinn gemäß, allem Traditionellen oder “legitimen” Rechtserwerb Ruhenden gegenüber revolutionär zu wirken, wie in statu nascendi, wirkt es nun seinerseits gerade umgekehrt als Rechtsgrund “erworbener Rechte”. […] Wir haben jetzt auf diejenigen, schon früher berührten, ökonomischen Anlässe zurückzukommen, welche die Veralltäglichung des Charisma vorwiegend bedingen: das Bedürfnis der durch bestehende politische, soziale und ökonomische Lage “legitimiert”, d.h.: aus einem Bestande von rein faktischen Machtverhältnissen in einen Kosmos erworbener Rechte verwandelt und geheiligt zu sehen.’ 19 M. Weber 1956, 142–144, 516, 555–558, 664–666, 671–673 =  1978, 246–249, 903–904, 952–954, 1114–1117, 1121–1125. 16 17

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Alexander’s premature death, his successors continued to seek legitimation through the routinisation of a new order, fearing further defections or punishments if they violated it openly, but its weak validity increasingly invited transgressions. Gehrke rightly points out the ‘structural weakness of this type of monarchy’ and the need for ‘the adoption of rational-legal or traditional-patrimonial features, which helped to ensure stability’.20 Austin similarly observes that Hellenistic kings obtained only precarious prestige and conditional loyalty from the spoils of conquest, wealth, and generosity on which their power was based.21 Much discussed in this context is the definition of kingship (basileia) in the Byzantine-period Souda, quoted above, which is evidently derived from a Hellenistic source, where it was not necessarily intended to serve as a definition. The author observes that birth ( physis) and justice (dikaion) provided no protection to Alexander’s natural heirs and that kingship was obtained through military ability and political acumen. Gehrke suggests that this type of kingship constitutes, ‘legitimate rule according to the notions of antiquity’.22 In the same vein, Gotter credits this author with a performative theory of kingship, in which kings must publicly exhibit charismatic qualities to actual or potential subjects to establish their legitimacy and thereby secure their rule.23 Similarly, Caneva claims that in the Hellenistic period, ‘[a] king would be classed as legitimate […] by his ability to lead an army and sensibly administer political affairs’.24 It is doubtful, however, that this obscure text bears the weight of such interpretations as a generalizable emic theory of royal legitimation. Its rhetorical punch comes instead from its subversion of conventional wisdom. It was commonplace to inherit kingship by birth and virtually axiomatic in Greek political culture and philosophy that adherence to a just order distinguished true kingship from tyranny. The Souda author provokes the reader with the implication that Alexander’s successors ruled vast kingdoms without legitimacy. They were ‘kings’ in name but were effectively what Polybios calls ‘monarchs’ ruling by strength alone. Although military victories and generosity were trumpeted in royal courts’ self-legitimating narratives and general attempts to justify royal power, one must be cautious about reading such justificatory claims as evidence for legitimacy. A prime example is Polybios’ report of Antiochos III’s campaigns in Baktria. The historian follows a pro-Seleukid source, who patently exaggerates the king’s military achievements, claiming that they made him appear worthy of his kingship to the inhabitants of Asia and Europe.25 For obvious reasons, Polybios refers to Antiochos III as ‘king’ but his ability to provide security (asphalizein), his courage (tolme), and his industry (philoponia) recall the discussion in Book Six of ‘monarchy’, which is anterior and

20 21 22 23 24 25

Gehrke 1982, 253, 269 =  G ehrke 2013b, 79, 87; cf. Azoulay 2004, 435 =  A zoulay 2018, 271. Austin 1986, 462–463. Gehrke 1982, 253 =  G ehrke 2013b, 77. Gotter 2008, 176–177. Caneva 2016, 33. Polyb. 11.34.15 with Gehrke 1982, 254–255 =  G ehrke 2013b, 77–78.

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inferior to legitimate kingship. Even if one accepts a strong monarch’s justification that his regime furnishes certain benefits, this does not necessarily entail a moral obligation to obey his commands and protect him or his heirs when they are weak, which is precisely what legitimacy entails.26 To sum up, we may describe two models of kingship: (a) one that adheres to an exogenous legitimate order, where the kings obtain consent by respecting their subjects’ identities and normative beliefs; (b) another that relies on superior strength to assert an endogenous right to rule and self-legitimating identity, to which subjects may submit out of fear or personal advantage. Fiscal sociology, described in section two, allows us to formulate further hypotheses for why rulers might follow one model or the other but of course it can fall between these two heuristic extremes. Part three suggests that Argead kings were inclined more to the first model because they depended on the cooperation of their subjects to raise revenue and wage war. Alexander’s tributary empire led, according to section four, to a dramatic shift towards the second model. Finally, in part five, I turn to Alexander’s lavish spending, which bought him acceptance but did not confer legitimacy in any meaningful sense. It accords with his own self-narrative and his transgressive claims of divinity that elevated him above his Macedonian peers, the Greeks, and all mankind.27 Such provocations by a putatively ‘charismatic’ leader are effective because they bolster the in-group solidarity of his followers and challenge political opponents either to resist openly or to accept him anyway and thereby lose credibility as rivals. FISCAL SOCIOLOGY AND TRIBUTARY EMPIRES

Fiscal sociology refers to the study of the social implications of government income and expenditure.28 Economic sociologists, including Max Weber, have often written on aspects of state finance. Thanks to its sweeping historical scope and its prescient observations about Europe after the Great War, Joseph Schumpeter’s 1919 essay, ‘The Crisis of the Tax State’, stands out as a classic in this field. Schumpeter was concerned with earlier crises of feudal forms of domain finance and the social changes that ushered in the era of taxation. The emergent system of public finance was often what early modern writers in the German lands meant when they began Polyb. 6.5.7–9, especially the monarch’s ψυχικὴ τόλμη; cf. the τῆς ψυχῆς ἀδυναμία of Alexander’s natural son in the Souda s.v. Βασιλεία (2) (cf. supra, n. 1); for the conceptual distinction between justification and legitimacy, see Simmons 1999. 27 Hölscher in this volume. Puett 2002, 235–258 likens Alexander’s self-divinising claims to those of the First Emperor of the Qin dynasty and the Han emperor Wu, who stand out as iconoclastic and militant rulers. Similarly, the public displays of Roman generals such as Caesar and Pompey in the late Republic were, ‘häufig eine aggressive Provokation gegen die Institutionen des Staates und die Werte und Normen der Gesellschaft’, Hölscher 2004, 84. 28 For useful introductions, see Campbell 1993, 163–185; Swedberg 2003, 158–188; and the studies collected in Martin et al. 2009. 26

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to speak of the Staat as something separate from the ruler’s privy purse. The nobility acquiesced to the legitimating claims of the monarchy acting on behalf of the state (rather than the king’s personal or dynastic interests), thereby consenting to the procedural autonomy of the state.29 The autonomy of state interests or ‘reason of state’, with its ideological roots in Machiavelli and the Italian Renaissance, became embedded in normative discourse.30 The premise of fiscal sociology is that major shifts in revenue or expenditure are bound to coincide with disruptive changes for the state and society. The rising cost of warfare is the classic example because it forces the government to experiment and innovate with potentially destabilising reforms, including direct taxation and public debt. Fiscal crises could prompt revolutionary violence or major constitutional concessions. When modern historians think about fiscal crises as agents of social change, they usually have this type of crisis in mind because European states were chronically short of money and locked in struggles for military dominance. Likewise, before Alexander’s conquests, the revenue of Macedon’s royal domain was insufficient to keep up with the rising cost of warfare in the fourth century BC, which drove the process of state formation examined in the next section. One way to achieve state autonomy was for the Macedonian aristocracy to provide their consent and legitimation for the king’s public authority. As it turned out, that path to state formation was never fully realised in Macedon because Philip and above all Alexander succeeded at finding alternative sources of revenue that freed them from the need for such legitimation. A basic definition of an ‘empire’ is a large state that rules over foreign political communities.31 The term ‘tributary’ denotes a political economy based on the extraction of compulsory payments from those subjects. Size is relative but ‘largeness’ means that empires typically have few, if any, peer-polity rivals within their geopolitical area and can spread tax burdens across an extensive territory and diverse population that would find any coordinated resistance difficult. There is accordingly less pressure than in clusters of more equally matched competing states to maximise revenue and negotiate with taxpayers or concede any constitutional rights. At the same time, imperial resource extraction is highly mediated through local elites. They leverage that position to obtain land and tax privileges or to siphon away state revenue, though their status requires legitimation by the ruler or central government through a mode of communication that constitutes an imperial ideology. Due to these structural parameters, tributary empires tend to have much less revenue per capita than European tax states, as Montesquieu (a fiscal sociologist avant la lettre) Schumpeter 1976, 329–379 =  1991, 99–140; Oestreich 1969, 277–289, esp. 281–282; Reinhard 1999, 216–226, 309: ‘Die Steuerhoheit ist integrierender Bestandteil der Souveränität und Kriterium für Staatlichkeit überhaupt.’ Cf. Stollberg­Rilinger 2001, 11–19 on Luhmann’s concept of Legitimation durch Verfahren and procedural autonomy in premodern state formation. 30 Stolleis 1990, 21–36; Reinhard 1999, 106–109. 31 Doyle 1986 , 45 ; Goldstone / Haldon 2009 , 17 –18 ; Scheidel 2013 , 5 –41 , esp. 27 –30 ; Gehler / Rollinger 2014, 3–8. 29

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recognised in the eighteenth century and appears to be corroborated in recent studies.32 Over thirty years ago, Pierre Briant introduced the concept of the tributary mode of production to the study of Achaimenid Persia.33 The tributary mode was an attempt by neo­Marxists to find a substitute for Marx’s Asiatic mode, whose nineteenth-century assumptions about oriental despotism have been discredited. We now know that the rulers in the east were not sole owners of all property but they did claim extensive rights to levy taxes on agricultural land.34 For Briant, the anchor of the tributary state was an imperial centre that drew in resources from dispersed peasant communities, which constituted the primary locus of economic production. The key features of the tributary relationship were, for him, the formation of an ethno-classe dominante with shared values and ideological ties to the centre and the maintenance of political and cultural diversity within the conquered territories. The imperial framework afforded Persian military men, administrators, and the holders of gift-estates opportunities to exploit peasant production, passing on tax payments or ‘tribute’ that served as a token of submission to the Great King.35 Historical sociologists criticise Marx and neo-Marxist scholars such as Briant for failing to recognise that the state has its own interests in the economy separate from those of the ruling class.36 The Marxist historian John Haldon argues that rulers of tributary states can gain a degree of autonomy from the ruling class. It can happen, for example, when their resources are increasing and they are able to turn against the power of established elites on whom they or their predecessors formerly relied. In the long-run, however, he thinks that new elites, whom rulers must elevate and reward for their assistance, will inevitably entrench those privileges in a new legitimate order that will constrain the rulers’ successors and thereby restrict again their autonomy. He admits that the neo-Marxist tributary mode of production, even if it is consistent with the waxing and waning of autonomy, cannot predict the process, which is simply a matter of empirical research of particular historical circumstances.37 Fiscal sociology, on the other hand, helps us model the relationship between rulers and elites and identify its implications.38 MACEDON’S PUBLIC FINANCES

Philip had already used his reformed military to enhance his power within Macedonian society, raising his revenue not least by the acquisition of silver and gold 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

Montesquieu 1973, XIII ch. 12–18; Karaman / Pamuk 2010. Briant 1982b, 410–412. Wickham 1985, 166–196. Briant 1988, 2002, 388–471. Skocpol 1985; C. Tilly 1992, 10–11; Bonney 1995, 1–18, esp. 3–5. Haldon 1993. Cf. Goldstone / Haldon 2009; Haldon 2015, 346–7, 381–2.

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mines with which to exercise his personal autonomy without consent.39 Yet even in Alexander’s time there was not much qualitative difference between the king’s domain and that of his wealthiest Companions. The property that Alexander gave away to them before setting off for Asia in 334 BC included, ‘estates, villages, and the income from some hamlet or harbour’.40 When he became king in 336 BC, Alexander exempted the Macedonians from all ‘obligations except for military service’, which was clearly their most important obligation. The exemption must have been temporary because taxes reappear but they were probably limited to tolls and harbour dues.41 As leader of the Thessalian League, Philip and Alexander obtained the rights to indirect taxes and public revenue there too.42 When Philip subjected the Thracians, they had to pay tithes (dekatai) ‘to the Macedonians’.43 One finds repeatedly in epigraphical and literary sources the idea that the Macedonians collectively were recipients of tax revenue and their king was the trustee of public finances.44 In the forty-ninth book of his Philippic Histories, Theopompos gives an unflattering assessment of the Macedonian king: ‘When Philip acquired a large fortune, he didn’t just spend it fast, he tossed it out and threw it away!’ He was ‘the worst manager (oikonomos) in the world and his Companions were just as bad […]. As a soldier, he had no time to keep track of his revenue and expenditure’.45 Allowing for rhetorical exaggeration, there is no compelling reason to doubt the validity of these observations by Theopompos about Philip II’s court, where he had enjoyed the king’s patronage.46 He is possibly the original source for Justin’s statements about Philip’s character: ‘He was better at getting wealth than keeping it, and, in consequence, was always poor amidst his daily spoliations’.47 Philip financed his siege of Byzantion through piracy, capturing 170 ships and selling the cargos, and then led a raid against the Scythians, which epitomises his whole approach to finance, seeking plunder so that, ‘according to the practice of traders, he might make up the costs of one war by the profits of another’.48 Alexander was no less a risk-taker than his father. In his speech at Opis, other writers tell us, he claimed that Philip had left him only 40 talents in the treasury

39

40 41 42 43

44 45 46 47 48

Diod. 16.8.6–7; mining revenue was not necessarily a state monopoly in the classical period since some of the richest Athenians drew revenue from Thracian mines: Her. 1.64.1; Thuc. 4.105.1; Marc. Vit. Thuc. 19; cf. Sears 2013, 5, 56–58, 66, 96–97. Plut. Alex. 15. Just. Epit. 11.1.10; cf. Berve 1926 I, 307 n. 3; see the discussion of Arr. Anab. 1.16.5 below. Just. Epit. 11.3.2; for this public revenue, cf. Xen. Hell. 6.1.12, 19. Diod. 16.71.2; they were perhaps agricultural taxes, Faraguna 1998, 373, but cf. the dekatai paid to Cersebleptes in Dem. 23.177, which translators render as ‘ten-percent customs duties’ (J. H. Vince) or simply ‘tolls’ (E. M. Harris). Hatzopoulos 1996b I, 431–432. Ath. 4.167a. Flower 1994, 17–21, 114, 193. Just. Epit. 9.8.15. Just. Epit. 9.1.

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and 400 talents of unpaid debts.49 Technically, he was bankrupt, but it is unlikely that Alexander’s creditors wanted to see him fail or dared to call in the loans. He borrowed an additional 800 talents to launch his campaign in Asia.50 When Plutarch writes that Alexander gave away his property to his Companions before his departure, it probably refers to collateral for this personal debt.51 There is no evidence that it was a true public debt secured with tax revenue, as in some Greek city-states.52 Perdikkas asked Alexander what he is leaving for himself. ‘My hopes’, he replied, inspiring him and a few others to return what Alexander had given to them.53 Perdikkas was right to trust Alexander’s credit since he was about to win him a huge return on investment! Borrowing money could also ensure loyalty. In 317 BC, when the Greek general Eumenes suspected some Macedonian satraps of plotting against him, he borrowed enormous sums of money from them. His motive recalls an American proverb: ‘if you owe the bank a hundred thousand dollars, the bank owns you, but if you owe the bank a hundred million, you own the bank’.54 Whatever motive Philip and Alexander had, their ability to borrow from their Companions shows that they were all mutually invested in the project of conquest, making warfare a collaborative venture. When the outlook for voluntary loans looked poor, a passage of Arrian suggests that the king had recourse to emergency tax levies on property. Here too there is surely an element of consent and even an expectation of return on the part of the Macedonians. One could draw the same conclusion about the analogous levy of tributum of the early Roman Republic. It was an investment in a collective endeavour with prospective benefits to the taxpayers, even though the state had no legal obligation to repay it as it would a formal loan.55 The passage in question is where Arrian tells us about the honours granted to the families of Macedonian soldiers who died in battle at the Granikos river in 334 BC: Alexander buried them the next day with their arms and other accoutrements; to their parents and children he gave them fiscal immunity from taxes in the country and from all other personal services and from levies on the properties of each person.56

49

50 51 52 53 54

55 56

Plut. Alex. 15.2 cites Aristoboulos (70 talents in treasury), Douris (only thirty days of supplies), Onesikritos (200 talents in debt); Curt. 10.2.24 and Arr. Anab. 7.9.6: 60 talents in treasury, 500 in debt. Arr. Anab. 7.9.6. Hatzopoulos 1996b I, 436. For the security of Greek public debt, see Migeotte 1984, 381, 389–392. Plut. Alex. 15. Graeber 2014, 1; Plut. Eum. 13.6: ‘The upshot was that the wealth of others was his shield, and whereas men generally give money to ensure their safety, he managed the unique feat of gaining security by taking it’ (trans. R. Waterfield). RE s.v. tributum und tributus, 1–4; Nicolet 1976, 19–26; Tan 2017, 93–117. Arr. Anab. 1.16.5.

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The phrase ‘levies on the properties of each person’ (κατὰ τὰς κτήσεις ἑκάστων εἰσφοραί) recalls the eisphora or property tax on the wealthy in Athens. Bosworth even postulates that the Athenian politician Kallistratos might have introduced it to Macedon when he advised King Perdikkas in 361 BC how to increase his profits from the harbour tax.57 Hatzopoulos argues that these eisphorai were import-export duties or sales taxes, translating kteseis as ‘acquired goods’, but this is unconvincing because the terms strongly imply direct levies on moveable or immovable property.58 The language is the same in a decree of the Macedonian queen Kleopatra VII, who levied extraordinary taxes (eisphorai) in times of emergencies on agricultural properties in Egypt.59 Such property taxes require considerable cooperation and consent to enforce, which is why city-states are best at raising them and why they are usually limited to emergencies, though they are by no means limited to the Greek poleis.60 Aristotle implies that democracies were especially prone to levy property taxes (eisphorai) on the rich but he takes it for granted that even oligarchical Sparta should and would do so under extraordinary circumstances: The public finance of Sparta is also badly regulated: when compelled to carry on wars on a large scale she has nothing in the state treasury, and the Spartiates pay war taxes (eisphorai) badly because, as most of the land is owned by them, they do not scrutinize each other’s contributions.61

I suspect that one could substitute Macedon and Macedonians in this passage and arrive at the same conclusion. The king may have periodically asked the Companions for contributions in proportion to their property but would have had no means to ensure an accurate assessment. In Athens, by contrast, the earliest eisphorai were probably based on Solonic property classes, which ensured that those who bore the burden also held the distinguished offices and had an incentive to report their income. After 379 there was a general valuation of agricultural properties in Attica and only the richest landowners paid the tax.62 To the extent that the demos depended on property taxes and loans from wealthy citizens (rather than mines, indirect taxes, or tribute from allies), they could leverage that role rhetorically to protect their property rights and even to expand their influence as benefactors and caretakers of the fiscal administration on behalf of the demos. 57 58 59 60 61 62

Bosworth 1980b, 126; for Kallistratos, see [Arist.] Oec. 2.2.22, Dem. [50].46, with Lane Fox 2011a, 266–267. Hatzopoulos 1996b I, 439–440, followed by Lane Fox 2011b, 367–391, esp. 377–378; for kteseis as landed estates, LSJ s.v. κτῆσις, e.g. Dion. Hal. 8.19.5; cf. nn. 59 and 74 below. C.Ord.Ptol. 75–76; Bingen 1995, 206–218; Monson 2012, 182–183. 2 Kgs 23:35 records a levy of gold and silver based on an assessment of wealth in Jerusalem in 609 BC. Arist. Pol. 1271b.11–15, trans. H. Rackham; Plato Rep. 551e likewise identifies the reluctance to levy eisphorai as a defect of oligarchy. Van Wees 2013, 84–97; Migeotte 2014, 467–468, 518–524, 565–571.

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Extraordinary direct taxes on property are a widely attested element in the fiscal repertoire of Greek city states, so it is not surprising that the Macedonian kings tried to imitate them.63 Mende in the Chalkidike abolished taxes thanks to its large mining revenues but kept a registry of houses and agricultural estates in the event of emergencies.64 Amidst a fiscal crisis in Egypt, Ptolemaios IV ordered all of his subjects, Greek and Egyptian, to submit declarations in 209/208 BC of their houses and pay a tax proportionate to the value. It was probably a failure because the experiment was never repeated and was soon followed by the great Theban revolt.65 Ptolemaios VI instituted levies (eisphorai) on the agricultural estates of the Macedonian military settlers (katoikoi), which was a lump sum of grain partitioned among them as a land tax. It proved difficult for the state to collect and, most remarkably of all, the katoikoi were able to bargain collectively to reduce some obligations.66 Kleopatra VII’s levies, mentioned above, required harshly worded threats to high­ranking officials, who were liable for arrears, and drew the ire of Alexandrian citizens whose exemption for their country estates was sometimes ignored.67 Without the cooperation of the taxpayers, as in a Greek city-state like Mende or in Rome’s republic, such experiments were probably doomed to failure but the fact that the kings even tried shows that their needs were acute enough to risk a backlash. Comparisons with late medieval and early modern Europe suggest that citystates where taxpayers or their representatives participated in government were the most successful at raising property taxes and public loans. These institutions were pioneered by the small communes of medieval Italy, but northern European kings took notice just as the Macedonians did of Greek innovations.68 In Plantagenet England, an extraordinary levy on the value of moveable property became the mainstay of taxation in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries whenever the revenue of the royal demesne was insufficient. It strengthened the bargaining power of the nobility and the cities, leading to the formation of parliament, which had to approve such taxes to facilitate their assessment.69 Similar attempts elsewhere in Europe were less successful before the early modern period owing to protracted conflicts between rulers and the nobility. In the long run, states in western Europe based on public law and constitutional government that legitimised taxation and sovereign borrowing fostered not only higher economic growth but on top of that also greater fiscal

63 64 65 66 67 68 69

Migeotte 2014, 278–82; cf. Jones 1940, 244; e.g. Teos and Lebedos (RC 3–4; Syll.3 344). [Arist.] Oec. 2.2.21. Armoni 2012, 215 n. 153. P.Lips. II 124 (ca. 137 BC); Monson 2012, 179–181; cf. Monson 2016. BGU VIII 1760 (51/50 BC) with Monson 2012, 181–182; see n. 58 above. Mainoni 2007. Harriss 1975.

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capacities per capita and lower borrowing costs than the tributary empires of the east.70 To avoid compromise with elites’ legitimating identity, rulers tend to seek alternative revenue sources, especially indirect taxes or tribute from conquered peoples. In the passage quoted above, where Arrian describes the honours awarded to the families of Macedonian soldiers who died at Granikos, they received ‘fiscal immunity from taxes in the countryside’ (τῶν τε κατὰ τὴν χώραν ἀτέλειαν).71 Contrary to modern scholarly opinion, Arrian was very likely referring to indirect taxes.72 The phrase ‘taxes on land (κατὰ γῆν τέλη) and on sales (agoraia)’ appears in another text, where the former must refer to tolls.73 Philip and Alexander granted plots to soldiers as fully alienable properties, whose products were subject to import and export duties. Kassandros confirmed (ca. 305–297 BC) the rights of one of them on the same terms and granted ‘fiscal immunity (ateleia) to him and his descendants to import and export any of the things on his property (ktesis)’.74 He gave another Macedonian estate holder, ‘fiscal immunity for himself and his descendants on imports and exports, sales and purchases except for trading purposes’.75 Besides collecting indirect taxes, the conquered Thracians and the Thessalian perioikoi owed tithes or tribute to the Macedonian state.76 Such revenues imply some public authority and state capacity but royal power still depended largely on the king’s agricultural domain, mines, and personal credit rather than direct taxation and public debt.

70

71

72

73

74

75 76

See n. 32; Karaman / Pamuk 2010, 615 show that the low fiscal capacity of the Ottoman empire holds even when one controls for economic development in Europe; cf. Wickham 1985, 184– 185. Arr. Anab. 1.16.5. The phrase κατὰ τὴν χώραν appears commonly in Ptolemaic papyri with the meaning ‘in the interior’ as opposed to Alexandria; e.g. BGU I 1211.2 =  Sel. Pap. II 208 (3rd cen. BC). Previous scholars have held that they were either direct taxes on all land (Lane Fox 2011b, 377–378) or rents on royal land (Berve 1926 I, 307; Hatzopoulos 1996b I, 437; Faraguna 1998, 373; Holt 2016, 51); Bosworth 1980b, 126 and Millett 2010, 491 find either of those solutions plausible. [Arist.] Oec. 2.1.4; Böckh 1886, 370; van Groningen 1933, 39; Aperghis 2004, 126; Zoeffel 2006, 553–554; Chankowski 2007, 308; Pernin 2007, 375. The preposition is revealing: to describe taxes from agriculture the same author writes τῶν προσόδων ἀπὸ γῆς ([Arist.] Oec. 2.1.4) and ἀπὸ τῆς γῆς (…) τέλη ([Arist.] Oec. 2.2.21), while we find kata in an inscription about tolls (τέλεα κατὰ τὰς ὁδούς) in Thrace from the 350s BC (SEG 43.486.20–21); cf. νόμος τέλους Ἀσίας εἰσαγωγῆς καὶ ἐξαγωγῆς κατά τε γῆν καὶ κατὰ θάλασσαν in the customs law of Asia (Cottier et al. 2008), line 7. SEG 36.626; for translation and discussion, see Thonemann 2009, 364–366; Errington 1998, 78–79 thinks fiscal immunity was part of the original grants by Philip and Alexander; for import/ export duties on the products of landed estates (kteseis), see e.g. I.Milet I.3 no. 149, § 9, ll. 39–44. SEG 47.940; see most recently Boehm 2018, 111; the association of the import/export duties with the sales taxes in this text corroborates the meaning of [Arist.] Oec. 2.1.4 in n. 73. Diod. 16.71.2; Xen. Hell. 6.1.19 suggests that the tagos of Thessaly traditionally received tribute from the perioikoi (cf. Just. Epit. 11.3.2); Migeotte 2014, 399 notes the lack of evidence for Macedonian tribute on Greek cities.

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ALEXANDER’S IMPERIAL FINANCES

As fiscal crises go, Alexander’s windfall of 180,000 talents in 331/330 BC was not a bad problem to have. One normally thinks of crises as being driven by acute demand for revenue rather than an excessive surplus but the consequences for the Macedonian state and society were no less dramatic. Added to the treasure from royal palaces as well as countless slaves, cattle, silver, gold, and other moveable goods seized along the way, Alexander took control of the Persian fiscal administration, which allocated land rights and generated staggering sums of tax revenue each year.77 With this great wealth, Alexander’s power became completely independent of contributions from the Macedonian aristocracy and troop levies from the Greek cities of the League of Korinth. Alexander’s announcement at Ephesus in 334 BC that all Greeks would be exempt from taxes (aphorologetos) underscores his willingness to find alternative sources of revenue to avoid having to seek legitimation from a powerful group within his army; when taxpayers can coordinate, rulers must appease them. There is no evidence that the cities in Asia Minor were admitted to the League of Korinth, where they might exercise a formal legitimising role.78 Although many were compelled to contribute lump-sum payments (syntaxeis) as ‘allies’ of his campaign, analogous to the League’s troop levies, the financial benefits were genuine and syntaxis was not just a euphemism for phoros.79 The phoroi, from which the Greeks were to be aphorologetos, were taxes paid by individuals, especially direct taxes on landholdings.80 Recipients of gift estates in the Achaimenid and Hellenistic periods were assessed phoroi on their landholdings. The best-known case is the estate of Mnesimachos, where the phoroi were based on an assessment probably already in the Achaimenid period and were equal to one twelfth of the estate’s assessed value.81 More problematic is the estate of Krateuas known from an inscription dating to 324 BC near the end of Alexander’s reign because it mentions phoroi in money charged on his orchards but not on the arable land. Thonemann infers from this inscription that phoroi on the Mnesimachos estate were likewise only taxes on gardens and orchards and argues that the rest would have been taxed in kind at some

77

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80 81

Berve 1926 I, 311–317; Holt 2016, 44–94, 181–185; Just. Epit. 13.1.19 claims an annual revenue of 30,000 talents but is, like all figures found in the Alexander historians and cited in this section, to be treated with skepticism. For a different view, see Badian 1966 and Lehmann 2015a, 109–113; cf. Faraguna, this volume, n. 1. Bosworth 1980b, 280–281 is probably right that syntaxis was a lump-sum payment (on Aspendos, see below) but methods of raising the sum presumably varied and repartition as direct tax is possible; cf. Sherwin­White 1985, 85–86 for the dubious identification of syntaxis with phoros. Schuler 2007 for phoroi as a variety of taxes rather than tribute, including taxes on agricultural land. Descat 1985.

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standard and therefore unmentioned rate. This hypothesis is untenable because the entire estate, including arable land, was mortgaged and its value was the basis for phoroi.82 Arrian tells us that the inhabitants of Hellespontine Phyrgia paid phoroi, which could indicate any number of royal taxes including those from agriculture.83 After the decree at Ephesos non-Greeks would continue to pay those taxes to the satrapal administration or, if the land was within civic territory, to the corresponding polis but they should not as a rule be extended to Greeks.84 Alexander clarified the policy with an edict about the Greeks of Naulochon within the territory of Priene, who should be exempt from phoroi just as Prienian citizens, except on landholdings located within a few named villages that he claimed as royal land.85 The most revealing case is the Greek city of Aspendos, which Alexander asked only for a lump sum to support his campaign, including the horses it used to supply Dareios as tribute (dasmos), but when it refused he conquered the city and subordinated it to the satrapal fiscal administration, which entailed paying phoroi to the Macedonians.86 Although satrapal taxes were not seen as rents of Alexander’s personal estate, there was little the Macedonians could do to hold their king accountable and not much urgency to do so as long as they were paid mostly by foreign subjects of his tributary empire. Alexander appointed Harpalos as treasurer, a Macedonian unfit for military service who had been exiled by Philip along with Alexander’s friends in the Pixodaros affair of 336 BC but recalled when Alexander became king. He could be counted as a loyal servant to Alexander despite his mysterious absence in 333–331 BC and may have been complicit in Alexander’s murder of Parmenion in Ekbatana in 330 BC. His downfall in 323 BC and flight from Babylon was part of a wider purge (see below).87 Antimenes of Rhodes may have replaced him since he was able to issue orders to the satraps about runaway slaves and the maintenance of storehouses on royal roads; he is also known for reviving the import duty in Babylonia.88 At five points along the campaign, Arrian describes Alexander’s appointment 82 83 84

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Thonemann 2009; see also Faraguna in this volume. Arr. Anab. 1.17.1. According to Syll.3 279 (334/333 BC) when the citizens of Zeleia in Hellespontine Phrygia recovered their akropolis in the wake of the Macedonian conquest, they reclaimed the civic territory (choria demosia), part of which was cultivated by non-citizen Phrygians who paid phoroi: Corsaro 1984; Migeotte 2014, 129. This is similar to Alexander’s decisions with respect to the civic territory of Philippoi and the adjacent royal land in 335 BC, on which Thracians were subject to phoroi to him, SEG 34.664 =  H atzopoulos 1996b II, no. 6 =  P ilhofer 2009, no. 160a, with Faraguna 1998 and in this volume. I.Priene 1 with Thonemann 2013; royal land may simply denote a fiscal status without any indication of the possessors’ legal rights of tenure, as in Hellenistic Egypt (cf. Monson 2012, 76–77). Arr. Anab. 1.26.3, 1.27.4. Berve 1926 II, 75–80 (no. 143); Heckel 2006, 129–131; Badian 1961 =  2012, 58–95; for his first flight, cf. Kingsley 1986. [Arist.] Oec. 2.2.34, 2.2.38; Berve 1926 II, 44–5 (no. 89); Heckel 2006, 34–5.

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of additional fiscal officers at or above the level of the satrapy: Nikias in Lydia; Kleomenes in Egypt; Koiranos in Phoinikia, Kilikia, and Koile-Syria; Philoxenos in Asia Minor west of the Tauros; and Asklepiodoros in Babylonia.89 Some scholars argue that the fiscal officers were an innovation of Alexander intended to check the power of his satraps and to centralise the tax system.90 This is possible but we know too little about the Achaimenid administration to be sure; Xenophon claims that Kyros had already separated the fiscal and military hierarchy.91 All of Alexander’s eastern mints were set up in satrapies under one of these fiscal officers, so he may have taken special precautions there.92 Other satraps controlled their own finances.93 Arrian describes the duties of each fiscal officer in almost identical terms: he was to assess and collect the phoroi.94 Sometime after 323 BC, a peripatetic author composed a practical guide for such administrators, including an extensive list of satrapal revenues that explains what Arrian meant by phoroi; first and foremost was the revenue from agricultural land.95 Alexander probably cared little about administrative efficiency and did not need to maximise his revenue. He did, however, have an interest in keeping revenue collection in the monetised regions of his empire out of the generals’ hands if possible. The persons he appointed were Greeks from outside the military structure, who owed their position entirely to him, and two Macedonians (Philoxenos and Koinaros), to whom he had already entrusted the treasury while Harpalos was away.96 Perhaps the former were chosen for the kind of fiscal expertise that Macedonian warriors lacked.97 Alexander’s empire was a framework of tributary extraction that enriched many people besides the king. Antimenes’ order to the satraps about runaway slaves is a case in point: private owners of slaves could register them for a fee to enjoy the 89

90 91

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94 95 96

97

Berve 1926 II, 88, 210–211, 219, 389–390 (nos. 89, 169, 431, 441, 793); Heckel 2006, 58, 88–89, 93, 220. It is doubtful whether Menes son of Dionysios replaced Koiranos as Berve 1926 II, 257, no. 507, thought; cf. Heckel 2006, 319 n. 427 with earlier literature. Berve 1926 I, 313–319; Griffith 1964. Debord 1999, 167–169 relies on Xen. Cyr. 8.1.13–14 to show continuity but in this fictional context Xenophon could be presenting his own ideal government, which may have influenced Alexander. Berve 1926 I, 318–319; Le Rider 2003. Arr. Anab. 1.17.1 for Hellespontine Phrygia; Arr. Anab. 3.6.8 for Phoinikia before the appointment of Koiranos; unsurprisingly, after Alexander’s death, satraps such as Eumenes in Cappadocia (Plut. Eum. 3.6–7, 4.1–3) and Seleukos in Babylonia (Diod. 19.55.3) were fully in control of finances. Arr. Anab. 1.17.7, 3.5.4, 3.6.4, 3.16.4. [Arist.] Oec. 2.1.4, cf. 2.1.7 for its intended use by fiscal officials of the satrapal and city administration. Nikias was a Greek to judge by his name, Kleomenes a Greek from the Egyptian trading emporium of Naukratis, and Antimenes a Rhodian, to whom one may add Ophellas of Olynthos, another Greek official in Egypt ([Arist.] Oec. 2.2.35), while nothing is known of Asklepiodoros’ background; references in n. 89. Ath. 4.167a (quoted above) on Macedonians as bad oikonomoi; for Greek fiscal expertise, see Davies 2004.

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added convenience and security of having the state hunt them down or pay compensation if they escaped. The army’s booty from stolen goods and slaves must have been enormous, flooding the market with cheap labour and commodities for those who could buy them. The treasuries of Babylon, Sousa, and Persepolis with allegedly as much as 180,000 talents in silver were merely the most spectacular instances of plunder.98 As we shall see in the next section, Alexander was generous in spending or giving away his wealth but also allowed those entrusted with imperial administration, his satraps and fiscal officers, to profit enormously. When Alexander returned from India in 324 BC, he undertook an extensive purge: eight of twenty-two known satraps were removed, six of whom were executed, while four others died and five more were summoned to his court. The official explanation for removals and executions was that these men were corrupt and exploited the people in their satrapies. Yet Kleomenes of Naukratis, who had gone from fiscal officer to satrap of Egypt, committed what were said to be much graver acts of oppression and Alexander took no action against him.99 Arrian writes disapprovingly that Alexander was willing to ignore the Egyptians’ complaints because Kleomenes was instrumental in building the lavish hero shrines ‘of unparalleled size and splendour, with no expense spared’ for his deceased friend Hephaistion, whom the oracle of Zeus-Ammon permitted to be honoured as a demigod.100 Alexander’s victims in previous purges and bouts of anger (Philotas and Parmenion, Kleitos the Black, Kallisthenes) were vocal opponents of his divinisation and changes in court protocol, which established unconventional social distance between him and his Companions. Perhaps Kleomenes knew that unstinting support, even for Alexander’s wildest projects and pretentions, was the best way to legitimise his own lucrative position within the tributary empire. Accusations of malfeasance may of course have been fanned by Ptolemaios after he killed him in 323 BC but he certainly controlled vast sums of money and dictated fiscal orders without oversight.101 Harpalos escaped the purge of 324 BC with a group of mercenaries and fled with a large part of the treasury to Athens. He had lived large in Babylon during Alexander’s absence. Badian’s argument about him rings true but cannot be proved: Harpalos fled and the other satraps were removed not because Alexander had a sudden urge for efficient government but because Alexander began to fear the group that had helped him murder Parmenion, including the leader of the troops who mutinied at the Hyphasis, Koinos and his brother, who were probably associates of Harpalos.102 On the other hand, a rational Alexander, wishing to preserve stability, might Holt 2016, 68–94. Badian 1961, 16–19 =  2012, 58–61. 100 Arr. Anab. 7.23. 101 For his financial tricks, see [Arist.] Oec. 2.2.33, 2.2.39; Diod. 18.14.1 tells us he left 8,000 talents in the treasury. 102 Badian 1961, 19 –25 =  2 012 , 61 –66; cf. Plut. Dem. 25 claims that Harpalos fled partly because of his shameful deeds and partly out of fear of the king, ‘who had by now turned against his friends.’ 98 99

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have wished to address complaints of local elites and ease the burden laid on them by his officials. One of the basic structural features of tributary empires, as we saw in section three, is their low per capita revenue as a result of the elite’s mediating role between state and economy; raising taxes only increases instability. Whether he was moving to stabilise his empire financially or was simply paranoid of conspiracies, events point to the same conclusion from the perspective of fiscal sociology. Quite unlike the old kingdom of Macedon, Alexander’s demand for revenue was low, so he had to make few concessions to anyone, and nothing but poison could stop him from behaving autocratically. LEGITIMATION AND EXPENDITURE

In light of his fiscal autonomy, we can now revisit the question raised in the introduction: did Alexander need legitimacy or could he rule by right of the stronger? The former implies that his actions were governed by his belief in a legitimate order shared by his subjects, for example, by the traditions of Macedonian or Persian kingship or by the legal validity of the League of Korinth. If Alexander was not concerned about the conformity of his actions with law and convention, then it is no wonder that his closest philosophical associates as king were Cynics such as Onesikritos.103 When, in a drunken rage, Alexander killed his friend Kleitos the Black, who had hurled insults about his supposed divinity, the sophist Anaxarchos ridiculed his grief and reassured him that Zeus has Justice and Right seated beside him ‘to ensure that every action performed by anyone in a position of authority is right and just’.104 Alexander had experienced another kind of remorse in 331 after allowing his soldiers to burn and plunder the palace of Persepolis. It was, as Badian observes, ‘an action that must have annihilated any chance he might have had of having the legitimacy of his Kingship recognized by the Persian nobility and far beyond their circle’.105 The sack of Persepolis contrasts with the precautions Alexander took to protect the tomb of Kyros and the expense of restoring it after its desecration.106 All this was arguably an expression of his own identity. He would have known Xenophon’s Kyroupaideia, on which Onesikritos later modelled his Education of Alexander.107 After Kyros, Xenophon tells us, the empire degenerated.108 Alexander would have seen confirmation of this in the series of palace coups orchestrated by the eunuch

103 104 105 106 107 108

Onesikritos is perhaps the source for Alexander’s famous quip, ‘If I were not Alexander, I would be Diogenes’ (Plut. Mor. 331e–332d, Alex. 14). Plut. Alex. 52; cf. Arr. Anab. 4.9.7–8. Badian 1996 =  2012, 374. Arr. Anab. 6.29; Curt. 10.1.10–35. Diog. Laer. 6.84; cf. Heckel 2006, 323 n. 487. Xen. Cyr. 8.8.1–27.

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Bagoas, which eventually brought Dareios III to the throne in 336 BC.109 Achaimenid legitimacy as a criterion for kingship had been weakened, which possibly made it easier for Alexander to win acceptance from the nobles and magi out of fear or expediency. Yet he was plainly an illegitimate usurper himself, who could rule by the right of the stronger because those who accepted him as king hoped for his mercy or favours. He was therefore more like Kyros himself, the revolutionary founder of a new empire, than he was the ‘last of the Achaimenids’. Since his reign was so short, one cannot exclude the possibility that Alexander would have increasingly adhered to the legitimating identity of his subjects for security in old age and continuation of his dynasty.110 However, the so-called ‘New Achaimenid History’ goes too far by insisting on continuity across the Assyrian, Neo-Babylonian, Persian, and Macedonian empires, where each new dynasty supposedly sought legitimation by adhering to their predecessors’ religious and royal ideology. In the famous Kyros Cylinder, Babylon’s priests praise Kyros as a legitimate king who respects the Esangila temple and is welcomed by Marduk.111 As Caroline Waerzeggers convincingly shows, however, the priests merely aspired to have Kyros behave in the prescribed manner, while he and his successors had no need for legitimation on their terms. They largely ignored Babylon and the duties of a Babylonian king, choosing instead to fashion a distinctive Achaimenid imperial ideology as an endogenous self-legitimation of their right to rule. Babylonian scribes employed historicising literary subterfuges to express their true preferences about Persian autocracy and empire, which were masked in official communications for the king but emerged with sudden violence in the revolts under Dareios and Xerxes.112 Likewise, it is not surprising that Persians at Alexander’s court, eager to curry favour with him, offered proskynesis before the usurper. Venerating him with the trappings of legitimate kingship served their own purpose, as they needed legitimation from him for social privileges that would otherwise be lost in a revolution. Alexander, on the other hand, reinterpreted the gesture from his own transgressive and self-legitimating perspective as a divine honour, which he craved because it confirmed his superiority over mankind: since his youth he had modelled his image and life-narrative on heroic demigods who could not be judged by human morality.113 Such actions are no more evidence that he sought legitimation from them than are the Egyptian depictions of Alexander as pharaoh. The priesthood of Egypt needed a legitimate pharaoh to confirm the order of the world and mediate with the gods to sanctify cult ritual and legitimise the temple endowments.114 Significantly, 109 110 111 112 113 114

Diod. 17.5–6; Just. Epit. 10.1–3. Cf. Jursa in this volume. Translation in Kuhrt 2007, 70–74. Waerzeggers 2015b. Badian 2012, 373–5; Hölscher in this volume; on Alexander’s divinity, see below. Schäfer 2014, 159–163 recognises it but both she and S. Pfeiffer 2014, 104–107 assume that his actions were guided by their criteria of legitimacy.

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he never underwent a coronation ceremony in either the Egyptian or the Persian tradition.115 Such an act, depending on how it was staged, would be either a mockery and an affront (if he crowned himself king in their sacred precincts) or an acknowledgement in public that his legitimacy was contingent on a foreign religious or legal power that was superior to him.116 The closest he came to a Persian ‘coronation’ was the mass wedding at Sousa and it was an affront. Alexander took Dareios III’s daughter as his wife, while giving the daughters of Persian nobles to his Companions. What is remarkable is the passivity or utter absence of the Persian men. Alexander provides the dowry for each woman, as if he were the father giving his own daughters to his men. Dareios’ brother Oxyatres presumably had no say in Alexander’s decision to give his daughter Amastrine to Krateros, nor Atropates that his daughter went to Perdikkas, nor Artabazos, Spitamenes, and eighty other Persian and Median nobles.117 It was a marriage alliance not between the Persian and Macedonian nobility but between Alexander as King of Asia and his Companions. The expense of this pageant was considerable, especially when one adds that he provided wedding gifts and legal sanction for all of his soldiers’ marriages with Iranian women. Again, the fathers and brothers of these women are conspicuously absent. How they felt about these mixed marriages, much less how the women themselves felt about them, is anyone’s guess but our sources probably understate the violence and coercion of the conquering Macedonians. That leaves us to consider Alexander’s supposed need for legitimation from the Macedonians and Greeks. Shortly after he burned down Persepolis, Alexander dismissed the army of the League of Korinth, inviting the Greeks to enrol as mercenaries. It would no longer play any role in legitimating his leadership and the Greeks who served him, attracted by his wealth as much as his charisma, would be loyal to him personally. Later Alexander was guilty of violations of Greek freedom and autonomy, notably with his Exiles’ Decree of 324 BC.118 To argue that he proclaimed his divinity in order that Greeks would perceive such acts as legitimate is misleading.119 Alexander’s self-divinisation was transgressive and asserted an endogenous right to command, which by no means adhered to their legitimating identities. The power relations were precisely the opposite. The decision of cities to award divine honours to Alexander was probably motivated at least in part to promote peaceful and beneficial relations with him. There was opposition to these measures but even 115

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Arrian, Plutarch, Diodoros, and Curtius Rufus would not have failed to mention an Egyptian coronation, if there had been one, while Ps.-Kallisthenes, Alexander Romance 1.34.1, is an anachronistic scene of the later Nektanebo novel; the first attested coronation in Memphis (of Ptolemy V) was possibly fabricated for the occasion: see Burstein 1991 and Stadler 2012, 61–62, 68–70. Badian 2012, 376–378 imaginatively supposes that Alexander pondered a Persian coronation but hesitated because he knew that it would be resented by Persians and Macedonians alike. Arr. Anab. 7.4.4–8. Diod. 18.8.4; Poddighe 2009, 117–120. Tarn 1948, 370–373; Berve 1926 I, 234; Heckel 2008, 147–148; cf. Badian 2012, 379–380.

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Demosthenes scornfully conceded, if Alexander wishes, ‘let him be the son of Zeus and of Poseidon too’.120 Alexander heaped the largest share of treasure on his army, for which he might expect gratitude and obedience but not legitimacy. If the ability to buy off opposition counts as legitimation for modern scholars, then the concept is only as deep as the king’s (or the usurper’s) pockets. Since 331 BC Alexander had begun to wear a modified Persian royal costume and encouraged his Macedonian Companions and Greek subjects to perform the act of proskynesis in flagrant violation of their social conventions. As Diodoros writes, ‘many criticized him for these things, but he pacified them with gifts’.121 At the Sousa wedding or around that time, he paid off the debts of all his soldiers allegedly at a cost of 9,870 talents.122 After the mutiny at Opis, he paid his departing army’s wages with a bonus of one talent per man for an estimated total of over 10,000 talents.123 Historians of Alexander used the mutiny at Opis and his speech there as the literary climax of his transgression of the legitimate order of Macedonian kingship.124 Anger boiled over at the elevation of Persians to high ranks and the creation of infantry and cavalry units of barbarian epigonoi trained in Macedonian warfare. Alexander did not flinch: he turned his back on his men, threatening to cut them out of the spoils and glory of his tributary empire and to govern henceforth with his Persian Companions. His speech extols how he and Philip brought the Macedonians from poverty to wealth and, playing on the traditional view of the king as trustee of their revenue, he suggests that kings who enrich them ought to be irreproachable for their behaviour. Upon hearing the speech, the Macedonians surrendered to him unconditionally. At the ensuing banquet, he issued his famous prayer of reconciliation for ‘unity of purpose between Macedonians and Persians and a partnership in empire’.125 It was a partnership that prevented any group from exercising limits on his autocratic power.126 Bestowing favours, just as using violence, can be legitimate or illegitimate depending on the motives and social context, so it cannot be a source of legitimacy in its own right. Vincent Azoulay identifies in Xenophon’s ethical writing an acknowledgement that the legitimate favour (charis) easily metamorphises into an act of corruption or a disenchanted monetary compensation (misthos) that serves to manipulate people and undermine aristocratic values. Xenophon’s exemplary rulers such as Kyros obtained their extraordinary political influence by giving favours. 120 121 122 123 124 125 126

Hyp. 5.31; cf. Din. 1.94. Diod. 17.78.1. Plut. Alex. 70.3, Curt. 10.2.9–11; cf. Arr. Anab. 7.5.3 and Just. Epit. 12.11.3 (20,000 talents); Holt 2016, 15, 124–127. Arr. Anab. 7.12.1; Plut. Alex. 71.8; Diod. 17.109.2; cf. the large sums paid in 329 BC, Arr. Anab. 3.29.5, Curt. 7.5.43. Arr. Anab. 7.8–11; Curt. 10.2.8–4.3; Diod. 17.108.3, 109.1; Just. Epit. 12.11.5–12.7; Plut. Alex. 71. Arr. Anab. 7.11.9. Bosworth 1980a.

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For Azoulay this leads to a ‘charismatic paradox’ because such authority is ephemeral and cannot be institutionalised, so the state degenerates as soon as they die.127 A fragment of a Hellenistic (possibly Stoic) author transmitted by Strabo drastically reduces the giving of favours (charizesthai) to the disenchanted persuasion-power of money and reminds us that Hellenistic kings were wholly dependent on their financial strength: He who gives but does not receive cannot succeed in this either, for he will stop giving when his treasury has become empty. The givers will likewise stop giving to someone who only receives and grants no favors (charizesthai). Therefore, he could not succeed in either way. Similar things may be said about power (dynamis). Apart from the common saying ‘money is the most valuable thing to men, and it has the most power of all things among men’, we should look into the subject in detail. We say that kings have the greatest power, which is why we call them potentates (dynastai). They are powerful in as much as they lead the multitudes wherever they wish through persuasion or force… They persuade men, it is true, through benefactions (euergesiai), but they force them by means of arms. Both these things may be bought (onia) with money, for he has the largest army who is able to support the largest and he who possesses the most means is able to show the most benefaction.128

Kings ‘buy’ obedience with money, so when their treasury is empty, they can no longer expect their subjects to obey to them. This contrasts with the Polybian conception of royal legitimacy, where kings obtain protection for themselves and their heirs even when they are weak (or poor and thus unable to afford benefactions) by ruling according to their subjects’ conceptions of goodness and justice.129 That might mean entrenching rights and privileges and enforcing what their subjects identify as legitimate. Ruling by consent, as noted in section two, enhances the autonomy and capacity of the state, legitimating the king’s authority to levy taxes and recruit military forces. Yet the more deeply and credibly kings are committed to that legitimate order, the less personal autonomy they have to exercise the kind of power that money provides to ‘lead the multitudes wherever they wish through persuasion or force’. The more extravagant and seemingly irrational expenditures of Alexander appear to have more to do with distancing himself and affirming his own identity than buying loyalty or winning his subjects’ goodwill.130 Barker suggests that rulers’ self­justification might well arise from psychological needs or disorders instead of being a calculated strategy for securing their rule.131 That Alexander would give ten talents to a comic actor is no more rational than prizes of one talent and forty minas for the winners of a lethal drinking contest or the 10,000 talents promised for build-

Azoulay 2004, 149–150, 435, 437–438 =  A zoulay 2018, 89–90, 271, 275–276. Strab. 9.2.40, trans. adapted from H.L. Jones; for the Hellenistic source, see Radt 2008, 65. For a different interpretation, emphasising the vocabulary of euergetism, see Meeus, this volume. 129 On Hellenistic kings’ need for wealth, see Austin 1986 ; cf. Polyb. 6 .5 .4 –6 .7 .2 on legitimate kingship. 130 His reported items of expenditure are discussed and tabulated by Holt 2016, 95–118, 187–193. 131 Barker 2001, 4, 17. 127 128

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ing temples in Greece.132 Conversely, there was no real danger to the king of losing legitimacy in the eyes of his people because he turned down his architect’s proposal to carve his image into Mt. Athos.133 The funeral pyre of Hephaistion, supposedly costing 10,000–12,000 talents, was an extreme act of devotion.134 It was just as irrational and consistent with Alexander’s character for him to spend his last days making costly preparations for the naval conquest of the Arabian peninsula. ‘The real motive’, Arrian speculates, ‘was Alexander’s constant and insatiable appetite for further acquisition’.135 An indication of the Macedonians’ real preferences was their decision to cancel Alexander’s expensive projects as soon as he died.136 CONCLUSION

Alexander ruled his empire by the right of the stronger. Even if he never told his Companions that the ‘strongest’ should obtain the kingdom after him, the anecdote quoted at the beginning of this chapter was an appropriate one. Modern scholars inspired by Weber maintain that Alexander and his Hellenistic successors used the performance of charisma through military victories and lavish expenditure to obtain legitimacy and consent from their subjects without constantly needing to apply force. This approach tends to underestimate the violence of imperialism, the transactional nature of loyalty to autocratic regimes, and the propensity of subjects to conceal their true preferences out of self-interest or fear. One must not forget the transgressive aspect of Weberian charisma: many of Alexander’s public acts and displays may be understood as provocations that distanced him from ordinary men. Each transgression of custom, law, morality, and truth – the more flagrant the better – was a demonstration of inhuman power that yielded opportunities to his followers and posed a sharper dilemma for his detractors: either oppose him at considerable risk or be complicit in the dissimulation of his heroic identity and lose credibility as opponents. Acceptance is not the same as legitimacy because, as long as the ruler is powerful, the public narrative that his regime articulates need not correspond to private opinions about what is right or permissible, which are excluded from the hegemonic discourse. In other words, what Barker calls a regime’s ‘endogenous self-legitimation’ does not confer any legitimacy at all. It only fortifies the resolve of the ruler and his followers to dominate and frightens potential rebels into submission.

Actor: Plut. Alex. 26.6; drinking contest: Ath. 437a–b; temples: Plut. Mor. 343d, Diod. 18.4.4–5. Plut. Alex. 72.3–4. 134 Arr. Anab. 7.14.8 (10,000 or more), Plutarch Alexander 72.5 (10,000), Diod. 17.115.2–5 (12,000), Just. Epit. 12.12.12 (12,000); cf. Aelian, Varia Historia 7.8 for metals and Persian clothing on the pyre. 135 Arr. Anab. 7.19.6. 136 Diod. 13.4.6. 132 133

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Alexander’s military and financial power gave him the autonomy to act at his discretion outside the bounds of what his subjects deemed legitimate. Fiscal sociology offers insights into when and why rulers identify with the legitimating identities of their subjects. Before Alexander’s conquests, Argead kings were dependent on the aristocracy’s cooperation for taxes and manpower beyond what could be raised from the royal domain. One of the central issues in fiscal sociology is the rise of the tax state in response to fiscal crises, as the interests and identities of the ruler and his subjects converge and provide legitimation for his public authority to raise taxes or debts and to act on behalf of the state. This comes at the expense of the personal autonomy they might have if their revenue came from their patrimonial domain or from foreign tribute but enhances state capacity by putting more domestic resources under the control of a legitimate ruler. Too little attention has been paid by fiscal sociologists to the consequence of large surpluses and the structural features of tributary empires. Weak monarchs need to rule by consent, while those capable of extracting revenue coercively can sustain more autocratic regimes.137 Alexander’s conquest presents us with an extreme case: it generated so much treasure and tributary revenue that he had little need for legitimation in the proper sense, that is, for establishing credible and reciprocal obligations with the consent of his subjects.

137

See Stasavage 2016 and forthcoming.

IV EPILOGUES

14 THE STRATEGIES OF LEGITIMATION OF ALEXANDER AND THE DIADOCHOI: CONTINUITIES AND DISCONTINUITIES* Alexander Meeus In exploring continuity and discontinuity with Alexander’s strategies of legitimation studied elsewhere this volume, I have to paint with a rather broad brush. I hope that the footnotes will to some extent make up for the lack of detail, and that the broader view will also yield its benefits. Before analysing the legitimatory self­presentation and propaganda of the Successors,1 I briefly discuss the differences in the state of the evidence for the history of Alexander and that of the Successors, and the different circumstances under which they operated. THE PROBLEM OF THE SOURCES

Any attempt to identify continuity and discontinuity between the ages of Alexander and the Successors must reckon with the diverging quantities of preserved source material. The most detailed narrative on the history of the Successors (especially for the years after 315) is far less detailed than several of our Alexander sources. The following table lists the number of Teubner pages of the surviving narratives, as *

1

For their helpful comments and advice I would like to thank the audiences who heard this paper in Mannheim and in the Villa Vigoni, especially Christoph Begass, Tonio Hölscher, Christian Mann, Melanie Meaker, Andrew Monson, Kai Trampedach, Ralf von den Hoff and Shane Wallace, as well as Aude Cohen-Skalli and Giustina Monti. All translations are from the Loeb Classical Library. On a strictly modern definition all modern terms become useless to the ancient historian (cf. Brice 2015, 71–72). Since the Successors tried to convey certain political ideas and messages to as many people as possible with all the means and media available to them, propaganda is the most apt term I can think of. This should not necessarily always be taken to imply lies and deceit, categories which may not even have been relevant in every case: a Diadoch’s claim to be Alexander’s true successor, for instance, was in itself neither more nor less true than that of any of his contenders – it was merely a subjective claim (although the individual arguments used to support the claim could be true or false). Of course, the question of a wide audience and systematic propagation needs to be asked in each individual instance: cf. G. Weber 1993, 9 n. 6 and passim.

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well as the FGrHist pages of the fragments of Alexander and Successor histories, respectively covering 13,5 and 42,5 years. ALEXANDER (336–323 BC)

SUCCESSORS (323–281BC)

Arrian, Anabasis

388.5

Arrian, Successores

Curtius Rufus 3–10.5

274.5

Curtius Rufus 10.6–10

11

Diodoros 17

172

Diodoros 18–21 passim

315

Justin Epit. 11–12 Plutarch, Alex., Dem. (23–26), Phoc. (17–18, 21–22), Eum. (1–3)

30.5 111.5

Justin Epit. 13–17.2.3 Plutarch, Dem. (27–30), Phoc. (23–38), Eum. (4–21), Demetr., Pyrrh. (1–12)

Polyainos Strat. 4.3

18

Polyainos Strat. 4.4–19 passim

–

–

Nepos, Eum., Phoc., Reg.

FGrHist 117–153 TOTALS AVER AGES PER YEAR COVERED

211 1206 89.33

FGrHist 100 F 8; 154; 155; 434 F 1 (4.2–5.6)

37.5

30.5 108 26.5 9.5 13.5 551.5 12.98

Of course, these are very crude approximations. The amount of repetition in the Alexander narratives will be greater than in those on the Successors. Also, no account has been taken of digressions or the fact that some pages in Plutarch treat the years 356–336, and occasional mentions in other sources have been excluded. The significance of these numbers must thus not be overestimated. Yet they do give some indication of the relative amounts of information: it cannot be irrelevant that for Alexander we have almost 7 times more pages per year of history than for the Successors.2 Furthermore, while the Alexander historians focus on Alexander alone, those of the Successors divided their attention between several protagonists, though not equally: especially Lysimachos is heavily underrepresented, but there is often limited coverage even of Kassandros, Ptolemaios, and Seleukos, not to mention the many protagonists who now appear only as minor characters. For many works of art we likewise depend on the literary tradition, and it remains to be checked whether the record is skewed in favour Alexander here as well; we are at the mercy of chance – and perhaps Alexandromania – for the preservation of the actual objects too.3 Inscriptions may well be more evenly distributed,

2

3

Cf. Wheatley 2009, 54: ‘The Alexandro-centric nature of both the primary and secondary classical sources tends to cast a shadow over the documentation of the diadochi’. Meeus 2013a discusses the problem of the sources in more detail. Nevertheless, as Tonio Hölscher and Ralf von den Hoff pointed out to me, the portraits of the Successors do not show any signs of a desire to look like Alexander – apart from his beardlessness: see below, n. 38.

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but they enlighten only the relationships with Greek cities. Coinage might thus be the most fruitful material: here we have a comparable amount of material for Alexander and all of the main Successors, we probably know almost all types, and unlike with many literary traditions, there can be no doubt as to whether they are official and contemporary in origin. Since my concern here is with those aspects that have been treated in the other chapters of this volume, however, the coins will be a matter for another study. At any rate, the problem of the sources will constantly have to remain in focus. The alleged discontinuity with Alexander’s so-called orientalisation policy (cf. infra, n. 97) is a telling example of the tunnel vision created by the interests of our sources and by the smaller amount of available material on the Successors. The orientalisation policy became a central element of the tradition on Alexander as a tyrant, whilst also appealing to the idea of the philosophical Alexander in Plutarch and Arrian.4 This is not to say that the Alexander historians took a particular interest in everything related to Alexander’s dealings with his oriental subjects,5 but at least some aspects of it were of fundamental interest to them, in contrast to the preserved Successor historians. The one exception is the theme of commanding foreigners in Plutarch’s Eumenes because of the parallel with Sertorius in Spain, but the focus is rather on Eumenes and the Macedonians than on the Asian peoples.6 Even Diodoros, who claims to write the history of all peoples (1.1.3, 1.3.2, 1.3.6), is not very interested in those considered barbarians, despite his view that all peoples are related and only separated by time and space (1.1.3).7 One relevant episode, that of Alketas and the Termessian Pisidians at 18.46–47,8 is reported in more detail for moralising reasons which are not inherent to the history of the Successors.9 Many other instances which did not attract Diodoros’ particular moral-didactic attention will thus have vanished from the historical record. The oriental evidence corrects the picture some4

5 6 7 8 9

Bosworth 1980a, 2–5, 1988b, 147–148; Spencer 2002, 178, 189–190, 194; Atkinson 2009, 167 and passim; Baynham 2009, 291. Cf. Haake, this volume, on Arrian and Plutarch leaving out instances of extreme violence. Cf. e.g. Baynham 2009, 295: ‘in the southern Punjab in 325 BCE, the natives are mere extras on Alexander’s stage’. Plut. Sert. 1.11 and Eum. 20(1).2 with Bosworth 1992, 58–60, Konrad 1994, xxxi and 31. Cf. Mileta 2014, 436 on the limited perspective in Plutarch’s Demetrius. Schepens / Bollansée 2004, 66–68. For the ethnic identity of the early Hellenistic Termessians: Pekridou 1986, 19–20; Wael kens / Vandeput 2007. See esp. the explicit moral conclusion on the power of kindness at 18.47.3: ‘Thus kindness in its very nature possesses the peculiar power of a love charm in behalf of benefactors, preserving unchanged men’s goodwill toward them’. Furthermore, the episode is full of the peripeteiai which were of particularly keen interest to Diodoros (cf. Meeus 2013a, 86–87). After a failed cavalry attack, Alketas barely escapes to his phalanx, and when his army is subsequently routed in battle, he alone of the officers gets away; the Termessian support offers new hope which at first seems justified, but is cheated in the end. For Diodoros’ moral and didactic interests: Meeus 2018. In the famous suttee story (19.33–34) he focuses so narrowly on the ethnographic paradoxon that we hardly learn anything about the role of Eumenes’ Indian troops.

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what, but it is likewise limited in focus and strongly dependent on the chance of survival,10 while the archaeological evidence rarely relates to political history in a way that can be securely connected to information in the literary sources.11 Inscriptions from Greek poleis deal with indigenous peoples rather rarely, but the minimal evidence they do offer surely is not more scarce than under Alexander.12 LEGITIMATION IN THE POLITICAL CONTEXT OF THE DIADOCH WARS

Max Weber defines rule (‘Herrschaft’) in terms of the prospect of finding obedience for one’s orders amongst a specific group of people, while having to impose one’s will despite opposition is merely power (‘Macht’). This rule possesses legitimacy (‘Legitimität’) when a belief exists within this group that for some reason the ruler is particularly deserving of their obedience.13 In our case, this concerns acceptance as successors to Alexander the Great on the Macedonian throne and ruler of the conquered territories.14 Legitimacy can be furthered by active measures of the rulers on the one hand, and by legitimising gestures offered by the ruled on the other, as Müller has noted in the context of the cult of the Successors in the Greek cities.15 Given Cf. e.g. Caneva 2018, 89 on the Egyptian satrap stela; for the Babylonian evidence: Boiy 2013, 13; Jursa, this volume. 11 See e.g. Pekridou 1986 , 121 –127 , on the limited indications for the identification of the so­ called tomb of Alketas. Cf. generally Gehrke 1986, 83; Snodgrass 1987, 37–38; J. Hall 2014, 207–215. 12 Lane Fox 2007, 295 with n. 200; Mileta 2014, 431–432. Cf. Meeus 2013a, 98 n. 5: a telling 10

example of the unexpected occurrence of the indigenous population in a Hellenistic inscription. Yet with cases like the Persians in Asia Minor it is hazardous to generalise on the basis of individual instances, given the uncertainty about the ethnicity of people bearing Persian names, and as to when they came to the region or why: cf. Sekunda 2011, 57–72. See Faraguna, this volume, on non-Greeks in Priene. 13 M. Weber 1980, 28–29 and 122–123. In using legitimation and legitimacy in this sense I am thus simply following Weber’s terminology. Whether or not ‘acceptance’ might be a more appropriate term for the same concept is a question of historical semantics the relevance of which does not primarily lie within the field of ancient history. No legal or moral judgement is implied here: see the introduction to the present volume. For Weber’s theory and Hellenistic kingship, see e.g. O. Müller 1973, 3; Gehrke 1982 (= 2013 with additional source references); Gotter 2008; G. Weber 2012, 100–102; Caneva 2016, 5 and passim. For critical perspectives: Mileta 2014, 418–422; Chrubasik 2016, 7–9; Monson, this volume. 14 On acceptance as legitimacy in the Weberian sense: Gotter 2008, 180; cf. our introduction, n. 7. 15 O. Müller 1973, 45; Seibert 1991, 92; cf. Caneva 2016, 28 on Alexander. SEG 25.149, l. 14–15, is highly interesting it this respect: [παρακαλέσαι δὲ Ἀθηναίους καὶ τ]οὺς ἄλλους Ἕλληνας ἱδρύσασθαι Δ[ημητρίωι βωμοὺς καὶ τεμένη] (‘[encourage the Athenians and t]he other Greeks to found [altars and sanctuaries for] D[emetrios]’). Whether not the restoration παρακαλέσαι is correct, the Athenian soldiers who set up the inscription clearly intended somehow to involve their fellow-citizens as well as other Greeks in their divine honours for Demetrios: Mikalson 1998, 84–85; O’Sullivan 2017, 82.

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the focus of most papers in this volume, I shall mostly treat the top down process of the Successors promoting their own legitimacy. Although the present volume shows to what lengths Alexander needed to go in trying to legitimise his actions, after the murder of Amyntas IV (Just. Epit. 12.6.14; Plut. Mor. 327c; Arr. Succ. F 1.22) his position as Macedonian king was never in fundamental doubt. Crisis situations between Alexander and the Macedonians were limited to disobedience rather than desertion.16 The Successors on the other hand, were constantly threatened by Greek and oriental defections, and even by the possibility of their Macedonian soldiers deserting to an opponent.17 While Alexander also stressed Argead continuity,18 the Successors faced two problems that did not present themselves to Alexander in any comparable sense: 1) obtaining a basis of power and strengthening it (but without moving so fast as to provoke a universal alliance against oneself, as happened to Perdikkas and Antigonos)19 2) establishing the strongest possible connection to the Argead dynasty.20 Similarly, while Alexander’s authority in Greece and other conquered areas could be rebelled against, with the brief exception of Bessos he does not seem to have had any rivals who could seriously oppose him, certainly not amongst the Macedonians.21 Subject peoples could, however, try to exploit the conflict amongst the Successors to their own advantage by pitting the generals, and later kings, against each other. These different circumstances may have led to differences in focus and priorities. Nevertheless, many of Alexander’s strategies of legitimation were obviously relevant for the Successors and there remained many similar choices to be made. The audiences addressed were to a large extent the same for all the Successors, but not completely. Perdikkas, who had no satrapy, had no regional power base, whereas the indigenous elites of Egypt were rarely of direct interest to anyone 16

17

18 19

20

21

For Alexander’s position in the early days of his reign: G. Weber 2009, 87. For disobedience in the Macedonian army: Roisman 2012, 31–60; Brice 2015. On dynastic loyalty in Macedonia: Carney 2015. Generally expressed by Diod. 19.51.3 (τὸ τῶν Μακεδόνων εὐμετάβολον) and 20.28.1 (φύσει πρὸς μεταβολὴν ὄντες ὀξεῖς οἱ Μακεδόνες). But contrast e.g. 18.62.2 and 63.2, where the troops refuse to desert, or Polyaen. 4.6.6, where they are prevented from doing so. See further Roisman 2012, passim and 2015. E.g. in his coinage: Troxell 1997, 35; Le Rider 2003, 50 and 169; Ferrario 2014, 323. Meeus 2013b, 118–119. Anson 2014, 175, is right that ‘armies were the true basis of power’, but, much as Demetrios in 301 managed to maintain parts of his army whilst hardly holding any lands, controlling territory surely was a useful way to guarantee access to military manpower: Boehm 2018, 104. See e.g. O’Neil 2000, 120–124; Meeus 2009a, 2009b; Lianou 2010; Landucci Gattinoni 2010; S. Müller 2011b, 157–158; Carney 2015, 151–160 (who seems to suggest, however, that Kassandros did wish to ‘erase loyalty to the Argeads’ [152]); Wiemer 2015b, 87–89 (who likewise suggests that Kassandros was reluctant in this respect and claims that the Seleukids took little interest in Alexander); Alonso Troncoso 2016. Against Kassandros’ alleged exceptionalism: Meeus 2009a, 248–250. Heckel 2009b (see esp. e.g. 71: ‘the king was remarkably secure in his position’).

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apart from Ptolemaios; the same goes for other areas such as for instance Babylonia, which was mostly relevant to Seleukos and the Antigonids. Other Successors might have intended to control these areas eventually, but had little to gain from engaging with local elites in satrapies they did not control – unless when actually attempting to conquer them or to destabilise the satrap for immediate military purposes.22 All of the Successors, however, had a clear interest in political communication with Greeks and Macedonians, both those within their own armies and satrapies and those residing elsewhere. An analysis that connects the strategies of legitimation to their intended audiences can enhance our understanding of the political dynamics of the age of the Successors. In his article on this question, Seibert distinguishes between a Successor’s own satrapy and the outside world. Focussing on the former, he further distinguishes four groups, namely: 1) the Macedonian officers in a Diadoch’s service, 2) the Macedonian soldiers, 3) the Greeks and 4) the indigenous population.23 His distinction between Macedonian elites and soldiers is very useful, and he rightly stresses the importance of the philoi.24 Yet he considers the last two groups ‘für die Legitimierung eines Herrschaftsanspruches gegenüber den makedonischen Königen unerheblich’ given their merely local significance.25 This comment seems to ignore two fundamental issues. First of all, initially the satraps’ aim was not to abandon their legal obligations towards the kings, but merely to increase their own power and prestige. Indeed, before 308 the Successors had to confront the fundamental paradox of promoting their own claim to power whilst presenting themselves as loyal supporters of the Argead house.26 Only the position of regent or royal general of Asia or a marriage to a member of the royal house could resolve the paradox: hence the importance of the struggle for the regency and the desire of all the Successors to marry Alexander’s sister Kleopatra.27 Secondly, all these aspects are far more

22 23 24 25

26 27

Cf. e.g. Diod. 19.73.8 on Antigonos and the Thracian king Seuthes. Seibert 1991; cf. also Caneva 2016, 2–4 and passim. See also G. Weber 1993, esp. 23–25 and Strootman 2014, passim on the importance of the philoi. Seibert 1991, 90–91; he himself does note the pertinence of relations with the locals in the case of Alketas (ibid., 94). G. Weber 1993, 23–24, 60–61 agreed on the irrelevance of the indigenous population, while attaching more weight than Seibert to the Greeks: in his view, the three audiences were court society, the graeco-macedonian population of the controlled territories, and the Greek oikoumene. Yet see now also G. Weber 2012. Of course, the philoi and the army also happen to be the two groups that are best represented in our historiographical sources given their limited focus: cf. Carney 2015, 148. Ma 2008, 373. The question of the regency was hotly debated in the Babylon conferences (cf. Meeus 2008), and it triggered the Second Diadoch War (Diod. 18.49); cf. also Antigonos’ claim of the regency at the start of the Third Diadoch War (Diod. 19.61.3). For Kleopatra, see Meeus 2009b, where, however, I did not yet sufficiently grasp the significance of the paradox, let alone the limited number of convincing ways to establish a direct connection to the dynasty, which is a significant factor in the importance of Kleopatra.

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interrelated than Seibert’s analysis implies, as no one managed to claim the royal title without a regional power base: hence the Successors invested so much in their relations with the Greeks and the subject peoples (cf. supra, n. 19). Apart from the groups listed above, further categories may be helpful, e.g. distinguishing between elites, soldiers and the general population. Seibert’s perspective thus seems too limited to me. A strict differentiation according to audience will not always be possible, however, as many of these strategies of legitimation and means of communication aimed at different audiences at the same time. Indeed, it does not seem to have been possible for the Successors to rely on the support of a single group or – for that matter – on the mere use of force, however important the latter was to them as a means of domination. THE SUCCESSORS AND ALEXANDER’S STRATEGIES OF LEGITIMATION

Divination and religion The Argeads represented themselves as divinely chosen to rule at least since the fifth century.28 Specifically for Alexander many omens foretelling greatness are reported, most famously the story of the Gordian knot. Furthermore, the claim of divine descent from Zeus Ammon was disseminated during Alexander’s lifetime by Kallisthenes.29 Trampedach (chapter 2) has demonstrated that Alexander also employed charismatically staged divination to show his piety and impress and motivate his army. Although the sources offer little detail, the religious dimension of the self-presentation of the Successors likewise seems to have been strongly developed. Stories about Ptolemaios being favoured by the gods or being exposed at birth and protected by an eagle, i.e. Zeus, may well go back to Soter himself, although we cannot establish the origin of these traditions.30 Equally difficult to date are the accounts of oracles and omens concerning Seleukos. Some of these explicitly connect Seleukos and Alexander,31 while the story of his mother Laodike being impregnated by Apollo shows many parallels with the story of Olympias and Zeus’ paternity of Alexander.32 An anecdote comparable to Alexander’s charismatic use of divination that found its way into the historiographical tradition has Seleukos encourage his troops by referring to the many positive omens and oracles he had received (Diod. 19.90.3–4): Greenwalt 2011. Zahrnt 2006, 152–153; Howe 2013, esp. 61–62; Trampedach, this volume. 30 Diod. 17.103.7, 18.28.6; Souda s.v. Λάγος (Λ25); Ogden 2013b. The Liber de morte is one piece of contemporary Ptolemaic propaganda that found its way into the literary tradition, in the Metz Epitome as well as in the Alexander Romance: Bosworth 2000; Meeus 2014, 293. 31 Diod. 19.55.9, 19.90.4; Arr. Anab. 7.22; App. Syr. 56: see now in great detail Ogden 2017. 32 Just. Epit. 15.4.2–9; App. Syr. 56; Ogden 2017, esp. 23 and 28. This story is often attributed to Antiochos I: see recently e.g. S. Müller 2011b, 159. 28 29

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He added that they ought also to believe the oracles of the gods which had foretold that the end of his campaign would be worthy of his purpose; for, when he had consulted the oracle in Branchidae, the god had greeted him as King Seleucus, and Alexander standing beside him in a dream had given him a clear sign of the future leadership that was destined to fall to him in the course of time.

In this form it obviously does not quite match the way the mantic-charismatic triumvirate of Alexander, Aristandros and Kallisthenes worked,33 but in its original historical and historiographical contexts it may well have been similar. An omen marking out Lysimachos as Alexander’s future successor is also reported: he was accidently wounded at the forehead by Alexander’s spear, and the bleeding would only stop when the king tied his diadem around Lysimachos’ head.34 While we cannot exclude that the Lysimacheians or other cities had some interest in spreading such a legend, it would have been most effective during Lysimachos’ own reign, as he had no successors.35 Demetrios Poliorketes claimed divine descent from Poseidon: thanks to his coin image with bull’s horns and the Athenian ityphallic hymn in his honour we know that Demetrios himself propagated this claim and that it was taken up by some of his subjects.36 Emulation of mythical heroes and gods Alexander took the emulation of mythical heroes and gods to perhaps unseen lengths – certainly much further than most scholars would care to admit, as Hölscher (chapter 1) has shown. None of the Successors seems to have gone as far as Alexander in this respect: although one may wonder whether it was feasible for his former subordinates to fashion a similarly heroic persona for themselves,37 Achilleus was not the commander of the expedition against Troy either. At any rate, apart from Antigonos all or most of the new kings did adopt Alexander’s heroic beardlessness.38 Amongst the Successors only Demetrios, and later Pyrrhos, had the advantage of youth. Plutarch (Demetr. 2.2) states that he was a tall man and

33 34 35 36 37

38

See Trampedach, this volume. Just. Epit. 15.3.13–14; App. Syr. 64; Lund 1992, 3 and 163. Cf. Ogden 2017, 204–205. For a brief period after Lysimachos’ death, however, Arsinoe and her sons did of course intend to rule his realm: Carney 2015, 158. Ath. 6.253b-f; SNG Alpha Bank I, no. 948–953; Bosworth 1988b, 141; Ehling 2000; S. Müller 2011b, 159; Étienne 2014, 340; Holton 2014; Coppola 2016, 21. Hölscher 2009, 67: ‘Der große Alexander muß unter diesen Voraussetzungen eine ferne, fast utopische Lichtgestalt geworden sein, fast so unwirklich, wie man die Götter damals vielfach empfand’. Hölscher 2009, 34: ‘Damit wurden sie gewiß nicht zu Jünglingen, aber sie gaben sich nicht mehr in der Würde des klassischen Staatsmannes, sondern demonstrierten, im Sinn Alexanders, ein neues Herrscherbild der hellenistischen Epoche’, cf. ibid., 67; Alonso Troncoso 2010, 21–23.

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had features of rare and astonishing beauty, so that no painter or sculptor ever achieved a likeness of him. They had at once grace and strength, dignity and beauty, and there was blended with their youthful eagerness a certain heroic look (ἡρωϊκή τις ἐπιφάνεια) and a kingly majesty that were hard to imitate.

Diodoros (20.92.3, cf. 19.81.4) likewise states that both in stature and in beauty he displayed the dignity of a hero (ἡρωϊκὸν ἀποφαίνων ἀξίωμα), so that even those strangers who had come from a distance, when they beheld his comeliness arrayed in royal splendour, marvelled at him and followed him as he went abroad in order to gaze at him.

Whether or not these descriptions ultimately go back to Hieronymos of Kardia, it is surely plausible that they report the way Demetrios wished to be, and perhaps was, seen.39 In the literary tradition several heroic duels are fought by the Successors, for instance between Eumenes and Neoptolemos or between Pyrrhos and the Antigonid general Pantauchos.40 Apart from the general Homeric reminiscences in such monomachiai, Plutarch (Pyrrh. 7.4) in the latter instance is explicit that Pyrrhos wished to emulate his ancestor Achilleus in valour.41 Such stories fit the ideology of the charismatic king, but it is impossible to assess their historicity or to pinpoint their origins.42 It seems abundantly clear, however, that in his Alexander history Ptolemaios himself described a duel in which he killed an enemy leader in Banjaur, presenting himself as a Homeric warrior hero so as to underscore his ability to be king.43 Indirect iconographic evidence may confirm Ptolemaios’ interest in propagating his heroic image. Two Roman depictions of the Kalydonian boar hunt have been identified as copies of an early Hellenistic painting showing Ptolemaios I as the hero Meleagros, which has in turn been identified with a painting of Antiphilos mentioned by Pliny.44 This at the very least meant to imply that Ptolemaios possessed the same qualities as the hero.45 Another aspect of heroism that is regularly associated with the Successors is that of enormous toil and hardship.46 Seleukos, after encouraging his men with the oracle quoted above, is said to have added that ‘everything that is good and admired among men is gained through toil and danger (διὰ πόνων καὶ κινδύνων)’.47 Evidence 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47

Yet according to Plutarch (Demetr. 43.3, Pyrrh. 8.1) only Pyrrhos really reminded the Macedonians of Alexander. Diod. 18.31, Plut. Eum. 7.4–7; Plut. Pyrrh. 7.4–5. Mossman 1992, 95; Asirvatham 2018, 229–231. Cf. Beston 2000, 326–327; Bosworth 2002, 254; Meissner 2007, 217–219. Bosworth 1996, 41–47, noting that Ptolemaios thus claimed a feat Alexander never achieved. Plin. HN 35.138; Donderer 1988; Seyer 2007, 135–137. Donderer 1988, 795. For toil and labour as defining a hero, see Finkelberg 1995; Beston 2000, 317. Cf. also Höl­ scher, this volume. Plut. Alex. 40 has several anecdotes about Alexander, toil and kingliness. Diod. 19.90.5.

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that this was indeed part of the discourse of legitimation at the time, and that it resonated with the subjects too, is found in an epigram of Poseidippos celebrating the valour of Arisnoe II and especially in an Athenian private dedication honouring Demetrios.48 Dedications in Greek sanctuaries and temple building Alexander made many dedications to the gods and often donated money for temple building, but seems to have taken no particular interest in the major panhellenic sanctuaries of the Greek mainland, as is apparent from the contributions of von den Hoff and Wallace (chapters 5 and 6).49 In these sanctuaries only two dedications by the Successors are known, which suggests that they largely continued Alexander’s strategy in this area.50 Very soon after the king’s death Krateros dedicated a prominent monument in Delphi celebrating his rescuing Alexander during a lion hunt.51 In Olympia we know of a statue dedicated by Ptolemaios; the inscription mentioned the dedicator’s Macedonian identity, but apparently did not identify the honorand.52 The most famous panhellenic sanctuaries of the mainland thus yield a meagre harvest as far as dedications go, yet the agonistic activities of the Successors in these sanctuaries do appear to have been somewhat more intense than Alexander’s.53 This does not mean that the Successors made no dedications or did not care about displaying piety, however.54 Several dedications are attested in Delos, and like Alexander they also sponsored temple construction.55 Ptolemaios’ dedication to Athena Lindia may have been undertaken in explicit imitation of Alexander’s dedication at

48 49

50

51 52 53 54 55

SEG 25.149, l. 7 (κίνδυνον καὶ πόν[ον]), cf. supra n. 15; Poseid. 36 AB, v. 4; S. Müller 2016c, 150. The evidence for strong Macedonian involvement in the reconstruction of the sanctuary and stadium at Nemea and perhaps also in the stadium at Olympia after Chaironeia (Miller 2001, 92–93, 208–209; Lichtenberger 2013) is slight and does not allow the nature of any potential involvement to be determined. What exactly Archon of Pella personally dedicated in Delphi and when is unclear, but his dedication may date from the time of Alexander, like the honours awarded to him by the Delphians in the 330s: see Wallace, this volume. ISE II 73; Plut. Alex. 40.5; Dunn / Wheatley 2012; Wallace, this volume. Paus. 6.3.1. Cf. infra, n. 74. Cf. infra and Orth 2014. Orth 2014; specifically for the question whether this was mere propaganda, see ibid., 568–569; cf. Trampedach, this volume, n. 12. Orth 2014, 567–568. Some hold the Neorion in Delos for an Antigonid monument celebrating the climactic victory at Salamis (Étienne 2014, 340 with n. 40; cf. J. Bernhardt 2014, 78 n. 114, 130 n. 108), but it is not even certain that a royal warship is concerned at all: Constantakopoulou 2017, 87–88.

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the same sanctuary.56 The Arsinoeion at Samothrake may also have been dedicated during the age of the Successors.57 Examples can easily be multiplied.58 Both Alexander and the Successors thus seem to have shifted their focus away from the major panhellenic sanctuaries to more local contexts. We should wonder, though, whether the distinction between panhellenic and other sanctuaries can be drawn so easily;59 Delos was a sanctuary of panhellenic appeal too, and the Rhodian sanctuary of Athena Lindia attracted prominent dedicators from all over the Mediterranean world well before Alexander.60 Perhaps the very neutrality – or the political insignificance of the poleis who controlled them – which made the socalled panhellenic sanctuaries attractive locations for large dedications from poleis limited their potential for kings: a monument at Olympia or Delphi could enhance their prestige and reach large numbers of visitors, but local dedications in important poleis and their sanctuaries brought the further benefit of making the inhabitants of those places feel grateful for and honoured by the king’s local involvement. As Strabo (9.2.40) points out in his analysis of euergetism, kings can lead either through persuasion or force, and the appropriate means of persuasion for kings is through donations: We say that kings have the greatest power; and on this account we call them potentates. They are potent in leading the multitudes whither they wish, through persuasion or force. Generally they persuade through kindness (πείθουσι μὲν οὖν δι᾽ εὐεργεσίας μάλιστα), for persuasion through words is not kingly; indeed, this belongs to the orator, whereas we call it kingly persuasion when kings perform benefactions and in so doing make their subjects accept their will. They persuade men, it is true, through kindly deeds (δι᾽ εὐεργεσιῶν), but they force them by means of arms. Both these things may be bought with money; for he has the largest army who is able to support the largest, and he who possesses the most means is also able to show the most kindness (καὶ εὐεργετεῖν δύναται πλεῖστον ὁ πλεῖστα κεκτημένος).61

56 57 58 59 60 61

Squillace 2013; for Alexander: Wallace, this volume. J. Bernhardt 2014, 112–114 with further references; Constantakopoulou 2017, 86–87. On Demetrios and the Nike of Samothrake, see von den Hoff 2017 contra J. Bernhardt 2014. Bringmann et al. 1995, passim; Orth 2014. Cf. Scott 2010, 250–273. The list of the most prominent ones in I.Lindos 2 is impressive; Herodotos (2.182) knew of the dedication by pharaoh Amasis. Translation slightly adapted: Jones’ translation of the second ἄγωσιν ἐφ᾽ ἃ βούλονται is correct but potentially misleading so I have attempted to add clarity. Whether the passage is an interpolation, as many editors think, is not important here (cf. Radt 2008, 65). Monson, this volume, seems to interpret this passage too narrowly in only focusing on the dimension of power and leaving out the sentence about the kingly nature of euergetism (βασιλικὴν δὲ πειθὼ λέγομεν, ὅταν εὐεργεσίαις φέρωσι καὶ ἄγωσιν ἐφ᾽ ἃ βούλονται): cf. infra, on wealth and legitimation. Also note Strabo’s comments on reciprocity preceding the passage quoted here.

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Agones In the sanctuaries hosting the crown games,62 major festivals perhaps offered more cost­effective opportunities for monarchical representation than dedications, which might explain the absence of major dedications where we would most expect them. Indeed, in the agonistic field the differences between Alexander and the Successors are larger. As Christian Mann has shown (chapter 3), Alexander seems to have limited himself almost exclusively to campaign agones and was not involved in the panhellenic festivals. His father Philip, in contrast, had won several equestrian victories at Olympia and probably Delphi,63 and had presided over the Olympia at Dion and the Pythian Games.64 Alexander also organised the festival in Dion in 335/4,65 but did not found any festivals, did not preside over any of the panhellenic festivals and did not enter in any contest. We do not know whether royal agonothesia at the Olympia in Dion was standard or at least regular practice.66 At any rate, it is a role that we would expect Kassandros, Demetrios, Lysimachos, and perhaps also Antipatros and Polyperchon to have performed while in control of Macedon, but we have precious little information on internal Macedonian events in these years. Three instances of agonothesia at the crown games are attested: Kassandros at the Nemea of 315, Ptolemaios at the Isthmia of 308 and Demetrios’ moving the Pythia of 290 to Athens. Additionally, Demetrios also presided over the Argive Heraia in 303.67 That the agonothetes could increase his political clout and reached an audience which understood the message is clear even from the very limited evidence fourth century authors offer: underscoring the enormous ambitions of Jason of Pherai, Xenophon transmits a rumour about his plan to preside over the Pythian games of 370, while Demosthenes reports the Athenian refusal to send official representatives to

62 63 64

65 66

67

That ‘crown games’ was the term used for the so-called big four in the late fourth century is shown by IG IV 2(1) 68, l. 73. Moretti 1957, nos. 434, 439, 445. For the attribution of no. 439 to Delphi, see e.g. Kyle 2015, 225. Dion: Dem. 19.192 with scholion ad loc. and Diod. 16.55.1 (perhaps also in 338/7: Dio Chrys. Or. 2.2). Le Guen 2019, 152 n. 18, claims this was a separate festival modelled on the one at Dion. While Diodoros’ text may seem to suggest a separate occasion, it does not preclude the inherently more likely identification with the festival in Dion either: Mari 1998, 137 and 143. For the Pythia of 346, see Dem. 19.128 and Diod. 16.60.2. Diod. 17.16.3–4 and perhaps Arr. Anab. 1.11.1: see Mann, this volume. Both for Philip in 348/7, and for Alexander in 335/4 specific reasons seem to be added for the king’s presiding: the capture of Olynthos and the impending Asian campaign respectively. Yet Diod. 16.55.1 is clearly just a temporal succession, and the same may be true in Dem. 19.192. In the latter case and at Diod. 17.16.3–4 even a causal connection in the text need not reflect the king’s actual reasons. Cf. Mari 1998, 144–147. Diod. 19.64.1; Souda s.v. Δημήτριος (Δ431); Plut. Demetr. 25.2 and 40.7–8. Cf. Wallace 2014, 242–243; Howe 2018, 175; Mann 2018, 469–470. Given Demetrios’ presence in Greece at the time, it is quite likely that he also presided over the Isthmia of 302 where the Antigonids revived the Hellenic League (cf. infra, n. 70): surely Demetrios will have attended in person to found the League (I owe this observation to Shane Wallace).

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the Pythian games in 346 because Philip was organising them.68 Although we do not know whether the Successors themselves founded any new festivals, several poleis instituted games in their honour.69 The Antigonid Hellenic League was inaugurated at the Isthmian games and, just like the Korinthian League of Philip and Alexander, planned to meet during the crown games in times of peace.70 Amongst the Successors and their families, agonistic victories are known only for Ptolemaios, his son Lagos, and his wife Berenike.71 There is no evidence that these victories were publicly broadcast before the time of Philadelphos, though:72 Poseidippos’ victory epigrams all date from after Soter’s death,73 and there is no agonistic imagery on his coins nor any reason to believe that the statue he dedicated at Olympia was necessarily connected to an agonistic victory.74 This seems remarkable, since Philip II did broadcast his agonistic victories emphatically.75 The question is, then, whether in this respect the Successors were closer to Alexander than to Philip and others whose agonistic victories took up an important place in their self68 69

70 71

72 73 74

75

Xen. Hell. 6.4.30; Dem. 19.128. Mann 2018, 466 with n. 85. The earliest certain royal foundation are the Alexandrian Ptolemaia: Syll.3 390. Whether the games at Antigoneia (Diod. 20.108.1) were meant to be recurrent we do not know. If Antigonos founded the League of Ilion (Billows 1990, 218–219; Boehm 2018, 121) he may also have been the one to establish its games (Syll.3 330, l. 15 and 32–33). If so, he may have fulfilled a promise made by Alexander (Strab. 13.1.26; cf. Mann [n. 26–28] and Faraguna [n. 34–36], this volume), or Antigonos or Ilion may have alleged that Alexander had promised them to add prestige to the games and to stand in the tradition of Alexander. The institution of games in Ilion by Lysimachos has been concluded from the combination of coin iconography and Alexander’s promise (Bellinger 1957), but this must remain highly speculative: if such games existed, they might indeed have resulted from Alexander’s promise or given rise to its being alleged. IG IV 2(1) 68, l. 72–73; Plut. Demetr. 25.4; Mari 2002, 193–196, 2016, 171–173; Wallace 2013, 147–151. Paus. 10.7.8; IG V(2) 550, l. 7–9; Poseidip. 78 AB, 82 AB and 88 AB. Scharff (forthcoming) offers a convenient table of Hellenistic royal victories at the games. Given the disproportionate weight of the new Poseidippos, I am not sure whether the Ptolemies actually participated much more often than other dynasties or whether our evidence is simply distorted. Kainz 2016, Mann 2018 and Scharff (forthcoming) all argue that the Ptolemies did indeed have a stronger interest in agonistic victories than their rivals. Perhaps we cannot completely rule out that the Antigonos of Macedonia who won the Olympic stadion race in 292 and 288 (Euseb. Chron. 1.207 Schoene) was a member of the Antigonid dynasty. Compare the Nemeian tripod in the Vergina tombs (cf. Mann, this volume, n. 4.) of which we do not know whether it is related to a royal victory and if so which king’s. Pace Fantuzzi 2005, 250–251 neither the date nor the Ptolemaic connection of the Ptolemaion in Limyra are certain: Stanzl 2015. For the date of Poseidippos’ activity at the Ptolemaic court: Remijsen 2009, 251 with n. 21. Paus. 6.3.1: ‘Nearest to Damiscus stands a statue of somebody; they do not give his name, but it was Ptolemy son of Lagus who set up the offering’. Clearly Pausanias did not think the statue represented Ptolemaios himself; perhaps it was a statue of one his philoi dedicated by Ptolemaios: on this practice, see e.g. Ma 2013b, 184–185. Plut. Alex. 4.9; Mari 2002, 80–82, 93–96; Ferrario 2014, 291–292 and 306–312; Mann, this volume.

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presentation. To be sure, it is a relevant difference that Ptolemaios competed in the games, whereas Alexander did not, but such means to promote them as were used by Philip and the later Ptolemies will not have been unknown to Soter either.76 Thus, in as far as this does not simply reflect the vagaries of survival, it must have been a deliberate choice. The same question arises for the lack of agonistic participation by the other Successors.77 One might of course suggest that they did not compete in order to imitate Alexander, but Alexander really did stand alone, while none of the Successors could have thought that their prestige in the Greek world did not need to be boosted.78 Furthermore, as agonothetai at crown games they also deviated from Alexander’s course. That no campaign agones are attested for the Successors cannot be considered meaningful given the amount of detail we have for Alexander’s campaign and the lack of detail for almost all of those of the Successors. City foundations In founding cities named after himself Philip II may not have been an innovator, as Malkin has shown, but he did do so with previously unseen intensity.79 Alexander might have started imitating him at age 16 with the foundation of Alexandropolis in Thrace,80 and surely did so on a larger scale during the conquest of the Persian empire.81 Giangiulio argues that Alexander aimed to impress his power on the landscape in Central Asia rather than merely having economic or military motives (chapter 9): it is all the more remarkable, then, that all of the Successors followed suit, though some more frequently than others.82 Especially the eponymous founda-

76

77

78

79

80 81 82

For Ptolemaic agonistic policy and self-presentation: Fantuzzi 2005; Remijsen 2009; Kainz 2016; Mann 2018, 452–457. According to the Alexander Romance 1.18–19, Alexander competed

in the chariot races in Olympia, but we do not know how old this – quite implausible – tradition is. Strictly speaking, though, this account is not contradicted by Plut. Alex. 4, which only rules out Alexander’s interest in the foot race, boxing and pankration, and the broadcasting of victory – all, of course, only in Plutarch’s view. When Poseidippos is taken out of the equation only two Ptolemaic victories are attested for the age of the Successors: cf. supra, n. 71. The numbers thus hardly seem sufficient to assume an accurate reflection of early Hellenistic agonistic realities. At Xen. Hier. 11.5 ‘the breeding of chariot horses’ is said to be ‘commonly considered the noblest and grandest business in the world’, a statement all the more believable since Xenophon himself might not have shared it: see Ages. 9.6 (‘wealth, but not necessarily merit’). For Philip: Griffith 1979, 360–361; Leschhorn 1984, 202–203; Mari 2008, esp. 241–242. Cf. also Ferrario 2014, 303–304. For earlier eponymous foundations, see Malkin 1985; Carney 2000, 207 with n. 14. Plut. Alex. 9.1; Hamilton 1969, 22–23; Fraser 1996, 26 and 29–30 is slightly skeptical. Leschhorn 1984, 203–223; Fraser 1996; Giangiulio, this volume. Risch 1965, 202, argues that the toponym Alexandreia with the ethnic Alexandreus implied a claim to divine descent. Anson 2014, 127–128, mostly highlights the military and economic goals of the Successors, but also adds that the foundations ‘advertised that leader’s power and authority’. No single explantion accounts for these foundations, and a full analysis is beyond the scope of this paper: see e.g. Boehm 2018; McAuley 2020. I certainly do not mean to deny the other dimensions by focussing solely on the royal representation that is relevant here.

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tions before the assumption of the royal title must then be seen as very ambitious acts. Neither Kassandros in 315 nor Lysimachos in 309 fell in Malkin’s categories of kings, tyrants or refugees without a connection to a polis, so one can only conclude that Diodoros (19.52.1) is correct in claiming that the former ‘began to embrace in his hopes the Macedonian kingdom’ at such an early date – especially in combination with his marriage to Thessalonike and the solemn burials of Arrhidaios, Eurydike and Kynnane. Most non-royal eponymous foundations in late fourth and early third-century BC Asia Minor may have been small military colonies and certainly were no largescale synoikisms.83 Furthermore, the political context was a very different one, combining Achaimenid traditions, Alexander’s conquest of so­called barbarian lands, and the innovations resulting from the instability of a fifty year civil war in the Macedonian empire.84 Naming a remote military colony in Asia Minor after oneself was surely something very different from organising a large synoikism in Chalkidike and naming it Kassandreia. That the eponymous foundations of the Successors also aimed at a reconfiguration of space is particularly clear in the case of the foundation of Ptolemais in Upper Egypt and of Seleukeia on the Tigris, although we cannot be sure whether the report of Babylonian resistance against the latter (App. Syr. 57–58) is historical.85 The arrival of a new power in the area was also emphasised by the renaming of competitors’ foundations after conquering their territories (e.g. Antigoneia – Alexandria Troas; Antigoneia – Antiocheia),86 and by the renaming of existing Greek cities, such as Ephesos – Arsinoeia.87 Indeed, unlike Philip and Alexander, several

S. Mitchell 2018, esp. 13–16 and 28. Cf. S. Mitchell 2018, 16 and 27–28. Thus, the compatibility of city foundations by local grandees in Asia with their subordination to Seleukid rule (Chrubasik 2016, 29–33) cannot simply be transferred to the early period of the Successors. If Nearchos did indeed found Kreton Polis in Pisidia before 319 (S. Mitchell 2018, 15), it may be telling that he did not name it after himself. Whether Dokimeion was founded before 302 (ibid., 14), is far from certain. That leaves Dorylaion in Phrygia as the only known instance of a non-royal eponymous foundation before 302 (Diod. 20.108.6–7) if it was indeed founded by a man named Dorylaos, but nothing at all is known of the circumstances. 85 There will at times have been resentment against such royal interventions, but not always (cf. infra, n. 87 on Sikyon). In the case of Ephesos, there may be propaganda against Lysimachos behind Strabo’s claim (14.1.21): Boehm 2018, 73–74; Larguinat­Turbatte 2014, 482–483 argues that the epigraphic evidence suggests greater collaboration between Lysimachos and the Ephesians than Strabo implies, and Lysimachos continued to be honoured in Ephesos down into Roman times (IK.Ephesos 29). 86 For Antigoneia – Alexandria Troas: Strab. 13.1.26; Lund 1992, 175; Ziegler 1998, 686; Nollé 2015, 13–14. Antigoneia was not replaced by Antiocheia, but completely overshadowed: Strab. 16.2.4; Lib. Or. 11.84–93; Malalas 8.14; McAuley 2020, 62–65. 87 Larguinat­Turbatte 2014 ; Michels 2014 , 134 –135 ; Ladstätter 2016 , 238 –240 ; Boehm 2018, 73–76. In the case of Sikyon, Diodoros (20.102.2–3) reports that the inhabitants themselves decided to rename their city Demetrias and amply expressed their gratitude. The name change seems to have been very shortlived, though: Michels 2014, 130–131. 83 84

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of the Successors also founded cities named after other members of their families.88 Since they all claimed to be Alexander’s true Successor,89 Lysimachos’ renaming Antigoneia in the Troad to Alexandria or Ptolemaios’ establishment of his capital in Alexandria are particularly telling.90 Violence Even particularly cruel forms of violence may have been used by Alexander as a deliberate strategy of communication, inspiring not only fear but also awe in certain audiences,91 as Haake (chapter 4) has argued in his discussion of Batis’ being dragged to death at Gaza. As with Alexander, the historicity of the often anecdotal evidence for such cruelty by the Successors is difficult to assess. A close parallel to the Batis episode would be Antigonos’ treatment of Alketas’ dead body after the latter’s protracted – and in Antigonos’ eyes surely pointless – resistance in Pisidia, but Diodoros offers nothing like the comparatively detailed accounts we get of Batis’ fate: ‘he took the body of Alketas and maltreated it for three days; then, as the corpse began to decay, he threw it out unburied and departed from Pisidia’.92 This instance seems particularly interesting because of the role of Hieronymos of Kardia, Antigonos’ courtier, in shaping the historical tradition on the Successors.93 There is no way of knowing whether he wrote about the maltreatment of Alketas’ body, but if this does go back to him, it would show that the Antigonids thought that such an act need not have reflected badly on Antigonos and even fit in with the dynasty’s communication strategy. It may have been a message for the remaining members of the Perdikkan party, showing that he had no patience for their futile resistance.94 Furthermore, what was, among other things, imitatio Achillis for Alexander may have become, among other things, imitatio Alexandri for Antigonos. A telling instance occurred when Kratesipolis took control of the army after the murder of her husband Alexandros, son of Polyperchon. According to Diodoros (19.67.1–2), ‘she possessed (…) skill in practical matters and more daring than one would expect in a woman’. Yet the Sikyonians, we are told, ‘scorned her because of her husband’s death and assembled under arms in an effort to gain their freedom’. Kratesipolis defeated them in battle and arrested and crucified about thirty of them. Did she choose this harsh punishment to show that she was just as fierce as any man and was to be taken just as seriously? By executing a small group of ringleaders, 88 89 90 91

92 93 94

Lund 1992, 175; Carney 2000, 207. Cf. Meeus 2009a and 2013b. Cf. Strab. 13.1.26; Lund 1992, 175; Howe 2014. Of course, this is not to say that such feelings of awe automatically enhanced legitimacy: often intimidation may have been the only goal or effect (e.g. Diod. 20.75.2–3 on Antigonos torturing deserters). There is no reason to doubt, however, that in the Hellenistic military culture violence could enhance a leader’s charisma: O’Sullivan 2017. Diod. 18.47.3. Meeus 2013c. Note the contrast with those who surrendered at Diod. 18.45.4.

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a commander might also put into perspective the forgiveness and mildness shown to other enemies and thus gain their loyalty.95 Of course, excessive use of violence could easily backfire: after having gained wide support upon her return to Macedonia thanks to her Argead prestige, Olympias appears to have lost the support of the people because of her cruel treatment of Arrhidaios and Eurydike and the extreme revenge she exacted on Kassandros’ family and supporters.96 Local elites and indigenous traditions It is often stated that Alexander’s engagement with the local elites and their traditions in Egypt and Asia was abandoned by the Successors who would have disapproved of his policy.97 As Jursa (chapter 8) shows, however, relationships between the Macedonian rulers and the Babylonian elite intensified under Seleukos, and it would seem that this is the case elsewhere too. Van Oppen has recently demonstrated convincingly that there is no need to assume that all the Successors apart from Seleukos divorced their Asian wives after Alexander’s death.98 Furthermore, in 323 all native satraps still in office at the time of Alexander’s death were confirmed in their positions, and some of the new satrapal appointments we know about in the following years were likewise natives.99 Macedonian satraps and commanders like Alketas, Peithon, Peukestas, Tlepolemos and Stasanor enjoyed the support of at least some of their indigenous subjects, which reveals their close relations with them.100 Peukestas and Leonnatos are said to have worn Persian dress,101 and the Macedonians responsible for the iconography of Alexander’s funeral cart gave the oriental troops their due place.102 It seems telling that, as far as we know, there was no immediate and general Iranian revolt against the new Macedonian overlords when these started fighting amongst themselves; Iranians fought loyally in the various Macedonian armies and even in several revolts indigenous populations seem to have joined one of the Macedonian sides rather than seizing the opportunity to free

95 96 97

98

99 100 101 102

E.g. Diod. 18.40.4, 20.103.5–7, cf. 19.86.2–3. The same idea may have been behind Perdikkas’ execution of 300 footsoldiers at Babylon: Curt. 10.9.16–19. Diod. 19.11.9 (‘But by glutting her rage with such atrocities, she soon caused many of the Macedonians to hate her ruthlessness’); cf. Just. 14.6.1, Paus. 1.11.4, Nep. Eum. 6.3. E.g. Schachermeyr 1973, 574; Mooren 1978, esp. 54–55; Habicht 2006, 30–31, 39–40; Lane Fox 2007, 297. For a more nuanced view: Anson 2013, 185. According to Strootman 2014, 126–128, the turning point is rather to be situated in the generation after the Successors. Van Oppen de Ruiter 2014. He rightly stresses how little we know, and how strongly the traditional view depends on the mistaken expectation of monogamy. Particularly telling is the collaboration with their Iranian in-laws in the case of Nearchos (Curt. 10.6.11–12; Meeus 2008, 47) and Eumenes (Plut. Eum. 7.1; Van Oppen de Ruiter 2014, 32). Cf. also Meeus 2009a, 236–237, and 2013b, 132–133. Meeus 2013a, 90; Olbrycht 2013, 162–163. Meeus 2013a, 90; Olbrycht 2013, 167–169. Arr. Anab. 6.30.3; Diod. 19.14.5; Arr. Succ. F 12; Wallace 2017, 6 and 9–12. Diod. 18.27.

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themselves from foreign rule.103 This is not to deny anti-Macedonian resentment or resistance: both Media Atropatene and Kappadokia at some point ridded themselves of Macedonian control.104 Our extremely limited and haphazard knowledge of these two instances shows how misleading the Graeco-Macedonian perspective of our sources and their lack of interest in the indigenous populations can be:105 the greatest troubles we know of are those Lysimachos in Thrace (cf. infra) and the Greek revolts in the mainland and in the far east after Alexander’s death, while the situation in Asia seems to have been less relevant to the preserved Graeco-Roman authors. However this may be, the positive evidence listed above suggests that the Successors were concerned to build good relations with the indigenous elites and had some measure of success in doing so. This need not surprise us: in the wars between the various Macedonian leaders the support of the local elites could be a highly valuable asset,106 while the local elites knew that by playing out the different Macedonians against each other they might obtain more freedom and power than under a strong king of their own. The experience of Lysimachos during his first ten years in Thrace and again later in his conflict with Dromichaites show how great the difficulties were when the local elites did not accept Macedonian overlordship.107 We need not doubt, then, that the Successors understood the need to collaborate with local leaders. Peukestas’ close relationships with the elites in Persia provided him easy access to large numbers of troops,108 and the same goes for Alketas in Pisidia, Eumenes in Kappadokia, Seleukos in Babylon, and Ptolemaios in Egypt.109 At one 103 104

105 106 107 108 109

Diod. 18.46–47, 19.47, 19.48.5; Lane Fox 2007, 294. For Kappadokia, see Diod. 31.19.5. Nothing is known of the circumstances of the secession of Media Atropatene: Strab. 11.13.1. At any rate, whether peaceful or through revolt, Atropates did shake off Macedonian control, and may thus have become a rebel like the one he himself had arrested a few years earlier: Arr. Anab. 6.29.3. Such episodes as Perdikkas’ war against Ariarathes (Diod. 18.16.1–3), the destruction of Laranda and Isaura (ibid. 18.22), or Antigonos’ confrontation with the Kossaioi (ibid. 19.19) concern places whose revolt had started already under Alexander or which may never have been actually conquered in the first place: that does not make them any less relevant as instances of resistance to Macedonian rule. Also, cf. supra, on the foundation of Seleukeia on the Tigris. Polyaen. 7.39 reports the elimination of 3,000 rebelling (νεωτερίζοντας) Persians, sometimes dated to the time of Seleukos I (e.g. Sekunda 2007, 230–231). Even if the dating is correct, however, the circumstances are unknown and the affair might be similar to the elimination of some of the Macedonian argyraspides after the death of Eumenes (Diod. 19.48.3–4; Plut. Eum. 19.2; Polyaen. 4.6.15). D. Engels 2013, 53–55, stresses that the episode about the 3,000 Persians does not seem to indicate a large-scale revolt but rather a case of a disobedient part of the army. Lane Fox 2007, 294 thus seems to place too much trust in the argument from silence. Cf. Mileta 2014, esp. 425, and supra, 295–296, on the different situations facing Alexander and the Diadochoi. Diod. 18.14.2–4, 19.73; Arr. Succ. F 1.10; Landucci Gattinoni 1992, 102–104, 182–186; Lund 1992, 22–33, 44–50. Diod. 19.17. Cf. 19.48.5: the Persians protest against his deposition by Antigonos. Alketas: Diod. 18.46–47. Eumenes: see below, n. 110. Seleukos: Diod. 19.92.4 and supra, n. 104. Ptolemaios: Diod. 18.14.1 and 19.80.4, Just. Epit. 13.6.19.

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point Eumenes, apparently imitating Alexander’s strategy at Opis, even favoured parts of the native population against his Macedonian troops.110 Unfortunately we know precious little about the strategies employed in their communication with the indigenous peoples. In light of the above, however, it seems unlikely that the few known instances of using local traditions, such as Peukestas’ Persian clothes or Ptolemaios’ satrap stela, are representative of the actual amount of such interaction.111 For all the differences there obviously were, in some ways the overlap that also existed between Macedonian and indigenous royal ideologies may have considerably facilitated the process.112 There is no doubt that both the Successors and their subjects mainly acted in their own interests (cf. Diod. 18.46.1–2, 19.91.2), but to assume a fundamental difference with Alexander and his alleged focus on partnership and inclusion, as Lane Fox does, may be to put too much trust in Alexander’s self-fashioning or Arrian’s and Plutarch’s understanding of their hero.113 I know of no case in the history of the Successors of a ruler obtaining legitimacy in an unexpected way through fitting in with the eschatological expectations of a particular people, as Köhler (chapter 7) has argued in his analysis of the Jewish perspective on Alexander he discerns in Zechariah 9. Jewish attitudes towards Macedonian rule in the decades after Alexander are likely to have been ambivalent and probably also depended on the ruler in question. No love was lost on Ptolemaios, who conquered Jerusalem by exploiting the Sabbath: he must have appeared as the very opposite of a divinely sent destroyer of the Jews’ enemies, and was remembered as a harsh master.114 On the other hand, a more positive memory of Seleukos seems to have existed.115 In a different context, the latter does seem to have tried quite deliberately to make his return to Babylon in 311 fit in with local religious ideas and expectations in order to achieve the very effect that Alexander may have had on the author of Zechariah 9.116 Wealth and legitimation In arguing that the massive wealth gained through the conquest of the Persian empire basically made legitimacy irrelevant, Monson (chapter 13) takes a rather different perspective from the other contributions: in his view the money enabled Alexander

110 111 112 113

114 115 116

Plut. Eum. 4.2–3; Olbrycht 2013, 165; Mileta 2014, 433–435. Peukestas: Diod. 19.14.5. Satrap stela: see above, n. 10. See e.g. Scholz 1994; Howe 2018. Lane Fox 2007, 297: ‘Alexander’s distinctive insistence on ‘partnership’ and ‘inclusion’ had been rapidly buried with him’. To what extent we can really speak of partnership and inclusion, and to what extent Alexander’s policy distinguished him from earlier ruler of empires in the Near East are questions I cannot go into; cf. Jursa, this volume. For the view of Arrian and Plutarch on Alexander, see above, n. 4. Joseph. AJ 12.1.3–6, Ap. 1.209–211. Joseph. AJ 12.3.1; Den Dulk 2014. Kosmin 2018, 30–35; cf. 151–152, where he argues that the author of the book of Daniel ‘turns the origin myth of imperial time [regarding Seleukos’ return to Babylon] against itself’.

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to do as he pleased, exercising unlimited power and at best buying off opposition.117 This interpretation seems to ignore the ancient perspective on ritual gift-exchange, honour and charisma in the king’s financial dealings, which is expressed very clearly by Xenophon’s Kyros (Cyr. 8.2.22):118 I follow the leading of the gods and am always grasping after more. But when I have obtained what I see is more than enough for my needs, I use it to satisfy the wants of my friends (τῶν φίλων); and by enriching men and doing them kindnesses (εὐεργετῶν) I win with my superfluous wealth their friendship (φιλίαν) and loyalty (εὔνοιαν), and from that I reap as my reward security and good fame (ἀσφάλειαν καὶ εὔκλειαν) – possessions that never decay or do injury from overloading the recipient.

A further perspective is offered by Diodoros (1.62.5–6): in a passage that may go back to Hekataios of Abdera, a historian connected to Ptolemaios’ court,119 he writes that the pharaoh Remphis spent his whole life looking after the revenues and amassing riches from every source, and because of his niggardly and miserly character spent nothing either on votive offerings to the gods or on benefactions to the inhabitants (οὔτε εἰς ἀναθήματα θεῶν οὔτ᾽ εἰς εὐεργεσίαν ἀνθρώπων). Consequently, since he had been not so much a king as only an efficient steward (οὐ βασιλεὺς ἀλλ᾽ οἰκονόμος ἀγαθός), in the place of a fame based upon virtue (τῆς ἐπ᾽ ἀρετῇ δόξης) he left a treasure larger than that of any king before him.

Polybios shared this view of royal finances, as he praised Attalos I for not having used ‘his great possessions for any other purpose than the attainment of sovereignty’ and thus establishing his kingdom both ‘by the largesses and favours he conferred on his friends’ and by military success (18.41.5–6). Perseus, in contrast, is reproached for failing to realise that monetary donations are the way to gain stable rule (28.9.5–8): had Perseus at that period been willing to advance money to whole states and individually to kings and statesmen – I do not say on a lavish scale, as his resources enabled him to do, but only in moderate amounts – no intelligent man I suppose would dispute that all the Greeks and all the kings, or at least the most of them, would have failed to withstand the temptation. Instead This difference of opinion largely has its basis in a different understanding of Weber’s concept of legitimacy and the way it functioned in the early Hellenistic world: see the introduction to this volume. Also, cf. supra, n. 61. 118 The pertinence of this passage to Hellenistic kingship was already noted by Farber 1979, 508. Cf. also 8.2.2 on not having enough money for giving benefactions (εὐεργετεῖν) as a handicap, An. 1.9.11–28, Hell. 7.3.12, and generally Azoulay 2004, 91–148, who rightly argues that mere material benefits without further signs of attention and honour do not suffice. Cf. e.g. Plut. Alex. 39, Phoc. 18. 119 Gruen 2017, 296–297. Cf. also Theoc. Id. 17.106–114 expressing the same idea in praise of Ptolemaios II. One may wonder whether this idea of amassing money without spending it on benefactions been may have been an aspect of Demetrios’ insult of Lysimachos as gazophylax, ‘guard of the treasury’, besides the implication of being a eunuch (Plut. Demetr. 25.4–5). Douris of Samos (FGrHist 76) F 10 criticized Demetrios of Phaleron for amassing a large state revenue but spending little on the soldiers and the polis (cf. Ael. VH 9.9), while Demochares (FGrHist 75) F 4 called him a vulgar tax farmer. 117

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of taking that course, by which either, if completely victorious, he would have created a splendid empire, or, if defeated, would have exposed many to the same ruin as himself, he took the opposite one, owing to which quite a few of the Greeks went wrong in their calculations when the time for action came.120

Clearly the expectation was that a king would share his wealth with his friends and allies, and that someone who shared his wealth was worthy to become king. Several scholars have recently explored in detail how such ideas about money and empire determined the martial nature of Hellenistic kingship, the social relations between kings and their courtiers, and the king’s self-presentation and legitimation.121 Indeed, the sources often report the distribution of gifts to friends and soldiers in the history of the Successors.122 Likewise, commanders often attempted to impress other officers as well as soldiers by lavish banquets, as Peukestas did in Persepolis in 317 and Seleukos in Babylon in 316, presenting themselves as the one most suitable to be in charge.123 The role of expensive benefactions to Greek cities and sanctuaries has already been discussed. Even more money was spent on the monumental development of royal foundations, especially those cities that also served as royal residences. The legitimising potential of such a city is clear from Isokrates’ claim that Athens was ‘so adorned … with temples and public buildings that even today visitors from other lands consider that she is worthy to rule not only over Hellas but over all the world’.124 Diodoros (20.108.1) claims that Antigonos was planning a festival and great games with lavish prizes in Antigoneia, no doubt to advertise his splendid city. Even money spent on wars could increase a ruler’s stature if the aim was noble: thus Plutarch (Demetr. 8.1) writes of the Antigonid campaign to free the Greeks that ‘the vast wealth which they together had amassed 120

121 122

123 124

Diod. 30.9.2, clearly following Polybios, compares Perseus negatively to Philip II and concludes that in the end Perseus’ lack of action was a good thing since otherwise more Greeks would have been involved in his disaster. Neither this final judgment nor the mention of Philip’s gaining traitors as well as allies means that the policy in itself was not considered a legitimate political means, as is clear from Polybios’ judgment of Attalos quoted above. Cf. also Polyb. 18.14 for a nuanced view on Philip’s traitors, and 5.88–90 on royal benefactions. E.g. Gehrke 1982, 259–261; Austin 1986; Roisman 2003a, 206–209; Millett 2010, 499– 500; Strootman 2014, 145–159; Heitmann­Gordon 2017, 189–190, 275–280 and passim. E.g. Diod. 18.18.7, 46.2 (note esp. the expression ‘τιμῶν πολλοὺς δωρεαῖς ἀξιολόγοις’), 58.1, 60 .2 ; 19 .11 .1 , 15 .5 , 25 .3 (μετὰ τιμῆς καὶ δωρεῶν), 55 .2 (δωρεαῖς τε βασιλικαῖς ἐτίμησε τὸν Ἀντίγονον), 64.8 (τοῦτον μὲν ἐπαινέσας δωρεαῖς μεγάλαις ἐτίμησε), 86.1 (δωρείας τε καὶ τιμὰς ἁδράς); 20.81.3 (τιμᾶσθαι … βασιλικαῖς δωρεαῖς), 113.3 (δωρεαῖς ἐτίμησε), cf. also 20.94.5; Plut. Phoc. 30.2, Eum. 4.3 (φιλοτιμίαις τε καὶ δωρεαῖς), 8.7, Demetr. 6.3, 38.1 (δῶρα καὶ τιμάς), Pyrrh. 5.3; Just. Epit. 13.4.9; Arr. Succ. F 1.26, 1.29. Seibert 1991, 90–91 argues that only material interests mattered, but his interpretation of Diod. 18.62 (ibid. n. 16) seems to narrow: Antigenes develops an opportunistic argument to convince Teutamos because loyalty to the kings had not sufficed for the latter (and for him alone). Antigenes’ loyalty (πίστις) is clearly to be understood as attachment to the Argead cause: cf. Diod. 19.61.4; Meeus 2009a. Diod. 19.22 and 19.55.2. Such display will have reminded many of Hom. Il. 9.68–73. Isoc. 7.66, 15.234, cf. Plut. Per. 8.2; Meeus 2015, 151–152. See also Xen. Hell. 5.1.4 on great expenses.

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by subduing the Barbarians, was now lavishly spent upon the Greeks, to win glory and honour’.125 Titulature In his more systematic use of the royal title Alexander was innovative, since previous Argeads seem to have been styled basileus only rarely as Mari (chapter 10) maintains, or perhaps not at all, as Kholod argues (chapter 11). Especially telling, since here we can be virtually certain, is that Alexander was the very first Argead king to use the title in his coin legends. This practice was continued by the Successors who all adopted the title basileus and included it in their coin legends, both for Alexander and themselves.126 Whether the Successors already used the title informally before the so-called year of the kings in 306 is debated,127 but once they did adopt the diadem, they also consistently maintained Alexander’s innovation of styling themselves basileus.128 This consistency is remarkable in light of Alexander’s looser practice, but Alexander had less competition and no need to stress that he really was a king.129 Relations with the Macedonian army Macedonian traditions played an important part in Alexander’s reign, as Mari (chapter 10) has shown, and this seems to have been no different under the Successors. Regardless of what the powers and functions of the army assembly in Macedonia had previously been and of whether these had been determined by some form of constitution, it is clear that Alexander used assemblies of his troops to strengthen his relationship with them by ‘improv[ing] morale and inspir[ing] support for his decisions’.130 This practice is already known under Philip, who is said to have addressed the Macedonians in a series of assemblies to boost their morale in the face of Illyrian, Paionian and Thracian threats in the beginning of his reign.131 The first such meeting under Alexander is attested immediately after his accession, when he addressed the Macedonians to inspire them with hope and trust in their new king, whom a difficult task awaited (Just. Epit. 12.1.7–8; Diod. 17.2.2). Many more were to

125

126 127 128 129 130 131

Whether or not Plutarch took this judgment from an early Hellenistic source, it surely fits the mentality of the age of the Successors. Asirvatham 2018, 221–222 argues that Plutarch’s enthusiasm for the war of liberation and the expenditure is limited, but I would rather agree with Jacobs 2018, 332 that at this point Plutarch clearly still has a positive view of Demetrios. Cf. Meeus 2013b, 130. Bosworth 2000; Paschidis 2013. Errington 1974, esp. 25. It has been suggested, however, that Kassandros took the title later than the others: e.g. Carney 2015, 152. Anson 1991, 230. Diod. 16.3.1: τοὺς Μακεδόνας ἐν συνεχέσιν ἐκκλησίαις συνέχων.

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follow, for instance at the crucial juncture after the death of Dareios, when Alexander needed to encourage the troops to march on, further into Asia.132 Under the Successors too, such assemblies are attested from the very beginning.133 It comes as no surprise that they also sometimes needed to boost the morale of their men or gain or strengthen their loyalty (e.g. Diod. 18.36.6, 19.25.4–7). A new element became relevant, however, in that the Successors used the assembly to rid themselves of the responsibility for decisions that went against the memory of Alexander or the interests of the royal house – or could be seen as such: Diodoros makes this very explicit in his report of Perdikkas’ successful attempt to get Alexander’s last plans cancelled.134 Conversely, they also used the assemblies to present themselves as defenders of the Argead cause, as Antigonos did in Tyros in 315 (Diod. 19.61.1–4) or Demetrios in Macedon in 294 (Just. 16.1.9–18). In the case of Antigonos or of Kassandros’ putting Olympias on trial before the assembly, Errington argues that the aim was to advertise to the wider world that they had the support of their men, and to ‘bind their followers by making them formally responsible for critical decisions’.135 No doubt the former observation is correct, and so may be the latter, but it is at any rate clear that advertising the right attitude towards the Argeads or avoiding responsibility for actions against them was a central aim of several of these assemblies: they thus served to strengthen the loyalty of the Macedonian soldiers. A wider audience is attested for Antigonos’ assembly at Tyros, which Diodoros (19.61.1) describes as τῶν τε στρατιωτῶν καὶ τῶν παρεπιδημούντων κοινὴν ἐκκλησίαν. Whether the παρεπιδημοῦντες were camp followers or Macedonians settled in the region is debated,136 but it is remarkable to see them included at all. How common such inclusion was, we cannot tell, but the meeting in question was one of more than average importance (given Antigonos’ claiming the regency), so it seems dangerous to generalise on this basis. At any rate, though, we have here a direct means of communicating with the Macedonian soldiers that was regularly used for legitimising purposes.

Curt. 6.2.21–4.1; Diod. 17.74.3; Plut. Alex. 47.1–4; Just. Epit. 12.3.2–4; Errington 1978, 105– 115; Anson 1991, 230–236. 133 Errington 1978, 115–131; Anson 1991, 236–247; Roisman 2012, passim; Caneva 2016, 47–59. 134 Diod. 18.4.3: ‘But that he might not appear to be arbitrarily detracting anything from the glory 132

of Alexander, he laid these matters before the common assembly of the Macedonians for consideration’; cf. also 4.6: ‘the Macedonians, although they applauded the name of Alexander, nevertheless saw that the projects were extravagant and impracticable and decided to carry out none of those that have been mentioned’. Alexander too had used the assembly to make the Macedonians have part in the responsibility for Philotas’ execution by seeking their approval in advance: Errington 1978, 89–90. 135 Errington 1978, 119–120. 136 E.g. Hammond 1993b, 16 (Macedonians settled in the region); Hatzopoulos 1996b I, 200–201 (camp followers).

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Relations with Greek cities The intensity of Alexander’s relations with the Greek cities, even to the level of minute administrative regulations is borne-out by Faraguna’s analysis (chapter 12), and by those of von den Hoff and Wallace (chapters 5 and 6). Although the Successors could no longer liberate the cities from the Persians, their struggle for power in the Macedonian empire sustained the relevance of the question of liberation, and they followed or claimed to follow Alexander’s example in this respect. Polyperchon, for instance, in his diagramma of 319 explicitly referred to the situation under Alexander.137 At the same time, though, Kassandros’ policy towards the Greeks was also a continuation of Alexander’s strategy, as he too had promoted oligarchies in Europe.138 The Antigonid and Ptolemaic declarations of Greek freedom, and Antigonid support of democracy, were in line with Alexander’s programme in Asia.139 The continuity of policy toward the Greek cities is underscored implicitly in the socalled archive wall from Priene which includes both Alexander’s grant of privileges to the city (IK.Priene 1) and Lysimachos’ confirmation of them (IK.Priene 3).140 It is stated explicitly in a decree about the construction of a city wall in Kolophon, which says that freedom had been given to the city by King Alexander and Antigonos.141 That this was likely part of the strategies of the cities in obtaining benefits from the Successors need not bother us: what matters is that they deemed the strategy to be efficient, and apparently were right in doing so. It is often concluded from a passage in the Souda (s.v. Δημήτριος Δ431) that Ptolemaios’ attempted to re-establish the Korinthian League in 308, and the Antigonids successfully did so in 302: in this they were obviously connecting themselves to Philip and Alexander.142 In the same way as Alexander’s discourse of conquest and revenge was reflected in several inscriptions in Greece discussed by Wallace, the cities also adopted and thus spread the discourse of the Successors as liberators and benefactors of all the Greeks.143 THE AUDIENCES ADDRESSED BY THE SUCCESSORS

These strategies of communication, representation and propaganda suggest that a very wide audience was envisaged, including all groups considered at the outset of this chapter. Their philoi and soldiers surely were the groups the Successors most intensively engaged with through such aspects as gift giving, army assemblies, 137 138 139 140 141 142 143

Diod. 18.56.3; Poddighe 2013; Wallace 2018a, 52–58. Cf. Wallace 2018a, 49–50. Wallace 2018a, 50–52 for Alexander; Dmitriev 2011, 113–132, Hauben 2014, Meeus 2014, 285–286, 291 with n. 107 for the Successors. Sherwin­White 1985, esp. 78; Dmitriev 2011, 126; Faraguna, this volume. Mauerbauinschriften, no. 69/Meier 2012, no. 52, l. 6–7: ἐπειδὴ παρέδωκεν αὐτῶι Ἀλέξανδρος ὁ βασιλεὺς τὴν ἐλευθερίαν καὶ Ἀντίγονος; cf. IK.Erythrai 31, l. 22–23. Dixon 2007, 173–177; Alonso Troncoso 2016, 108; cf. supra, n. 70. E.g. OGI 6, l. 10–17; IG II 2 498, l. 18; Syll.3 390, l. 13–14.

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and coinage. Actual heroic self-presentation and behaviour or the charismatic use of divination will again mostly have been witnessed by these groups, but if they found their way into historiography or if the eyewitnesses later shared the stories, a far wider audience was reached.144 Such was also the case with the prestige gained from agonistic activities, where the elite theoroi from all over the Greek world were addressed, as well as all other spectators present; victories at the games would probably be talked about after the games too, and there is every reason to assume that the usual or similar hometown honours were granted to royal victors in their capital cities.145 Dedications in sanctuaries and cities reached all visitors who could identify the dedicant (by reading or hearing), especially of course the local population who felt particularly honoured. Likewise, thanks to debates in the assemblies about royal letters and decrees in reply all adult citizen men attending would hear of the magnanimous grants of freedom and similar measures.146 The message would be broadcast further whenever the cities responded with conspicuous honours such as statues, festivals, cults or even introducing new tribes with kings as eponymous heroes.147 Traders following the armies would have heard all the military news as well as potentially being affected by coin iconography. The title king would have impressed anyone who read, heard or wrote it and was sensitive to such things. Undoubtedly the kings were also concerned to make their noble deeds widely known.148 Elites and soldiers from the conquered lands enlisted in the armies of the Successors were likewise important audiences, sometimes – perhaps more often than we know – also addressed through their local traditions. Some engagement with priestly classes is also attested. Non-elite indigenous groups will have been less prominent audiences but will have noticed the new cities founded in their region, especially so in the case of the new royal residences, as well as other displays of wealth and power. Occasionally they would be involved in individual episodes like the one at Termessos discussed here. Sometimes a king’s subjects adopted elements from the royal discourse such as liberation or divine descent – at least in their official communication.149 Obviously, this is not to say that these strategies were always effective, as was most clearly revealed by several mass desertions from the armies. Greeks who were granted freedom, for instance, were not necessarily impressed either, and city foundations might sometimes inspire ill-will amongst the neighbouring population. Often, however, 144 145 146 147 148

149

See Plut. Demetr. 41.3 and Pyrrh. 8.1. Cf. Theophr. Char. 8.5–8 on the newsmonger; Chaniotis 2005, 195–196 on stories told by soldiers after returning home. Ca. 280 Ptolemaios II gave proof of understanding the benefits of such a practice very well: Syll.3 390, l. 39–42. Cf. also supra n. 78 and Joseph. BJ 1.21.12. Cf. Plut. Demetr. 8–13; Erskine 2014. Cf. among many others IG II 2 450; OGI 6; Syll.3 390; Diod. 20.46.2. Cf. Plut. Mor. 814b: the Athenians wore garlands when Kassandros refounded Thebes (cf. Syll.3 337 + SEG 64.403; Diod. 19.54.2; Paus. 9.7.1). That the celebration was probably organised by his agent Demetrios of Phaleron does not alter the fact that it was broadcast. Cf. supra, n. 36, 48 and 143.

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such events cannot merely be explained in terms of the lack of appropriateness of any single strategy of legitimation. CONCLUSION

The Successors were unscrupulous warlords who did not shy away from the use of force to obtain whatever they wanted. Yet military power was not the only means they employed: they all relied on a variety of means to communicate with their soldiers and subjects, not just to gain acceptance but to convince them that they were the one most suitable to rule.150 They did not imitate Alexander in every single aspect of his royal self-presentation, nor, perhaps, did they always have the potential. Although there were undoubtedly differences between individual Diadochoi, neither the scope of this paper nor the state of the evidence allow those to be established with confidence in every instance. We need to bear in mind, though, that our analytical focus is irrelevant to lived experience: no one in the age of the Successors will have systematically analysed the question of royal legitimacy as is done here. Would people have given any thought to Alexander’s not founding any games when one of the Successors did so, for instance? And to what extent would respect for certain Macedonian traditions have been considered typical of Alexander rather than simply the right thing to do? Some aspects probably were relevant only to those who had campaigned with Alexander, an ever decreasing group, which in the armies of many of the Successors was small to begin with. This may be true of the campaign agones for instance. Furthermore, a strategy like the charismatic staging of mantic activities and their historiographical reporting apparently was abandoned already in the later years of Alexander’s reign, so that it was typical of a stage of Alexander’s career rather than of his general self-fashioning. This is of course especially true for the dominant theme of liberation from the Persians, but the civil war among the Macedonians nevertheless allowed them to continue to use the claim to be liberators of the Greek the cities, sometimes explicitly claiming continuity with the time of Alexander. At any rate, in their communication with the Macedonians they used army assemblies in the same way Alexander had, his policies towards the Greek cities were continued in much the same way, and his policy towards the subjected peoples was not abandoned either. It is often difficult to decide, however, whether the Successors resorted to specific strategies because they had been used by Philip and Alexander or simply because they made sense. While the latter seems a necessary precondition in each instance, it does not exclude that imitatio Alexandri was more than an accidental bonus in most or even all cases: apart from constantly striving to maintain good relations with their subjects, the Successors also went out of their way to present a royal persona and connect themselves to the Argeads. Furthermore, 150

Cf. Strab. 9.2.40, quoted and discussed above (cf. n. 61).

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would we not expect the Successors in their often far-reaching imitatio Alexandri also to imitate his successful strategies of legitimation? Many of them had gained most of their political and military experience under Alexander and will have been inspired by his example in a practical sense too. Although several factors have gone unexamined and the current analysis is very sweeping, I would hypothesise that discontinuity was limited to individual Successors in individual fields: in general they all walked in Alexander’s footsteps when it came to strategies of self-presentation and propaganda.151

151

Cf. Ferrario 2014, 334: ‘The most eloquent testimony to the power of Alexander’s campaign of imagery is its continuation, in various forms, by the Diadochoi’.

15 CONCLUDING REMARKS Hans-Joachim Gehrke Concluding a conference and – eventually – its proceedings, both characterized by stimulating papers given by competent scholars, is always an honour. It is even more so in this case because the conference on legitimation and representation of Alexander the Great took as its point of departure an article written by me a long time ago. It was meant as a summary of some impressions and general ideas concerning Hellenistic rulership and the prerequisites of its acceptance. I could not have foreseen that many colleagues would use these observations as suggestions for further research. Of course, I am very pleased that I was able to give some inspiration to others. But basically, the credit goes not to me, but to Max Weber. So, if my article was helpful to others it was because it simply introduced some important tools used by this famous sociologist in order to describe rulership primarily as a social phenomenon. For Weber, rulership or domination ‘is the probability that a command with a given specific content will be obeyed by a given group of persons’.1 Ruler and subjects are related to each other insofar as the former has a chance, or can expect, that the latter will obey. In other words, the domination has to be accepted by the dominated group(s). Or, in Weber’s words, ‘every genuine form of domination implies a minimum of voluntary compliance, that is, an interest (based on ulterior motives or genuine acceptance) in obedience’.2 This acceptance is usually based on the idea that the rulership and the ruler’s role is legitimised. Weber identified three ‘pure types’ of legitimate order or ‘authority’. They are grounded in rational, traditional, and charismatic features, for instance in legal rules, belief in ‘immemorial traditions’, and ‘exceptional sanctity’ and success respectively.3 These ‘pure types’ may also be called ‘ideal­types’ in Weber’s terms. He defines them as analytical concepts that are strictly logically abstracted from empirical reality and can never be found there in their pure form, but are always intermixed with other typical elements that are pure only as mental, intellectual constructs. With this in mind I suggested, in the article on the ‘Victorious King’, that the charismatic element is the key to understanding the nature of Hellenistic monarchy: although it is usually intermixed with 1 2 3

Weber 1978, vol. 1, 53. Ibid. 212. Ibid. 215.

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other elements, the charismatic regularly outweighs these, and is therefore characteristic of this type of rulership. Obviously, features of ‘monarchical representation’ and ‘the art of government’ can be part of a legitimate order or of the concepts of legitimation and accepted authority. The empirical, in our case the historical reality, is far more complex than the ideal-types we use to analyze it. So we can, and have to, take into account a great deal of different historical elements and phenomena. The key point however, is that we interpret domination as a social phenomenon that cannot be adequately understood without bearing in mind the specific relationship between the ruler and the ruled. This might be helpful also for people who tend to be skeptical of Weber’s concepts. In any case, if one sticks to the more general and widespread idea of acceptance being a crucial element of every kind of domination, one has to look at the general ideas of order that guided the behaviour of those involved, the rulers and the ruled. The focus must be on the values that are shared, fixed, shaped, and/ or institutionalised vel. sim. in different contexts, cultures, and societies. That was, indeed, the basic idea, or at least an intellectual background, of the contributions presented in this volume. If we try to understand legitimation, within this conceptual framework, as grounded in social relations, we have to look at the basic rules of social relationships and communication and thus think especially in terms of reciprocity. If one takes the common concepts and practices of reciprocity seriously, one realizes immediately that the rigid command­obedience structure of Weber’s abovementioned definition has to be modified. In order to have his commands obeyed the ruler has to do justice (not in every case, but as a rule, nor only by sheer propaganda, but in a credible manner) to common ideas of order and shared values. His rule cannot be a strict top-down-regime, and he has to bear in mind the bottom-up-perspective. One might even speak of a consensus between monarch and subjects, at least on basic issues. So, with the focus on the founder – and role model – of Hellenistic monarchy, the general question, underlying the conference, was the degree to which Alexander’s way of conquering and ruling can be explained, analysed, or better understood by using these ideas from ‘Herrschaftssoziologie’. Consequently, in many contributions emphasis is laid on the subjects themselves, the different social groups that were governed by Alexander. In this sense, his main partners in social communication were Macedonians, Greeks, and Non-Greeks, the ‘barbarians’ (let us call them indigenes) – a substantial part of his world’s population. All these groups consisted of several sub-groups varying in size and nature, ethnic, social, and professional: Thracians, Egyptians, Persians etc., elites, citizens, soldiers (horsemen, hoplites, other fighters), priests with different functions and in various positions according to religious institutions and practices etc. etc. In the end, the ruler, i.e. Alexander, was confronted with heterogeneous values and expectations, even conflicting ones. Many of the contributions are particularly informative and important on that. There is a sense of difference.

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The differences are particularly visible in the various values, ideas, and concepts shared by and within the groups and sub-groups. Accordingly, one focus is on feelings of belonging and identity, of being Greek or not, for instance. So, panhellenism and the longing for freedom played a role as far as the Greek subjects were concerned. In addition, religious adherence, cultic obligations, and ritual practices were presented as important fields of legitimation and acceptance, as well as common or diverging ideas of justice and revenge. The most important and characteristic feature – especially as far as the Graeco-Macedonian subjects and partners were concerned – involves conceptions and images of personal quality, of being great, of being a hero. This we may refer especially to the charismatic aspect of domination according to Max Weber. Since social communication is an integral part of ruler-subject-relations many contributions are dedicated to various methods and media that were used to create, shape, and transmit acceptance and legitimacy. They show many aspects and facets of such communication, personal as well as symbolic, with a focus on the role of mediators. The ruler used performances to convey messages, in public or directed towards an inner circle, to the above-mentioned social groups and strata, including drama and athletics. He also made use of material objects, votives, monuments, pictures that carried a special meaning in order to shape communication and thus influence public opinion within the different groups. Particularly in this case the question arose during the conference, and has to be studied further, to which degree these messages from the ruler’s side were received by the respective public, the different subjects, and thus actually served to create acceptance and legitimation. All of the features summarized here could be expected in any study devoted to rule and its legitimation. We can therefore perfectly and convincingly relate Alexander’s strategies of establishing and preserving acceptance and legitimacy to general elements of a ruler’s ideas and activities in this respect. In almost all contributions we can find many thoroughly studied and richly presented details that demonstrate how artfully Alexander – and his advisors – mastered the melodies of self-presentation and propaganda as means of acquiring acceptance. But there is another side to it. Alexander himself transformed and transcended all of these common and more or less systematic practices and strategies of legitimation. That seems to be, in my view, the most important and most impressive result of the conference, now documented in its proceedings – the very personal, even extravagant way in which Alexander tried to have his authority accepted, and thus to create legitimacy, has become clear: he himself and his achievements far exceeded the normal, the common, the usual. We can find everything we would expect according to the rules of conduct of a ruler. But we detect much more. This very special ruler was unique, and he was aware of it. His domination was therefore extraordinary, or charismatic (and thus legitimised) in the very sense of the term, that is, according to Max Weber,

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‘exceptional’ (215), which means – in the original German ‘außeralltäglich’ – surpassing day-to-day-experience. That is exactly what characterized Alexander’s rule and how it was presented to the public consisting of very different subjects. It was an exceptional, incommensurable, unprecedented (or precedented only by gods and semi-gods) domination, transcending the usual, quasi super-human. It was conceived of and represented as such in various ways, with different methods and in different media. At the very heart of this presentation and communication was the person of Alexander himself. He stood for the exceptional and the excessive, with his display of victory and violence, immense wealth and unbeatable capacities, embracing the whole world and entering the realm of the heroes, the sons of gods, and being closely related to the gods himself. These super-human qualities were linked to his persona which thus gained a perennial, immortal status, his victories becoming the expression of the permanent capacity of being victorious. In other words, and with view to Max Weber, the ideal-type of charismatic rule, albeit an intellectual construct, could not come closer to reality. All of this was the result of a process, a process that can be described as a constant addition of elements of power – starting at a high level when one considers Callisthenes. The further Alexander progressed, the more he expanded his legitimation strategies, supported by his advisors, by politicians, military men, aristocrats, and priests from various backgrounds, by intellectuals, artists, painters and writers – and not least through his own actions , representing the hero and conqueror. He was the brave king of the Macedonians, the champion of Greek freedom in Asia Minor, supporter of Babylonian priests, friend and relative of Sogdian chiefs, successor of the Persian Great Kings, and so on. This included the integration of local knowledge, traditions, and practices, as is now manifest in many of the contributions. But all in all, these elements did not remain isolated nor were they simply added to each other. More and more they became part of a larger whole that transformed and transcended the different factors of acceptance and legitimation. It allowed Alexander even to rid himself of traditional elements of authority. In the end, he was not only the Macedonian king, the hegemon of the Greeks, the Persian Great King, and the ruler of Asia, but an incommensurable figure of overwhelming power and extrordinary greatness, of enormous strength and unbelievable achievements. With regard to the topic of the conference and the title of this volume, one could (or ought to) describe this phenomenon, instead of legitimation of conquest, as legitimation through conquest. As a heroic figure, he survived his early death for centuries, even millennia. But what about his contemporaries, his actual subjects? The question concerning the real effects of legitimation strategies that arose during the conference also has to be asked at this point. Was Alexander successful in performing the super-human and the super­ruler? The first answer must be: no – when one considers several revolts during his reign and particularly the Lamian War, the great struggle the Greeks fought for their freedom, or the wars of the successors and the rapid collapse of his

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unique empire. On the other hand, this struggle occurred only after the king’s death and, above all, the distinctive idea of superior rulership was to stay, as symbolized by Alexander’s epithet ‘the Great’. It remained a special benchmark of legitimation through overwhelming power and heroic deeds, not only for Hellenistic kings and Roman principes. In this sense, it really was more than human.

ABBREVIATIONS Journal titles are abbreviated according to L’année philologique. Those not listed there as well as all other abbreviations follow the list of The Oxford Classical Dictionary4 with the following additions and exceptions: Arr. Succ.

Arrian, Historia Successorum

CID

Corpus des inscriptions de Delphes

Diod.

Diodoros of Sicily

Epict. Ench., Disc.

Epiktetos, Encheiridion, Discourses

Hyp. Diond.

Hypereides, Against Diondas

I.Amyzon

J. Robert / L. Robert, Fouilles d’Amyzon en Carie I, Exploration, Histoire, Monnaies et Inscriptions, Paris 1983.

I.Delphinion

G. Kawerau / A. Rehm, Milet I.3, Das Delphinion in Milet, Berlin 1914.

IGIAC

G. Rougemont, Inscriptions grecques d’Iran et d’Asie centrale (Corpus Inscriptionum Iranicarum II.1), London 2012.

I.Lindos

C. Blinkenberg, Lindos. Fouilles et rescherches, 1902–1914 II, Inscriptions, Copenhagen 1941.

I.Priene

F. Hiller von Gaertingen, Die Inschriften von Priene, Berlin 1906.

ISE

L. Moretti, Iscrizioni storiche ellenistiche, 2 vols., Firenze 1967– 1975.

Mauerbauinschriften

F.G. Maier, Griechische Mauerbauinschriften, Heidelberg 1959.

OR

R. Osborne / P.J. Rhodes, Greek Historical Inscriptions 478– 404 BC, Oxford 2018.

Polyaen.

Polyainos, Strategemata

Strab.

Strabon, Geographia

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CONTRIBUTORS Michele Faraguna is Professor of Greek History at the University of Milan, Italy. Hans­Joachim Gehrke, former President of the German Archaeological Institute, is Professor emeritus of Ancient History at the University of Freiburg i. Br., Germany. Maurizio Giangiulio is Professor of Greek History at the University of Trento, Italy. Matthias Haake is Privatdozent in Ancient History at the University of Münster, Germany. Tonio Hölscher is Professor emeritus of Classical Archaeology at the University of Heidelberg, Germany. Michael Jursa is professor of Assyriology at the University of Vienna, Austria. Wilhelm Köhler is graduate student of Theology and History at the University of Heidelberg, Germany. Maxim M. Kholod is Associate Professor of Ancient History at the St. Petersburg State University, Russia. Christian Mann is Professor of Ancient History at the University of Mannheim, Germany. Manuela Mari is Professor of Greek History at the ‘Aldo Moro’ University of Bari, Italy. Alexander Meeus is Akademischer Rat in the Ancient History department at the University of Mannheim, Germany. Andrew Monson is Associate Professor of Classics at New York University, USA. Kai Trampedach is Professor of Ancient History at the University of Heidelberg, Germany. Ralf von den Hoff is Professor of Classical Archaeology at the University of Freiburg i. Br., Germany. Shane Wallace is the Walsh Family Assistant Professor in Classics and Ancient History at Trinity College Dublin, Ireland.

Within a single decade (334–325 BC) Alexander III of Macedon conquered much of the known world of his time, creating an empire that stretched from the Balkans to India and southern Egypt. His clear intention of establishing permanent dominion over this huge and culturally diverse territory raises questions about whether and how he tried to legitimate his position and about the reactions of various groups subject to his rule: Macedonians, Greeks, the army, indigenous elites. Starting from Max Weber’s “Herrschaftssoziologie”, the 15 authors discuss Alexander’s

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strategies of legitimation as well as the motives his subjects may have had for offering him obedience. The analysis of monarchical representation and political communication in these case-studies on symbolic performances and economic, administrative and religious measures sheds new light on the reasons for the swift Macedonian conquest: It appears that Alexander and his staff owed their success not only to their military talent but also to their communication skills and their capacity to cater to the expectations of their audiences.

www.steiner-verlag.de Franz Steiner Verlag